“Did you remember your pass?” she says.
“Sorry, it slipped my mind. I’ll bring it up later.”
“Please don’t forget. It’s a legal thing.”
I put the bottle and letter on Frank’s desk, and then go back downstairs. Max is there with the boxes. “Why are they firing you if you won all these?” he says, taking the awards down off my wall.
“Because they can, Max.”
The door opens in the next office. The copywriter comes out and leans against my doorjamb. “Sorry to see you go,” he says. He’s about to turn around when Max gets all excited about something. His hand goes in his shirt pocket and pulls out a joint. “You guys feel like a toke?” he says. I haven’t seen a joint in years. “You’re fired anyway,” Max says. “Why not?”
“Sure,” I say. “Why not?”
“Are you guys serious?” the copywriter says.
“Follow me,” I say.
We take our drinks to the washroom and stand by the sink. Max lights the joint, inhales, passes it to me. He leans against the sink with one eye closed.
“Ruby’s boyfriend tried to kill himself last night,” he says. “Jumped out the bedroom window and landed on his car.”
I hand the joint to the copywriter. “How’s Ruby taking that?” I ask.
“Who’s Ruby?” the copywriter says.
“My mother,” Max says. “Otis says it serves her right.”
“Who’s Otis?” the copywriter asks.
“My father,” Max says. “He shagged my girlfriend.”
“He shagged your girlfriend?”
“Down in the rec room.”
“C’mon, what did you do?”
“I was passed out on the rug. Ruby woke me up.”
“Your mother woke you up? What did she do?”
Max looks at me and then we both break out laughing. “She told me to feed the cat,” he says.
The copywriter looks at me slapping Max’s back.
“You fed the cat?”
“My mother did.”
“I thought she ran off with some guy?”
“She fed the cat first.”
Max is sliding down the wall now. I try pulling him up, but we’re both laughing, and I slide down next to him. The copywriter keeps looking out the door, but ol’ Max is going through his pockets again, saying he’s got another joint somewhere.
“If I’m going to get mugged, I might as well do it stoned.”
“Good thinking, Max,” I say.
“Ready for another?”
“Light it up. What the hell.”
“Coming at you.”
The copywriter stands there looking at us like we’re crazy. Max can’t even get the joint lit. The match keeps going past the end and into his scrawny beard. “Maybe we should wait a bit,” he says.
We get up, dust ourselves off, and open the washroom door. Out in the hall, we get a few strange looks from the cleaners. They play Bosnian reggae on a small ghetto blaster. It’s not as bad as you’d think. The copywriter disappears in his office. Max and I grab my stuff and take it to the elevator. Right next to the reception desk, there’s this glass partition. It still has O’Conner Advertising etched in big red Helvetica letters. I figure Frank needs a parting gesture. I put down my boxes and drop my pants. “Goodbye, Frank,” I say, pressing my ass against the glass.
The elevator doors open and there’s Kitty. She starts pushing buttons like crazy. I’m trying to pull up my pants. “I got my pass,” I say. “Wait. It’s right here.”
Kitty’s still pushing buttons. Max is in hysterics. “Congratulations,” Max laughs. “You mooned Frank’s secretary.”
“I did not.”
“What do you call it?”
“I was facing her, Max. How’s that a moon?”
“You mooned her, old man.”
“I’d better find her and apologize.”
Kitty isn’t at her desk. She’s probably off telling everybody I’m pressing hams all over the creative department. I know Frank will see this as a sad attempt at getting his goat. “Put his ass right under my name, did he?” he’ll say. “Pretty juvenile, if you ask me.”
I leave my pass card and go back downstairs. Max is leaning against Frank’s partition like the horse in Cat Ballou.
“You find Frank’s secretary?”
“She’s not at her desk.” The elevator comes and Max grabs my boxes. He wobbles a bit, losing his hat at one point, but we get everything loaded and down to the street.
A big double Winnebago is parked out in front of our building. There’s a film crew shooting a commercial for some beauty product. The front entrance has been made to look like a department store complete with a doorman dressed in a uniform and white gloves. Max walks up to the Winnebago with his hat pushed back on his head. Just inside, we see a DJ sitting there at his console. “How’s it going?” Max says to him. “Got any Lloyd Price?”
“Piss off,” the DJ says.
One of the guards sees Max and hikes up his belt. Even in uniform, Max can’t hide the fact that he’s stoned. The guard tells him to move along and Max trips over a potted plant. It rolls down the red carpet and thumps against the speakers.
Max’s car is parked in an alleyway somewhere just south of the office. He can’t remember exactly where. We go up and down the street like idiots, finding the car about three blocks away. Max starts kicking the driver’s side door, telling me it sticks sometimes. “Did you try the handle?” I ask, and he pulls the handle, falling backwards as the door opens. “You’re a bit of a dumb ass,” I say.
“At least I don’t moon people.”
“I’m not proud of that, Max.”
“Where do you live, anyway?”
“Prospect. You sure you don’t mind? Aren’t you on duty?”
“I don’t care. I’ll probably just get mugged again.”
“You’re putting your life on the line, Max.”
“I’m thinking of packing it in.”
“And doing what?”
“I don’t know. I’m looking at my options.”
“That’s good, Max. Always look at your options. Would you mind stopping at a liquor store?”
“What happened to your bottle of whiskey?”
“I gave it to Frank.”
“Why would you give him a bottle of whiskey?”
“I don’t know, Max. I’ve never been fired before.”
“You don’t give’em a bottle of whiskey.”
“I’ll remember that.”
Chapter 3
I wake up this morning with the sun in my eyes. Out the window, my cardboard boxes tilt precariously on the front porch. Max and I did a number of detours last night; some I remember, some I forget. We went to a bar and I guess I drank too much. I vaguely recall stopping at a liquor store after that, then Max dragging me up my steps and ringing the bell. Mary hauled me inside, giving me the skunk eye, then sent Max packing.
A radio is going in the basement now. Post-it notes are stuck to the walls. Each one is numbered according to urgency, which Mary accentuates with exclamation marks. “One to three are a must today,” she’s written. “Get started as soon as you’ve had breakfast.”
I sit at the kitchen table, listening to Mary moving things around downstairs. My son-in-law will be sleeping down there. Muller has sleep apnea, which requires him to wear a mask that sounds like a wombat (my daughter’s words). Judy can’t stand the noise, so we’re putting Muller next to the furnace with their two lovebirds, Meek and Beek. Judy takes them everywhere they go.
Judy calls while I’m eating my toast and starts going over diet requirements, especially birdseed. Then she says, “Did cops really bring you home last night, Daddy?”
“How did you hear about that?”
“Mom emailed me this morning.”
“He’s a security guard, sweetie. His name’s Max.”
“What were you doing with a security guard?”
“Long story. Daddy needs a
coffee first.”
“Did you really leave a pressed ham on the front window?”
“That could have been anyone.”
“Mom says it was you or the cop.”
“Security guard, sweetie. Daddy has to go now.”
Hanging up, I look at the list Mary’s left on the kitchen counter. We need everything at this point: paint, drop cloths, edging tape. I put my coffee cup in the sink and look out the window. The grass is growing in crazy tufts, a smattering of dandelions along the fence. The phone rings again. Max is on the other end. “What is it, Max?” I say, “I’m trying to get to the store for paint.”
“Ruby’s back,” he says. “She left the engineer. Otis’s been playing The Stylistics all morning.” I could hear Max blowing smoke out his mouth. “It’s awful around here, man.”
“What’s so awful? Don’t you want Ruby back home?”
“Sure. It’s the atmosphere I hate.”
“It’ll work out.”
“Ruby says Otis crossed the line.”
“The man slept with your girlfriend, Max.”
“I know,” he yawns. “I’m starting to hate The Stylistics.”
“I thought Ruby destroyed all his albums?”
“He fished them out of the washing machine. Some are okay. He’s been getting replacements. Picked up some Larry Williams yesterday.”
“What’s Ruby been doing since she got home?”
“She’s starting a business. Not sure what it is yet.”
“Tell her good luck.”
“Why are you painting?”
“Because,” I say, closing the cellar door, “when you come home shitfaced, you have to pay penance. I’m stuck painting. And I’ve only got two weeks before my daughter arrives.”
“Ruby’s a good painter.”
“Glad to hear it, Max.”
“We’re both pretty good. Want us to come over and help?” I can hear a woman’s voice in the background. “That’s Ruby,” he says. “She’s up for anything that’ll get her out of the house.”
“You seriously want to help me paint?”
“Sure. It’ll be good for Ruby. Get her mind off Otis.”
“Let me see what Mary thinks.”
“We’re here if you need us.”
“I appreciate the offer.”
“We’ve got drop cloths, ladders and stuff.”
“I’ll pass it by Mary.”
“Okay. Let me know.”
Six rooms, a hallway, front foyer, all to do in less than two weeks. I don’t know what’s worse: having to paint, or waiting for my son-in-law to show up. I know Judy loves him to death, but he’s a bit of a dud. Mary hates it when I call him that. “He’s your son-in-law, Sam,” she’ll say, like I need reminding. Judy says, “Daddy, you just have to know him better,” which is fine if you like guys who keep nasal flush in their pocket. I guess I’m just pissed at all this painting I have to do before they arrive. Ruby and Max could help get the job done faster. That’s if Mary agrees, which is doubtful judging from the way she shooed Max off the porch last night. It’s still worth asking. I go downstairs, aware that Mary is probably holding a broom.
Chapter 4
“How do you know they can paint?” Mary is saying.
She had me filling cracks all over the house yesterday. I didn’t even have a chance to pick up the paint. I point out to Mary that Max and Ruby come equipped with drop cloths.
“I’d better not find you and Max slacking off,” she says. I promise her we’ll be on our best behavior. “Fine,” she says. “As long as this house gets done by the eighteenth. You’d better get the paint now.”
At the paint store, I get everything on Mary’s list, then push my cart to the cash register. Suddenly everything starts drifting in and out. I’m sweating like crazy and my heart’s going boom, boom, boom.
I go outside and lean against a wall. Years ago, this art director I worked with, Don Conroy, had a stroke. He said everything went numb for a while. He was in his late fifties. He survived, but his time had come. He had to retire. Frank made a big show of it by planning an elaborate retirement party. He rented the town hall, complete with Don’s favorite band, The Jazzbusters. Frank had shrimp the size of plantains. At the end of the evening, a limousine took Don up to his cottage where he planned on retiring. After a year of that, Don realized he couldn’t take it anymore. He ended up back downtown, looking for work. I brought him in on a few freelance assignments. Then I couldn’t even give him that. A few months later, he died in his sleep. We all went to the funeral and Frank stood there, chin out, all polished with aftershave. He said a few words at the gravesite later, calling Don a “likeable git.”
Don didn’t even make sixty, and here I am, two years away from that, hugging the wall, sweating like crazy. “Are you all right?” I hear someone say. I look up to see this old woman holding the door. “Why don’t you come in out of the sun?”
“Thanks,” I say. “I think it’s just low blood sugar.”
I go back inside with my heart going boom, boom, boom. Everyone’s waiting in line at the cash register. I wipe my face with my sleeve. The old woman’s there with her husband. I make my apologies.
As soon as I get to the car, I’m leaning against the hood, feeling like the asphalt is a trampoline. The old couple come out a few minutes later. The husband says, “Everything okay?”
“Just a little dizzy, that’s all.”
I’m thinking about that scene from The Sopranos where Tony collapses at this swank country club. He ends up in hospital, sitting on a gurney. A nurse comes along and says, “I’ve got good news for you, Mr. Soprano. Your heart appears to be fine.”
“How the hell’s that good news?” he says. “If you found something wrong, you could cut it out. You’re telling me it’s nothing. Why the fuck did I collapse?” Next day in his psychiatrist’s office, he tells her it felt like a can of ginger ale going off in his head. “What the fuck happened?” he says, and she says, “Sounds like a panic attack.”
“I can’t have a panic attack,” Tony says. “A guy in my position?” So he goes home and starts watching these ducks in his pool. They fly off and he starts bawling. So back he goes to the psychiatrist’s office, saying, “What the fuck?” and the psychiatrist tells him it’s a fear of abandonment. “But they’re ducks,” he says. Again, he goes home, the ducks are still gone; he starts bawling again.
Christ, I hope I’m not having panic attacks. I don’t want to start bawling over ducks. Back at home, I put the paint in the kitchen and crawl into bed. Mary appears and says, “What’s wrong?” She feels my forehead. “Is this for real or are you pulling a sicky?”
“Not quite sure,” I say. “It might be the heat.”
“I hope that’s all it is.”
She fluffs up the pillow behind my head and goes back to the basement. I start feeling better after a few minutes. The phone rings and I answer. Max again. “Sam,” he says. “What did Mary have to say?”
“She’s okay.”
“You want us to come over now?”
“Come over in the morning.” I hear music playing in the background. “Isn’t that The Stylistics, Max?”
“Otis keeps playing it.”
“Is it working?”
“They’re circling each other like cats.”
“Haven’t heard that song in years, Max.”
“Wish I could say the same thing.”
Chapter 5
Another day, birds sing, the boxes from my office tilt on the porch. Max and Ruby arrive in painter pants. “Hey, there,” Ruby says, a cigarette going in the corner of her mouth. “Here we are, two painters ready to go.” Her hair is done up in a bandana. “I’m Ruby, by the way. I guess that’s obvious. So where do you want us to start?”
Mary takes her off to the living room, pointing out color chips. Max gets the ladder and paint trays from the truck. When he comes back inside, I pull him aside and say, “Did you put a pressed ham on my front window o
r was it me?”
“It was you, old man. You did one at the liquor store, too.”
“The liquor store?”
“Sure. Right after you bought a case of whiskey. It’s under the boxes on the porch. Don’t you remember?”
“A case?”
“Go see if you don’t believe me.”
“I believe you.”
“I put your jacket over the whiskey.”
“I thought I’d left it back at the office.”
“Where do you want the ladder and stuff?”
“Living room, I guess.”
Mary and Ruby are still going over the color chips in the bedroom. Then Ruby comes out and holds her cigarette under the kitchen tap. “I’ll start on the trim,” she says to Max. “Are these all the drop cloths? I thought we had more in the garage.” She lights another cigarette. “Sorry we don’t have more cloths, folks. Otis probably wrapped something up in them. It could be anything from his guitar to the cat. I haven’t seen the cat lately. Have you, Max?”
“Otis probably traded it for records.”
“I wouldn’t put it past him.”
They start painting like a couple of pros. Ruby does the cutting while Max works the roller. She calls it “cutting,” which is really doing the trim. They’ve got their own language. You’d think they’d make a mess, moving as fast as they do, but there’s not a drop anywhere.
“We’ve done this before, Sam,” Ruby says. “You should see us when we get going.”
Her cigarette smoke mingles with the paint and Mary makes the occasional wave with her hand. She hates smoking. I have to smoke out on the back deck. I keep expecting Mary to say something, but she’s too thrilled with Ruby’s painting skills. Ruby fills her brush with paint, running a straight bead as far as she can reach. Then she’s down the ladder, moving it over, and going up again. Mary retreats downstairs to put the sheets on Muller’s cot.
“You’re not shitting me about the liquor store, are you, Max?” I say as soon as she’s gone.
“You bared your ass, old man.”
“Who bared their ass?” Ruby says.
You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can't Make It Scuba Dive) Page 2
