Honeymooners A Cautionary Tale

by Chuck Kinder

  Ralph jumped up and ran over to the for sale sign. He pushed it back and forth, jerked on it, put his arms under it, and heaved with all his might. When he could not uproot the wretched thing, Ralph stepped back and kicked it. He kicked it until the board broke, and then he stomped on that wretched sign and kicked it in the teeth while he had it down. When his nosy neighbor came back out onto his porch, that perfect asshole who would as soon call the sheriff on Ralph as look at him, Ralph pulled his pint out for all the world to see. He waved the bottle toward the nosy neighbor, then took a long pull. Ralph smacked his lips mightily, then stuck out his tongue at that nosy neighbor.

  There came a day when Ralph had about three bucks and some change to his name. While Ralph shaved that morning, he mulled over his options. Who had he not already borrowed from? His mom wouldn’t even answer her door. When he heard the drone of a low-flying plane overhead, Ralph stopped shaving and simply stood there looking at his wretched kisser in that cracked mirror. What he wouldn’t give to be on some flight out. Clean-shaven and wearing his freshest shirt, one which had but a single coffee stain on its front, Ralph braced himself to face a new day. He dribbled the last drops from his last pint into a few cold swallows of yesterday’s coffee. He carried the cup and his change out into the hallway to the phone on the wall.

  Jim answered almost before the phone rang, and Ralph began rattling along a mile a minute, afraid to let Jim get a word in edgewise. My back is up against the wall down here, old Jim. Down to my last dime, the rattletrap is on its last legs, two weeks behind in the rent for this fleabag room, my mom needs an operation or she’ll be legally blind in weeks, and what if she croaks, what then, I ask you? I can’t bury the old bat. Who knows where Alice Ann has run off to. Or with whom. The wolf is at the door, old Jim, not to mention the sheriff. I’d run away from home if I had one, old Jim, Ralph rattled on and on in that public place, that hallway pay phone, with old men eyeballing him as they passed in the narrow hallway, a couple of the old farts even stopping to listen in on Ralph’s lament, and one old coot came up behind Ralph to wait for the phone, jabbering loudly to himself, drooling, rolling his milky eyes, waving his cane wildly.

  Old Jim, what I need down here is a helping hand, Ralph rattled, trying to keep his back turned to the insane old shit, whose spittle Ralph could feel spraying the back of his neck, saliva infected with old age and hopelessness. —A helping hand, old Jim, until my ship comes in. Jim, I am currently up a creek of shit with no paddle. What? Say what, old Jim? You’ve been trying to run me down? For what? A party? For me? A birthday party for me? You’ve got to be kidding. I didn’t even remember I had a birthday coming up, old Jim. I am welcome in your home with open arms? You are rolling out the red carpet? You’ve missed me of late? You forgive me my transgressions? Old Jim, don’t take this the wrong way, but what’s the catch here? Who do I have to kill? Do I have to perform unnatural acts while on my knees? Well, I’ll do it! Whatever it is, I’ll do it. You name it, old Jim, and I’m your man. What, old Jim? Your ship? Your ship has come in? You sold your what? You sold your new novel? You sold your new novel for how much? Dear God, old Jim! Dear God in heaven! Yes, I’m on my way, yes, I’m leaving in two shakes. Say what, old Jim? Come up and stay with you guys for as long as I want? A roof over my old woolly head for the rest of my natural life if it comes to that? Grow old with you guys if it comes to that? Holy moly, old Jim, I’m out the door down here. Which may be a little tricky, as I owe back rent and the manager is a sly, evil old coot and pretty frisky for a paraplegic, but I’m on my way, old Jim. Old Jim, how much was your advance again? Dear God, old Jim! I’m really happy for you, old sport. I’m happy for you and happy for Lindsay. You guys deserve it, by golly. Okay, here I come. I’ll be knocking on your door before you know it, old buddy, Ralph said, and hung up. Ralph barely managed to dodge the cane- wielding, crazy old coot who pushed past him to grab the phone and, without inserting a single coin or pretending to dial, commenced a conversation with J. Edgar Hoover.

  Ralph sat on the edge of his bed and fired up one of his last three cigarettes. Jim had sold that silly teenage hoodlum novel to Harcourt Brace Jovanovich for how much did he say? That was a lie of, course. Jim had sold his novel, no doubt. He couldn’t get away with a lie like that. Something like that would be too easy to check out, as Ralph was certain any number of Bay Area authors were doing right then. Wonder how much that old pirate did get, though. Ralph threw whatever of his clothes he could find fungus- free into that old yellow suitcase of Alice Ann’s, along with four rolls of toilet paper and three tubes of toothpaste left over from his home visits. He was happy for old Jim, he was. Ralph picked up a pillowcase and looked around the room. There wasn’t a thing worth taking in that sorry dump. Ralph put the pillowcase in the suitcase and closed it. And he was happy for Lindsay. He was. Ralph wrapped the rope around the suitcase twice and tied it tightly. He was happy for them both. Ralph heard the sound of another plane landing or departing, and he imagined himself on it, at the end or beginning of some flight pattern of the future. Ralph cracked his door and peered into the dark, narrow hallway. The old coot was still raving to J. Edgar Hoover about the Commie in room 34. Clutching his suitcase under his arm, Ralph scurried down the hallway toward the burnt-out exit sign above the door to the back fire escape. Many years later, Ralph Crawford and his second wife, a woman whom Ralph considered to be the person who had finally saved his life, would have to catch an early-morning flight from Buenos Aires back to the States, after a combination vacation and reading series Ralph had presented as a part of a cultural exchange program under the auspices of the State Department. As Ralph and his second wife passed through the early-morning airport, they noted how still and deserted it was, and his second wife, who was a celebrated poet herself, commented that for all its bright lights and shining floors, the deserted airport had the aura of a place of mourning.

  As the plane taxied down the runway in a light snow, Ralph, whom flying gave the willies, wished to himself that his second wife had not used that bummer word “mourning.” As the plane lifted off to return Ralph and his second wife to their rich, full, famous lives in America, Ralph turned in his seat for one last look at the lovely lights of Buenos Aires, where they had enjoyed such a fulfilling time together. Ralph then settled back in his seat and closed his eyes, hoping to grab a nap on this first leg of the long trip back. Ralph began to drift off, letting his mind wander, as he listened to the easy drone of the plane. But then Ralph’s mind started jumping around wildly and landed in the past. Suddenly Ralph shot up in his seat and looked about the cabin in utter panic.

  Living for the Record

  1

  Sure, Jim had billed the party as being in honor of Ralph's birthday, but Ralph got the real picture fast enough. Jim was using Ralph's good name and highly successful book of stories as bait. Jim had invited about every author of note in the Bay Area to the party supposedly for Ralph, and Jim was sucking up to them all shamelessly. Jim was turning this gathering of just about anybody who was anybody in the Bay Area literary scene, supposedly on hand to celebrate Ralph's birthday, into a sort of coming-out party for his own new book and himself.

  At one point Ralph overheard Herb Gold, who was escorting two cute albeit it very young chicks, tell Jack Hicks that Jim had confided to him that Jim's book advance had been in the six- figures range, which was double the amount Jim had lied to Ralph about in the first place. Ralph watched Jim as he held forth over where he had strategically positioned himself beside the dining-room table, which was groaning under succulent mounds of food that looked catered, where many of the Bay Area’s noted authors were grazing like cattle.

  Jim had his arm around Lindsay, who looked absolutely ravishing in this flowing, flowery-print affair, silky green and off her creamy shoulders, which glistened in the candlelight. Jim had not let Lindsay out of his sight for a moment all evening, the poor woman. In fact, Jim had made sure Ralph and Lindsay were hardly ever alone together in all
the past week Ralph had stayed there. Sure Lindsay looked lovely that night, but Ralph could see beneath that. To Ralph’s eagle eye Lindsay looked stricken, miserable, breathless in Jim’s bear hug of attention, even though she was trying bravely to hide it with all that laughter and feigned gaiety.

  Ralph wandered out to the kitchen, where he found some of the Stanford crowd, including Dick Scowcroft, a funny, courtly man who had been his and Jim’s dear old Stanford teacher. The wall phone, which was difficult to hear above the din, was ringing. Finally, Dick Scowcroft turned around and lifted the receiver and waved it at Ralph, saying, I bet it’s for you, Ralph. Ralph said, Oh no. It couldn’t be. Dick put the receiver to his ear and said, Hello. What? Oh my gracious, Dick said, and then he handed the phone to Ralph again, saying, Oh yes, I’m quite certain it’s for you, Ralph. Ralph took the receiver and put it to his ear. Hello, Ralph said. The voice on the other end, a voice Ralph vaguely recognized, said, As I was saying, you faithless, fetid flotsam of a betraying asshole. Ralph said, You’ve got the wrong party, I believe. But the angry voice bellowed on. Just wanted you to know, you cocksucker, I know all about the hot-to-trot affair you’re having with that bitch boner- breath Mary Mississippi. And what I mean to do is revenge-fuck you, pal. Revenge fucks are the absolute best fucks in village life. And I got some payback blowjobs coming, too, motherfucker. Lindsay is a class-act lady and she don’t deserve your vile shit. And when I rat out your worthless act, I’ll bet she’ll agree with my revenge-fuck theory. Adios, pigshit, the voice said, and hung up. Goodbye, Ralph said, and hung up the receiver.

  At last Ralph saw Lindsay without Jim. She was making her way amid the crowd up the hallway toward the kitchen carrying a tray full of empty beer cans. Ralph stepped into her path. Hi there, Ralph said. Lindsay said, Well, hello, birthday boy. Having a good time? Ralph said, I’ve got to tell you something. Can it wait? Lindsay said. No, it can’t, Ralph said. Lindsay and Ralph were nearly shouting to be heard over the noise. Well, Lindsay said, cupping her hand around her mouth to Ralph’s ear, shoot. Cupping his own hand around Lindsay’s ear, Ralph said, Look, I love old Jim. But the fact of the matter is, I love you more. I hate to do this, rat old Jim out, that is, but I just heard something you ought to know. Lindsay said, What are you talking about? Ralph said, I’m talking about the feet, which I heard on good authority, as it were, that Jim is carrying on with some woman. Apparendy it’s the talk of the town. Lindsay said, Is the woman’s name Mary? Why yes, Ralph said. Ralph, would you do me a favor and do some picking up? Lindsay said, and held up the tray of empty beer cans she was carrying. If I don’t stay ahead of the mess, I’ll be in deep shit tomorrow. Do you mind? No, Ralph said, I don’t mind. Thanks, hon, Lindsay said, and wove her way on down the hallway.

  As the noted Bay Area authors sang “Happy Birthday,” Jim carried out Ralph’s cake, German chocolate with chocolate icing, Ralph’s favorite, which Jim had baked with his own bare hands, as he announced to the world at large several times. To the noted Bay Area authors’ glee, Ralph huffed and puffed himself blue in the face attempting to blow the candles out. The noted Bay Area authors were greatly amused when it finally dawned on Ralph that they were trick candles, impossible to blow out. Ha ha, Ralph thought, as he hacked and coughed in an attempt to catch his breath and hopefully not faint, which he really felt he might do. Then when the general laughter had died down, Jim, wiping tears of amusement from his eyes, announced that he wanted to make a little toast in old Ralphie boy’s honor.

  He wanted to take this opportunity, Jim said, to thank old Running Dog Ralph Crawford for all the little words of encouragement Ralph had given him during those dark, discouraging days Jim was struggling to complete his new novel, soon to be published by Harcourt Brace Jovanovich. Stay the course, Ralph had suggested to Jim, when Jim was feeling defeated. Never say die, Ralph had recommended. All’s well that ends well. The end justifies the means. It’s not over until the fat lady sings. Yes, those kind cliches from old rotten Ralph had meant a lot to Jim in his hours of creative struggle, and in many ways Jim had old Ralph to thank for the big-bucks sale of his new novel soon to be published by Harcourt Brace Jovanovich.

  Here, old dog, Jim said, and handed Ralph a knife, it’s your cake, so you get to do the honors, boy. Led by Jim, the noted Bay Area authors hooted and laughed uproariously at Ralph’s expense as soon as the knife hit that hard object buried in the heart of that cake Jim had baked with his own bare hands. Where you’re going, old Ralphie, Jim said as he drew the file from the cake and cleaned it off to present with a great ceremonial flourish to Ralph, you’ll want to employ this little item as soon as possible to break out, hopefully before your sexual orientation gets totally turned around. Ha ha, Ralph thought. So the whole room of noted Bay Area authors knew the status of Ralph’s legal problems. Wonder who spread that sorry news around. Ha ha. Although, Jim informed the room full of smirking noted Bay Area authors, there was probably no way our birthday boy here could make good his escape in time to avoid at least one serious (how shall we put this in polite company?) tush-tapping. But what’s a little buggery really in the great scheme of things? If Oscar Wilde could survive behind bars and even transform funny fornications into high art, then so could the birthday boy.

  Ha ha.

  Ladies and gentlemen, Jim said at this point, and pretended to play an invisible trumpet fanfare, then bowed and with great sweeping gestures said, I wish to present the birthday boy’s beloved ball and chain, as Alice Ann walked slowly toward Ralph through the parting crowd of noted Bay Area authors. In spite of himself, when Alice Ann leaned up to kiss his cheek, Ralph flinched. Happy birthday, Ralph, Alice Ann said, and took Ralph by the hand, to the applause and cheers of the noted Bay Area authors.

  Although she and Ralph had not had a civil word for each other in over a month, Alice Ann informed the noted Bay Area authors she was on hand this special evening to give Ralph his birthday blow job, a tradition in their long marriage she was loath to break, especially because it might be the last blow job he received, from a woman anyway, for quite some time. For, unfortunately, she had some bad tidings for the birthday boy. It was bad news that Alice Ann felt they, she and Ralph, should share with Ralph’s many friends and fans, for he would be needing their support and understanding in the hard days to come. She, for one, planned to stand by her man, for better or worse, as she had promised to do those many years ago. Upon her arrival home from work earlier that very evening, Alice Ann had found a telegram from Ralph’s attorney- of-record, who was representing Ralph in his current difficulties with the state of California, which, as everybody knew, was prosecuting Ralph for fraud and perjury and general bad citizenship, among many other misdemeanors and possible felonies. She had immediately contacted Ralph’s attorney, who claimed that because people rarely answered the phone at her house he did not feel he was in any way at fault or remiss for informing Ralph at such an eleventh hour that he, Ralph, was due to appear in court to face the music tomorrow morning, and perhaps Ralph would be wise to bring along a toothbrush.

  2

  Ralph ran to his room and began throwing his clothes, which Lindsay had kindly laundered for him, into Alice Ann’s old yellow getaway suitcase. Alice Ann strolled into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. —I thought I had thrown that old suitcase out, she said, and lit a cigarette. She sat there smoking and watching Ralph scurry around the room, trying to recall all the places he had hidden items purloined from Jim: books, pens, pencils, typing paper, cans of Campbell’s soup, tins of sardines, two more tubes of toothpaste for his collection.

  If he pulled out right then, Ralph speculated aloud, and drove lickety-split and nonstop, he figured he could make Reno by midnight, which was safely across the California state line. And then it would be a clear straight shot south to old Mexico. Or maybe Canada would be the best bet. What he needed to know was which border would be the easiest to cross. Why had those fainthearted draft dodgers fled to Canada instead of old Mexico is w
hat he wanted to know.

  Ralph, Alice Ann said, and stubbed out her cigarette, only to light another. —You’re not going anywhere. We are in this together, both our marriage and the criminal matter. We have had this date with the music from the beginning, Ralph, and we are going to simply face up to it finally.

  Sure, Ralph said, that’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s going to get their brains buggered out.

  You aren’t going to jail, Ralph. I’ve sold the house. In all honesty I planned upon selling the house, which was bought with my inheritance, if you recall, out from under you and pocketing the proceeds to finance a new life for the kids and me. But I’ve changed my mind. Your worthless attorney-of-record informed me that if restitution is made to the state for the funds you stole by fraud and malice aforethought, and if you throw yourself upon the mercy of the court, you’ll get off with a white-collar criminal slap on the wrist. Probation and maybe some community service.

  What sort of community service? You mean things like road work?

  What does it matter? The important thing here, Ralph, is that I’m coming to your rescue again. And, Ralph, I am going to ask you for only one thing in return.

  What one thing?