“Sam did.”
“What for?”
“I’m not quite sure,” I say.
“You were stoned, old man.”
“I wish you’d stop calling me old man, Max.”
“I didn’t know you smoked grass, Sam,” Ruby says.
“Blame Max for that.”
“Nobody held a gun to your head, old man.”
“Stop calling him that, Max.”
“Sorry, Ruby.”
“How long do you think all this painting will take?” I ask.
“We’ll finish before your daughter arrives, Sam.”
“Ruby’s big on schedules,” Max says.
“Very professional.”
“You’re just happy to be away from Otis, aren’t you, Ruby?”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
“Had enough of The Stylistics, yet?”
“Love The Stylistics, Max. Hate the player.”
“I’m hearing it in my sleep.”
“So am I. That’s what worries me.”
“You’re not going to cave, are you?”
“We’ll see, Max. I’ve still got a pretty good hate on.”
Chapter 6
Work proceeds until Ruby finds a watermark on the kitchen ceiling. “Better check your eavestroughs,” she says, and Max and I spend the afternoon pulling small trees out of the gutters. By the time we come back inside, Ruby’s plastered the ceiling and primed the kitchen. “Put the drop cloths in the bedrooms, Max,” she says. “They’ll need a coat of primer before we leave today.”
Mary takes me aside. “Ruby’s a miracle, Sam,” she whispers and squeezes my arm.
I go and help Max put down the drop cloths. I can hear Mary talking to Ruby in the other room.
“Will we be done in time, Ruby?” she says.
“Don’t you worry, honey. Max and I are in the groove.”
Morning of the eighteenth, everything is done, even the closets. Around one o’clock, Muller’s old Buick pulls into the driveway, oily smoke billowing up in the air. He gets out in this tie-dyed t-shirt, baggy shorts and sandals, looking like a big, sweaty Turk. Then Judy gets out, running up, going, “We’re here! We’re here!” She embraces everybody, including Max, while Muller starts pulling this oxygen tank out of the back seat. It’s the size of a water heater. Max goes to help him and Judy comes over, all pink and glowing, giving me a sweaty kiss. “Hey, Daddy,” she says.
“How was the drive?” I ask.
“Muller barfed.”
Mary links arms with Judy. “Get the bags, Sam,” she says. “Then we can talk.”
“What’s in those boxes on the porch?” Judy says.
“Your father’s stuff from work.” Mary says. “I told him to put everything in the garage.”
Judy walks around the house, looking at the new paint and wallpaper. Everything has the freshness of a Florida beach. Max and Muller bring the oxygen tank into the front hall.
“Where should we put this?” Muller says.
“Downstairs,” I say to him. “Mary’s made up a bed for you by the furnace. Come on, Max, grab this end. Muller, you grab the other.”
Ruby is cleaning brushes in the laundry tub. “Hey, there,” she says. “You must be Muller.”
Muller puts down his end of the oxygen tank and takes Ruby’s cigarette from the side of the laundry tub. “Haven’t had one since we left Seattle,” he says.
Ruby takes out a pack from her shirt pocket. “Have a fresh one,” she says. “What’s with the oxygen tank?”
“I have sleep apnea. This works better than CPAP machines.” He starts hooking up the mask and hose to the tank.
“Isn’t that an old gas mask?” Ruby asks.
“Yeah, army surplus. I rigged it up myself.”
“Aren’t you the inventive one,” she says. “You sure it’s sleep apnea? Otis thought he had that. All he needed was a good massage.”
“Who’s Otis?” Muller says.
“Don’t get her started on Otis,” Max says.
“Grab the paint cloths, Max,” she says.
“You really think a massage would work?” Muller asks.
“Course I do. Worked for Otis. Come by the house sometime. I’ll have you breathing like a thoroughbred.”
“That’s everything, Sam,” Max says.
“You did good, Max. You two should go into business.”
“We are. That’s what Ruby’s been planning. I’m going in with her. Who’s gonna mug me painting a house?”
Muller sits down on the cot. He practically sinks to the floor. “So you’re saying it’s just tension?” he asks Ruby.
“Sure, it’s tension. I know a tense man when I see one. Get over on your stomach. I’ll straighten you out right now.” Muller rolls over and Ruby straddles the cot. Her fingers disappear into Muller’s flab.
“You sure got strong hands, Ruby,” Muller says. She digs her knuckle into his back. “God Almighty.” Mary and Judy come downstairs. “Ruby’s a miracle worker, Jude,” he says, letting out a moan and possibly a fart. Ruby digs a knuckle in again.
“Just do this any time he’s tense, honey,” Ruby says to Judy. “My husband thought he had sleep apnea for years. Never needed a machine, though. Just a good solid knuckle right here.” Her fist disappears into his flesh. “I’ll show you how to do it, if you like.”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Judy says.
“Well, any time he needs it, give him a knuckle. You want help up, big fella?” she says, and he rolls over like a beached mammal.
“Get up, Muller,” Judy says.
“I’m trying, Jude.”
Ruby pulls him to his feet. “Well, that’s it for us,” she says. “Leave the brushes in fabric softener for a few hours. You got anything else needs painting, just call Max. I don’t know where I’m living yet.”
“You’ve got a home, Ruby,” Max says.
“I don’t trust your old man. He’s a loose cannon.”
“Then we’ll get a place together.”
“Let’s talk in the truck,” she says. “Say goodbye to these nice folks.” She picks up some pails and a roller handle. “Watch your back there, beefcake. Losing a few pounds wouldn’t hurt, either.”
“I like him just the way he is,” Judy says.
“Big and cuddly, huh?” Ruby laughs. “I hear you. Come on, Max, grab those pails. We’ll pick up a burger on the way home.”
I take out my wallet.
“Don’t worry about it, Sam,” Ruby says. “Max says you got fired. Darn shame at your age. You don’t look none the worse for wear, though. You doin’ okay? You sleeping?”
“I’m fine.”
“It probably hasn’t hit him yet,” she says to Mary. “Everything’s fine until you come home and find them shagging the postal carrier.” Mary squints at Ruby. “Story for another time, honey. It’s been a rough couple of years. Don’t forget about the brushes. Wrap them in damp newspapers afterwards. They’ll be good as new. And take care of that back, big fella. You’ve got a few good years left in you yet.”
“Come on, Ruby,” Max says.
“I’m right behind you,” she says.
Muller’s looking at her like she’s Venus de Milo.
Chapter 7
Saturday, going down the aisles at a Food4Less, my heart starts beating like a conga again. I push the cart to the entrance, bumping into shelves, banging into knees. Then I start to fall over and two hands grab me under my armpits. My heart flutters like a bird. Next thing I know, I’m in the parking lot with this big guy patting my back. “Just keep breathing,” he says. “You’ll be okay.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I just got a little dizzy.”
“You might want to get him checked out,” he says to Mary. “Just to be on the safe side.” He goes back to the store.
“What happened, Sam?” Mary says.
“I got a bit dizzy, that’s all.”
Mary helps me into the car and goes back for the groceries. I keep s
eeing Don Conroy’s face. When I look up again, Mary’s staring at me. “I think you need to see a doctor,” she says. “I’ll make an appointment. Do you want to stop for a coffee or something?”
“No,” I say, “let’s just go home.”
Muller’s car is dripping oil in the driveway. “Go lie down,” Mary says. “Muller will bring in the groceries.”
“Okay,” I say. I check the mailbox and find a letter from Frank. I use the washroom first, then read Frank’s letter in the sun room.
Sam,
I could be away longer than expected. They want me heading the operation here in Los Angeles until a new CEO is found. Lots of sunshine in this part of the world. You and Mary would enjoy it. Hope she took the news okay. I realized after I signed off that I might have sounded glib. That wasn’t my intention. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do. I’ll call when I get back.
Frank
Strange sounds are coming from the basement. I go down and find Muller’s head in the laundry sink and Judy holding a towel. “He hit it on the boiler trying to catch Beek,” Judy says.
Muller’s a sopping mess, hair everywhere, water streaming down his face. There’s no blood, but it looks like he’s going to have a lump. “What are you letting the birds loose down here for?” I ask.
“They can’t spend all day sitting in a cage.”
“Do you want a drink, Muller?” I say.
“Sure, Sam.”
“Come upstairs and I’ll make you one.” We leave Judy cornering Beek behind the dryer.
Out on the porch, I reach under the boxes and find a bottle of whiskey. The brand isn’t familiar. It looks Bulgarian from the script. Why would I buy Bulgarian whiskey? I take two trophy cups out of another box, pour in some whiskey, handing one to Muller. “How are things out in Seattle?” I say.
“Lousy. I got fired.”
“How the hell did that happen?” He slurps like a spaniel.
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m in the wrong field.”
“Maybe.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What are you going to do?”
“Drink this case of whiskey.”
“I admire you, Sam.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
“You’re full of shit.” He looks hurt. “Muller, it’s just a figure of speech.”
“No, I’m full of shit.”
“You’re making me lose respect for you.”
“I know.”
“If Mary comes out, you’re admiring these trophies, understand? You think I’m the most talented copywriter on earth.”
“You are, Sam. Judy’s always talking about how talented you are. We saw one of your commercials last week.”
“Which one?”
“A little girl talking to her mother. Judy laughed through the whole thing. I don’t remember what it was for.”
“Q-tips. It’s been running over a year.”
“Judy thought it was very funny.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be.”
“Q-tips, huh?”
“Q-tips.”
“I wish I was like you, Sam.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do, really.” Then he starts slurping like a spaniel again. Christ, even Bulgarian whiskey deserves to be sipped.
Chapter 8
“Sounds like you’re suffering from anxiety, Sam,” Dr. Krupsky says, looking at me over the top of his glasses. A wisp of hair hangs down over his forehead. “I like the ginger ale going off in your head bit. You come up with that yourself?”
“I saw it on The Sopranos.”
“Good show.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“Why am I having panic attacks?”
“Could be anything from shock to dehydration,” he says. He rubs his hands up and down his stubby legs. “We’re dealing with three things here, Sam,” he says, pulling on three fingers. “Serotonins, norepinephrines, dopamines. Don’t worry about the names. Sometimes they get out of whack. We use drugs to fix the problem. It’s a fiddle. See what I’m saying?”
“What sort of pills will he have to take?” Mary asks.
“He doesn’t have to take any,” Krupsky says. “I wouldn’t. I’m just saying it’s an option. What do you want to do, Sam?”
“I’d like to stop passing out.”
He puts his glasses up on his forehead. “So, sit down when it happens. Take up yoga.”
“What’s that going to do for me?”
“Calm you down.”
“And that’ll cure my panic attacks?”
“Who knows?” he shrugs. “Look, we’re human. You think you’re the only one? People come in here complaining about panic attacks all the time. I say, ‘Do meditation’. They say, ‘Give me a pill.’ What am I going to do? I give’m pills.”
“So he either takes a pill, or lives with it?” Mary asks.
“What’s so bad about yoga? Do it together. Add a little tantric sex.”
“Shouldn’t he stop drinking and smoking?”
“Sure he should,” Krupsky says. “Take away his nail clippers while you’re at it. Everything’s risky. He could die planting rose bushes.”
“Do you want the pills?” Mary asks me.
“I’m starting to wonder.”
“Sam, look,” Krupsky says. “If it bugs you so much, see a psychiatrist. Otherwise, do like the rest of us. Get lots of sleep and don’t be a big shot, wear a hat.” I button my shirt and Krupsky slaps me on the back. “You’ll live. Get out in the sun. Good source of vitamin D.”
He follows us out to the waiting room. “Any more episodes, call me. Now go forth and multiply.”
“We’ve already multiplied,” I say.
“Then I’m out of advice,” Krupsky says and goes back to his examining room with another patient.
Out on the street, I light a cigarette and stare at the sky.
“Krupsky’s got a point,” I say.
“What point?” Mary says. “He made tons of points.”
“Maybe I just have to live with it.”
“I can’t understand him half the time. Rose bushes?”
“He’s just saying anything is possible.” She takes my cigarette and throws it on the ground. “Littering,” I say.
“I’ll litter you in a minute.”
We stop at a bookstore and check out some yoga books. Mary chooses ones with lots of pictures. Most of the positions look painful as hell. What’s the point of putting your foot behind your head?
We go home and Mary shows the books to Judy. Muller’s making dinner. Tomato sauce bubbles on the stove and garlic bread warms in the oven. Judy licks her thumb as she turns the pages. “We could do this, Muller,” she says. “It doesn’t look that hard.”
Muller comes over, wiping his hands on his shirt. His stomach falls over the back of her chair. “I don’t know if I’m up for that, Jude.”
“Well, I want to try.” She takes the book in the living room and sits on the rug. Mary changes her clothes and joins her. They find a page with warm-up stretches. Muller and I watch.
“Are you two just going to stand there?” Mary says.
Judy’s trying to sit cross-legged. “Either get down here or quit staring,” she says.
Muller and I go out on the porch instead. I get the bottle of whiskey and fill the trophy cups. Muller sips and sighs like a buffalo.
“I don’t know what Judy wants anymore,” he says.
“I thought she wanted kids?”
“I can’t even get a stiffy.”
“I didn’t need to hear that.”
“I’m just saying.”
“I know what you’re saying. I still didn’t need to hear that.”
“Sorry.”
“You’re talking to your father-in-law here.”
“I just don’t know what do, Sam. Judy finds fault with everything these days. She even pulled out all m
y pot plants before we left. Why would she do that?”
“Women don’t want distractions. They want babies.”
“But grass makes me horny.”
“Cut it out, for chrissake. That’s my daughter you’re talking about. I don’t need to know about your sex life. Especially stiffies.”
“Sorry.”
“And stop saying you’re sorry.”
Now he’s got me worrying about my own stiffy.
Chapter 9
“Chakras are layers of subtle bodies known as focal points of reception and transmission,” I read aloud from a meditation book. We’re on the living room rug, legs crossed, shoulders back. According to the book, we’re supposed to embrace the fullness of our existence.
Mary and Judy are saying their mantras. Muller’s lips are moving, but he’s probably faking it. He makes this hm-m-m sound which usually turns into a burp. My foot’s falling asleep.
Muller leans over and asks when Ruby is coming over again. I tell him to shut up about Ruby. She’s got her own problems. Max told me yesterday she’s put Otis in the basement and nailed the door closed. Otis has to come in through the side entrance. He sleeps in the bedroom off the rec room. Sometimes Ruby drops large pans on the floor just to hear him fall out of bed. He’s on his computer most of the night doing his on-line R&B show. People are sending in requests. “Thirty last night,” Max said. “People love the old R&B stuff. Ever hear of Lee Dorsey?”
Max still gets Otis his grass and even dropped off some joints here the other day. I keep them stashed with the whiskey on the porch. When Mary and Judy go off shopping, Muller and I smoke a joint. Then he starts moaning about Judy, especially how he wished she hadn’t pulled up all his pot plants. “I used to make grass brownies,” he says. “Nuts and everything. I wouldn’t mind baking them again.”
“You’re not baking grass brownies, Muller.”
“They’re really good.”
“Save it for when you go home. You are going home, right?”
“Don’t you like having us here, Sam?”
“Yeah, it’s a treat.” I take another hit off the joint. “What’s so special about grass brownies?” I ask.
“Great stone.”
“Better than this?”
“One brownie can keep you going all afternoon.”
You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can't Make It Scuba Dive) Page 3
