There’s a dance contest at the end of the month. Silvio wants us all to participate. It scares me to death, knowing I could be laughed out of the room by my peers and possibly the janitor. “You’re doing this, Sam,” Mary warned me this morning. She bought me a silk shirt yesterday. All the couples have new outfits. Mary and Judy are both wearing bright red dresses. The red flares out the corner of my eye, and I understand what gets bulls all worked up. Muller’s calm as can be. He’s been in dance contests before. I can’t imagine Seattle being a hot spot for salsa and flamenco, but Muller says he’s been up against a few ringers.
I finish the west side soffits before the sun fries me to a crisp. I tell Ruby I’m knocking off for the afternoon and hand her my scraper. “No problem, Sam,” she says. “You’ve made good progress. Are you dancing tonight?” I tell her we’re rehearsing for the dance contest. “Well, go on,” she says. “Take the big lug with you.”
Muller can’t wait to get in the car and start pulling at his crotch. He’s a miserable sight. Muller says his balls are too cold most nights to make anything happen. “I’m trying, Sam,” he says. I’ve hardly had time to think about his baby-making. Mary keeps calling me her caballero, a chilling prospect for me and all the caballeros out there. She and Judy have been dressing up more now, wearing these skirts with long slits up the sides. I’m sure they’re copying Carmen. The woman’s an erotic heartthrob, doing her cavallas with flecks of silver around her eyes. We practice our steps while Silvio walks around with the tips of his fingers pressed against his lips. We’re learning Modern Tango. It’s been modernized so young people will get on the bandwagon. Silvio says all young Argentines know how to tango. “In my country,” he says, “people would rather dance than eat. And we love to eat.”
“Is that all they do in Buenos Aires?” I say to Mary. “Dance, eat and screw their brains out?”
She keeps watching Muller and Judy dancing across to the room. “Look at them,” she says. “Why can’t you do that with me, Sam?”
“People die that way, Mary.”
“They do not.”
“How do you know?”
“Why don’t you let Muller help you?” she says. “He said he would. You have to learn to be more graceful.”
“I’m trying, for chrissake.”
“Try harder,” she says, thrusting her hip into my side.
“How’s that supposed to make me try harder?”
“You need to be more mucho machismo.”
“I’m as mucho machismo as Muller.”
“I think he’s very mucho machismo.”
She didn’t see him trying on Ruby’s earring the other day.
Chapter 49
When we get home, I head for the washroom and run a bath. Lying there with The Road Less Traveled, I consider those holes again. Mary and I must manage our holes pretty well. We wouldn’t be married this long if we didn’t keep them in check. Then I look at Max and Margot, no commitments, no voleos when you least expect them. They don’t get dragged off to dance contests or into the bedroom, saying, “Let’s go, amigo.” They do what they want, when they want. Does that make their holes bigger or smaller?
I hear Mary and Judy practicing Spanish. They’re taking lessons. They sit at the table, asking Muller, “Querría bailar conmigo?” and he responds with something that sounds vaguely Spanish. He never ceases to amaze me. He meringues like a Cuban, but can’t even touch his toes. The other morning, I found him drying his private parts with his oxygen. Silvio had him do a tango with Carmen last night. It was pretty hot stuff. You didn’t hear him complaining about his nutsack then. Carmen’s a real grinder. If Muller was wearing his ice pack, there’d be steam coming out his waistband.
Muller gave a good account of himself, and you look at Judy beaming, and you wonder how he does it. The thing with Ruby seems to be tapering off, although Otis practically swallows his teeth when Muller and Ruby dance. He blubbers away, saying, “Get your pudding pop away from Ruby.” Bisquick takes that as a call to attack Otis’s gibblies, and pretty soon Otis goes off downstairs to do Otis Cries for You. Someone asked him on his show the other day what he’s paying in royalties for the music. Otis said, “Zippo,” and Margot practically tackled him out of his chair. She says he’s a stone’s throw from a serious judicial inquiry.
Mary’s banging on the door now telling me she’s got to pee. “Some of us have small bladders, Sam.”
I get up and towel off. Muller and Judy are dancing in the living room. After a while, the music starts sounding the same. I open the bathroom door and Mary rushes past me, saying, “I don’t know who’s worse, you or Muller. Close the door behind you.”
Muller has jambalaya with tiger shrimp and Andouille sausages simmering on the stove. We eat and I wash the dishes. Mary and Judy study their Spanish while Muller goes through some cookbooks. I’m so bushed from work—and Mary’s midnight rambling—I head off to bed with the girls going, “Buenas noches, viejo amigo.”
During the night, I dream of Frank and this stupid idea he had back in the seventies. He wanted to create a fleet of wiener vans, each with a big plastic hot dog on top. He thought it would revolutionize the industry. He even had Nelson, our janitor, drive around to hockey arenas and baseball diamonds with the first prototype. It was a hit, but the van didn’t meet city specifications. The inspectors sent Frank a cease and desist order. Frank told them to fuck off. The city told him to fuck off right back. Then came an injunction.
The wiener van sat behind the office until Frank’s car broke down at the cottage. He called Nelson. Nelson didn’t have a car so he had to use the wiener van. On the way home, they all got sick from gas fumes and ended up puking by the side of 47. After that, the wiener van went back behind the office where it sits now.
The night Max got mugged and tied up, he was staring at the wiener van for hours. “I was starving,” Max said. “All I could think about was hot dogs.”
Mary elbowed me at some point during the night. “What’s so funny?” she said, and I told her I was dreaming about the wiener van. “That stupid thing?” she said, then put her head on my chest. “Forget about the wiener van.” Her hand started wandering. “Listo ir de nuevo?” I told her to knock off the Spanish. I was too tired for Listo ir de nuevo, whatever that means.
This morning, I’m up and about, ready to face a new day. “What time’s this thing tonight?” I say, searching for my underwear under the sheets. “Don’t say it’s early. I’ll be fighting traffic as it is.”
“It’s seven o’clock,” she says. “Can’t you knock off early?”
“I still have the east side soffits to paint over on Cedar.”
“Are you worried about this contest tonight?”
“Of course I’m worried. I’m afraid I’ll break my neck.”
“Silvio says you’re getting better.”
“I’m comic relief.”
“I think you cut quite a dashing figure,” she says. “Especially”—grabbing my hand—“with that swarthy tan of yours.”
“Krupsky thinks I’m burning to a crisp.”
“Forget Krupsky,” she says, pulling me down. “Dámelo, Sam.”
“Dámelo to you, too, Mary.”
“You don’t even know what that means.”
“I’m betting Muller doesn’t, either.”
Chapter 50
The foyer of the dance studio is filled with intermediate and senior dancers. They’ve come to help judge our progress. A few of the intermediates offer words of encouragement, while the seniors seem to be happier checking their posture and tummies in the studio mirrors. Silvio claps his hands, telling us to line up along one wall. More people arrive. They watch us take our positions. “We will start with the rumba,” Silvio says, and Carmen, dressed in a leotard and skirt, puts on the music.
“Just relax, Sam,” Mary whispers.
We dance and Silvio observes, nodding when he sees something he likes. The seniors watch Muller and Judy the most. Judy’s got a
smile as big as an ocean. When the music ends, Silvio says, “Very good. Now the salsa.” We take our positions with me counting under my breath. Muller and Judy are the only ones who don’t look stiff. The rest of us are obvious beginners, missing the beat, crunching a toe here and there. I spin Mary and get my sleeve caught on her hairclip. Silvio walks towards us and gives me a critical eye. “Now you’ve done it,” Mary whispers in my ear. He continues past and stands right behind us. I miss the beat again and get all gimpy. “Stop pushing me,” Mary says. “He’s right there.” Silvio goes off with fingers pressed to his lips. I feel like I’m in public school, catching my nuts on the box horse. “What happened, Sam?” Mary says.
“I lost count. The man makes me nervous.”
“We have to do better with the tango.”
“That’s the hardest one.”
“Just remember what Silvio taught you.”
“He taught me a lot of things.”
“Be mucho machismo.”
“You be mucho machismo. I’m busy counting.”
We get through it somehow, and everyone applauds. Muller’s grinning like a chimp. All the couples come out on the floor to do a final merengue. It’s easier than the tango, more hips than feet.
We take our positions with knees slightly bent. “Don’t wiggle, Sam,” Mary warns, which I forget as soon as we start. She digs in her nails. I keep expecting Silvio’s hands on my back. Then I see him over at the trophy table with Carmen. The song ends, and he walks to the middle of the floor with Carmen holding the first trophy.
“Very good everyone,” Silvio says. “I am proud of you all. I would now like to announce the winners of the dance contest. First place goes to the very talented couple off to my right. Please applaud Muller and his lovely wife, Judy.” Everyone claps and Muller gives a little bow. Then Silvio hands out the second and third place trophies.
“Lastly,”—Silvio takes a gold medal on a ribbon out of his pocket—“we always give something to the most improved.” He walks slowly around the room, pausing at one point, then suddenly walks over to me. “To our most improved dancer,” he says, “Sam Bennett.”
A bigger round of applause fills the studio. People are clapping like mad. Silvio puts the ribbon around my neck.
“Congratulations everybody,” he says. “My wife is bringing out refreshments. Our beginners will now move up to the intermediate level. Tomorrow, the seniors will graduate. I hope you will all attend.” He goes and helps Carmen put out the drinks and glasses.
Judy and Muller come and join us. “You see, Sam,” Mary says, “Silvio doesn’t hate you.”
“Well done, Sam,” Muller says.
“You won the damn contest, for chrissake.”
“Daddy,” Judy says, “it’s not who wins.”
“Can’t you take a compliment, Sam?” Mary says. “Go over and thank Silvio. Show some appreciation.”
“He’s talking to some people,” I say, but Mary pushes me and I go stand with the others waiting to talk to him.
“Thanks, Silvio,” I say when it’s my turn. “I appreciate it.” He smiles and makes a little bow. Then I thank Carmen, adding I hope I’ll be good enough to dance with her someday. She stands like a commodore with her hands behind her back. She’s all smiles and glitter. I excuse myself and join Mary, Judy and Muller. “Let’s go,” I say.
“What’s your hurry?” Judy says.
“Where’s your medal, Sam?” Mary says.
“It’s in my pocket.”
“You’re supposed to wear it, Daddy.”
“Okay, fine, I’ll wear it to the car. Now let’s vamoose.”
Chapter 51
Max’s dealer got busted last week in a sweep that cut off supply as far south as the University of Illinois. It left an uncomfortable void, making everyone listless and combative. Otis keeps throwing paper clips at Bisquick when he thinks Margot isn’t looking. “Leave my bird alone,” Margot yells, over her newspaper. The she goes and dumps him out of his chair. “When was the last time you cleaned this seat, Otis? Is this a French fry?”
On the drive over to Cedar Avenue today. Muller rides with Ruby and I follow behind. The house still needs another coat of paint. All of us are outside, Ruby and me up the ladders, Muller working on the concrete blocks below us. We finish the back portion of the house, then take off to shower and change. Mary and Judy are waiting. This is a big night for them. Dancing with the senior group is supposed to help build our confidence. I don’t know how that works. We dance until ten o’clock and head home.
Muller cooks up a bunch of enchiladas and we eat out on the back deck. There’s a party going on next door. Riley sticks his head over the fence. “Come have a swim,” he says. We put on our bathing suits and join the crowd.
“Good to see you again, Sam,” Pam says. Thankfully nobody’s in the buff. I introduce her to Mary, Muller and Judy. “So we finally meet you and the kids,” she says. “Ours are at some shindig down the street. Grab a drink and make yourselves comfortable.”
Muller and Judy start playing volleyball. Pam wants to show Mary what they’ve done to the house. They disappear inside. Then Muller dives for the ball, practically emptying the pool.
“That son-in-law of yours is some character,” Riley says, swirling a margarita around on the pool steps. I smell something in the air. A group of people are over behind the cabana in a huddle. “Don’t mind them,” he says. “Just a little ganja. You toke at all, Sam? Help yourself if you want. There’s plenty available.”
“Where are you getting it?”
Riley gives me a cock-eyed stare.
“See that hedge along the back there?”
“What about it?”
“Come look.”
Riley takes me over and pulls off some leaves. “It’s all marijuana, Sam,” he says. “I brought four plants over when we moved. Stuff grows like crazy. So you’re into this sort of thing, eh? Feel free to take some home. Like I say, it grows like weeds. Must be the exposure.”
“I wouldn’t mind doing that, Riley,” I say. “How much can I have?”
“Take all you want.”
I pull Riley over to the back of the cabana. “Thing is,” I say to him. “Muller and I like the occasional stone. Only the girls, Mary and Judy, they don’t know. We’d like to keep it that way. See what I’m saying?”
“No problem, Sam.”
“We don’t even smoke it, to tell you the truth.”
“What do you do with it?”
“Brownies.”
“That’s a good stone.”
“It’s just recreational. A few co-workers, that sort of thing.” Muller does a belly flop and everyone moves back.
“How much can you sell me?” I say.
“I’m not a dealer, Sam,” he says. “Like I said, help yourself. Any chance of tasting those brownies?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
He goes inside to get more margaritas. I find Muller tugging at the back of his swimsuit. I pull him over by the hedge. “You know what that is?”
“It’s grass, Sam.”
“Riley says we can take whatever we need.” Muller keeps sticking his finger in his stupid ear. “Look, I’ll grab some after the party’s over. That should keep everyone happy over at Otis’s. What the hell’s wrong now?”
“My ear’s plugged up.” He kicks his leg out to the side.
“I told Riley the girls don’t know about this, okay?” I say. “He’s agreed to keep quiet. There’s one catch.”
“What’s that?”
“He’d like to try your brownies.”
“Okay.”
“Lean over, for chrissake. Stop kicking. Someone’s going to get it in the shins. Tilt your head more.” I have my hand on the back his neck. People must think he’s about to be sick. They move further away. “Wiggle your finger around in there,” I say. “You probably have wax or something. Stop smacking your head, for chrissake.”
“I think I got it,” he says. He st
raightens up, looking all pleased with himself.
“Okay, we clear?” I say. “I grab some grass later, we bake at Otis’s tomorrow, then bring some brownies back for Riley.”
“It has to dry out first, Sam.”
“What does?”
“The grass. It has to cure or it won’t be any good.”
“We’ll throw it in Ruby’s dryer.”
“That won’t work, Sam.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“I’ve dried it in the microwave before. Not as good as letting it cure for a month. Up to you.”
“Otis isn’t going to wait a month.”
Muller starts pulling at his nutsack. “I used to dry it on the roof,” Muller says.
“On the roof, for chrissake?”
“Grass has to cure, Sam. It’s like tobacco.”
“Well, we not curing it on our roof.”
“Over at Otis’s, then.”
“I don’t trust him. I’ll talk to Max.”
When we get home, I call Max and tell him about the grass. “How much you got?” he says.
“Not a lot, Max. Just enough to get us over the hump.”
“Can Muller come over tomorrow and bake?”
“It still needs to cure. Muller suggests we microwave for immediate use. Then dry the rest out on the roof.”
“On the roof?”
“Nice and hot up there.”
“Ruby’s not going to like us drying pot on her roof.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Maybe in the oven on low heat. I’ll figure it out.”
“Don’t let Otis know where I’m getting the grass, Max.”
“I’ll tell him you took it off some teenagers.”
“Not funny, Max.” All I need is Otis going around shaking down teenagers.
Chapter 52
The new grass supply sends everyone into overdrive; pans are greased, Muller’s in an apron. Max puts the grass in the oven, while Otis crouches, looking through the oven window like it’s a television. “How do you know when it’s done, Max?” he says, and Max tells him he’s not particularly versed in drying pot. “I know as much as you do,” he says, and Otis crouches nervously, worried the grass is going to burn up and disappear. When the grass is suitably dry, Muller stirs the ingredients together, dumping the batter out in big brown globs. Otis keeps trying to lick the batter bowl. Bisquick flies about, jumping from head to head, grabbing a nipple here and there.
You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can't Make It Scuba Dive) Page 15
