“Read the book, for chrissake.”
Chapter 74
Frank’s been learning to use the computer. Iris has all their expenses on Quicken with charts and graphs. Frank loves that sort of thing. As soon as Iris showed him their capital earnings, he was on the keyboard trying to fiddle the numbers. He’s also learned how to download files and edit, which could be a nightmare. I sent him over the poems this morning. While I wait for his comments, I try to tackle simple rules for blogging and texting. It’s titled: “Don’t Drop Those Vowels.” This is how it goes:
If you’re writing or blogging
Spell the whole word
Dropping your vowels
Makes it absurd
One more letter won’t hurt your hand
It’s better than words
You can’t understand.
Judy gets a kick out of that one. “It’s so true, Daddy,” she says. “I can’t understand Muller’s texts half the time.”
Muller’s still working out pronouns while I send the poem to Frank. “If I start a sentence with your name,” I say to Muller, “and in the next sentence I use ‘he,’ that’s a pronoun. You’re still the subject. Understand now?”
“I think so, Sam.”
“You sure?”
“Not really.”
The computer pings. Frank’s sent an email. He likes where I’m going, especially the latest one on texting. “I laughed out loud, Sam,” he writes, including LOL (something Iris must have shown him). Iris adds at the bottom that I’m a natural. “Loved the bit about not hurting your hand,” she writes. “Cute.”
Frank wants a central character for the book, something cute. The cartoonist draws up a man with a top hat holding a pointer. I think the he stole it from Monopoly. All the type is in yellow with white borders. It’s a little hard on the eyes, but that’s what Frank wants. He figures nobody reads anything unless it stands out like a sore thumb.
Frank’s publisher wants hard copies on the shelves by the end of next month. The eBooks will follow. Frank’s already sending dummy proofs over to the house. I forward the attachments to Margot. We always used to show our stuff to her. “You want my candid opinion?” she’d always say. “I wouldn’t line Joey’s cage with this crap.”
Anyway, she sent the following email back:
I like it, Sam
You might be a hit
Tell those fuckers
They can’t spell worth shit.
Muller’s reading Margot’s email over my shoulder. “She’s pretty good, Sam,” Muller says.
“Profound as ever.”
“They’ is a pronoun, right?”
“Yes, Muller. It predicates ‘fuckers’.”
“Judy’s really proud of you, you know.”
“Thanks. How are things coming on the baby front?”
“We’re catering two parties next week. It’s a lot of stress.”
“Mary’s on my case.”
“I know that.”
“She’s an impatient woman.”
“I’m doing a Mardi Gras dance next Saturday.”
“I’m not the one pressuring you.”
“I know that, Sam.”
“Do people actually eat at Mardi Gras? I thought they danced.”
“They eat, too.”
“What are you making?”
“Cayenne shrimp and jambalaya. Maybe a gumbo.”
“You’re going to stink up the house, aren’t you?”
“Probably.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Chapter 75
The early reviews on the book aren’t great. Mostly, I’ve been accused of covering old ground. One reviewer called it Seusshackery. Another referred to it as cartoonfoolery. Surprisingly, it hasn’t affected the sales. Frank’s thinking we’ll probably go into a second run by the spring, hopefully fanning out to the international markets. He’s interested in Japan. He says they’re crazy about cartoon books, especially ones that help them learn English. Frank figures we’re killing two birds with one stone. “I love this shit,” he says.
Iris is trying to tone down his language, especially in emails. She tells him people could be hacking into their computer. A newscast the other night reported a surge in hacking from Russia and Uzbekistan. “What do those fuckers want with my emails?” he says.
Frank’s even considering an international reading tour. I’m not crazy about the idea. Travelling doesn’t interest me anymore. I’ve gotten used to hanging around the house, doing my own thing. Even dancing is fun now. Silvio still sees me as a klutz, but he does his best, calmly adjusting my stance so I won’t send Mary flying. Two of the older intermediates were held back. Silvio makes them work on their steps in the corner. He tells them they lack machismo. It’s probably arthritis. They dance next to us, and I catch the guy’s eye. I recognize a kindred spirit, a fellow interloper. He’s doing his best, but you can’t fake natural rhythm. Either you’ve got it or you don’t.
I see people dancing on these television shows. The men toss the women around like rag dolls. You’d think they’d all have dislocated discs and pinched nerves. I asked Krupsky about it last week when I went in for my physical. “What have you got against dancers?” he says.
“Nothing.”
He listens to my heart, my lungs, the groaning of my joints. Then he tells me I’m good to go. “You take up jogging or something, Sam?” he says.
“Tango.”
“You tango? I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“I could tango you under the table.”
“Is that so?”
“I saw you twist, Krupsky.”
“You think I don’t know how to tango?”
“Not if your twisting is any indication.”
“Try me.”
“Come to the studio tomorrow night,” I say. “Seven o’clock. I’ll tell Silvio you’re checking the place out.” I write down the address on his prescription pad. “What are you grinning at?”
“Nothing, Sam,” he shrugs. “See you tomorrow night, amigo.”
“Stop grinning, for chrissake.”
“Why? I’m happy.”
“You’re too happy.”
“Then go forth and multiply.”
Chapter 76
Krupsky and his wife are there in front of the dance studio when we arrive. They look like two little elves all dressed in their finest clothes. “Didn’t think you’d have the guts to come, Krupsky,” I say, and he smiles away, giving Mary a wink. “You’ve met Mary and Muller,” I say. “This is my daughter, Judy.”
“Very nice to meet you, Judy,” Krupsky says, doing a slight bow. “My wife, Emma. Are you ready to be dazzled, Sam?”
“We’ll see who dazzles.”
“Lead the way.” We get inside and I introduce them to Silvio and Carmen. “A pleasure,” Krupsky says. “My wife and I spent many pleasant years in Buenos Aires. Sam says you’re quite the dancers.”
“He’s very kind,” Silvio says. “I hope we measure up to what you’ve seen in Buenos Aires. Come, we’ll get started.” Silvio assembles all the couples out on the floor. Krupsky leads Emma by the hand like she’s royalty while Judy rubs Muller’s back.
“Stop looking so smug,” I say to Krupsky. The music starts and Krupsky goes into a stance, tilting Emma slightly. Their bodies lock, Krupsky brings her forward, elbows out, feet sliding into position. Then they’re off, around the room, little legs practically flying. Everyone turns and watches. Even Silvio and Carmen are staring. Krupsky flows like a river, taking a spin around the eddy. He’s a virtuoso and a bloody show-off. He glides close to Carmen, giving her a wink and she claps her hands. “Olé,” she says.
“Sam, they’re wonderful,” Mary says.
“Bloody hell.”
“I thought you’d be pleased.”
“I was calling his bluff.”
“Look—he’s trading with Muller.”
Krupsky has Judy in a promenade hold. He barely comes up to her shoul
ders, but they swirl and glide, dipping, touching toes. At the end of the song, Krupsky goes over and asks Carmen to dance. Silvio stands at the side, looking half amused and half amazed. Krupsky dances right by him, eyes half closed in bliss. On the next song, Silvio guides Krupsky’s wife out on the floor. Krupsky and Carmen pass by, then Silvio and Emma. They step, turn, and bend, all in a fluid motion.
On the next number, they exchange partners again, Silvio and Carmen do a dance step that takes them right across the floor. Krupsky and Emma follow, their little legs going like crazy. We all clap at each pass, gasping when Krupsky dips Emma and brings her up again. Silvio takes out a handkerchief. It’s perfectly folded and monogrammed. He dabs his forehead, puts it back in his pocket, and starts again. Krupsky directs Emma over towards Silvio. “Magnifico!” he calls out. When the music stops, both couples bow, holding up their hands. They come off the dance floor.
“You were wonderful,” Mary says to the Krupsky and Emma.
“Thank your husband,” Krupsky says.
“Stop looking so damn smug,” I say.
“Smug?” Krupsky shrugs. “Who’s smug?”
Chapter 77
Grammarians are all up in arms over the stupid book. They’re such tight-assed little twerps. One of them claims I mixed past and present tenses. Another takes issue with my comments about adjectives. “They are not something we can do without!” he writes. Still another contends that not all proper names are special. “Would you call the Klu Klux Klan special?” he says. “Or the Kuomintang?!!”
Frank hates academics. His own education ended in the eighth grade when he was caught pissing in the sacristy. He’s never walked past a Catholic priest since without giving him the finger. “Don’t worry about it, Sam,” Frank says. “Let the fuckers bitch. They aren’t our audience, anyway.” Last week, Frank did a talk show, telling the interviewer our character is called Mr. Quiggles. A reviewer called it the stupidest name in children’s literature. Frank told him to go fuck himself. “At least Frank O’Conner starts with an active verb,” the reviewer said.
The house over on Cedar looks brand spanking new, smelling fresh from Max’s room deodorizers and scented candles. The owners stand in amazement. Around back, Zack’s taken over gardening duties since his seafood business was a flop. Now he mows the grass and trims the hedges, still wearing his security guard boots. We celebrate later with a new batch of brownies and milk. Muller sent them over with a note congratulating Ruby. Judy did up a little floral arrangement to go with it. Otis gets sentimental on the third brownie, telling Ruby she’s his one and only. “Dry up,” Margot says. “How about a toast to our author here.” I get up and take a bow. Bisquick squawks out, “Tit action!” The bird’s nothing but attitude these days. Margot has to get back on the air. “I’ve got some flagellating youngsters who need sorting out.”
Otis and Max pass out on the rug. Zack’s head hits the table. Ruby walks me to the door. “We’re starting the house out on Madison tomorrow.”
“Sounds good.”
“You won’t be tied up with Mr. Quiggles?”
“I’d rather not think about Mr. Quiggles.” Mr. Quiggles can go schtup a T.
Chapter 78
The occasional sombrero still slides off the cabana roof over at Riley’s. A streamer flutters in the hedgerow. Other than that, we’re pretty much back to normal. I get up, check the forecast, and put coffee in a thermos. The house on Madison is a big place, split-level. All of us are working over there. Zack’s been trying to sell the last of his seafood off the back of Ruby’s pickup. It’s all packed on ice in a cooler, smelling like a ship’s gunnel. “I was looking for some Gatorade and pulled out a lobster tail,” Ruby said the other day. Zack tried putting a sandwich board next to the truck, but Ruby told him to knock it off. “Sell it on your own time,” she said.
Otis is promoting his latest brainless idea called “Otis’s Cry Off.” He wants people sending in video clips of their best cries. The winner gets dinner at a local steak house. The owner’s been advertising on Otis’s site. “It’s called cross promotion, Sam,” he says. “We scratch each other’s backs.”
“I know what it is, Otis. I worked in advertising, remember?”
“Mr. Big Shot.”
“You’re a lame brain.”
“I don’t see you cross promoting anything.”
“This says only the appetizers are free.”
“So, sue me.”
“You’re telling people they’re getting a free meal.”
“I repeat, sue me.”
Margot comes over and honks the cattle caller in his ear. His dentures fly across the room. “We don’t need lawsuits,” she says.
“Get your bird away from my teeth,” Otis yells. “Christ, Margot, I can’t hear anything now. Where in blazes did that bird go? Ruby? Is Bisquick up there with you?”
“I’m trying to fix the can opener, Otis,” she calls down.
“Dammit,” Otis says. “Folks, I need to get my teeth back. Here’s Johnnie Taylor doing—appropriately—‘You Can’t Win.’” He runs upstairs and Bisquick flies down. “Where’s my teeth, Ruby?”
“Probably behind the couch.”
“Stupid bird.”
“I bought you some denture adhesive.”
“It tastes like mint crap.”
“Well, buy your own denture adhesive from now on.”
The song ends and Bisquick bobs at the computer monitor. Videos pour in like you wouldn’t believe.
Chapter 79
“Here’s one from the great Eddie Floyd,” Otis is saying. “A Stax original out of Montgomery, Alabama. Mr. ‘Knock on Wood’ himself. He wrote the song with Steve Cropper and it was intended for Otis Redding. Then Jerry Wexler heard Eddie’s version and said, ‘This boy’s got a hit on his hands.’ That being said, I thought I’d play another of Eddie’s songs, a favorite of Ruby’s called ‘I Never Found a Girl (To Love Me Like You Do).’ Here you go, Ruby, and remember, folks, I’ll be judging the entries for Otis’s Cry Off this Friday. Send in your video clips and maybe you’ll win a steak dinner.”
Ruby enters the frame and kisses Otis on the head. “Go brush your teeth,” she says to him, and he disappears while Margot dances and folds sheets. I watch, drinking coffee in the kitchen.
Frank called earlier to say the books are selling well. In some ways, I consider our success a bit of a bunko. I’m no grammarian. Nobody gives a shit about adjectives, anyway. Descriptives are supposed to help us form mental pictures. Who forms mental pictures in this day and age? Pamela Anderson’s boobs are right there on YouTube. The other morning, I found Mary and Judy watching a couple dance the tango down in Columbia. It was all in real time. The man talked between songs, describing each corte in broken English. “Look at them, Sam,” Mary said, watching them float across the floor, sending out these big, toothy smiles. Because it’s in real time, it’s like you’re there. People don’t have to day dream anymore. They don’t have to imagine. It’s all there in front of you. You can skydive, walk around Machu Picchu, or have a dolphin to take you skimming across a lagoon in Key West.
There’s even a program called “Second Life” where you exist in a parallel universe. Muller’s a fireman. He has a mask strapped to his face, entering buildings, pulling out babies and small kittens. Judy is some sort of Rapunzel. She wanders around castle ramparts, waiting for her knight in shining armor. The whole thing gets pretty silly. Judy keeps calling to Muller, telling him to save her from some fire-breathing dragon. You half expect him to show up on her screen in his firefighter’s uniform with a tabby under his arm.
I’m surprised Mary isn’t doing something like that. Maybe the tango’s enough for her. You never know with Mary, though. Sometimes she’s perfectly content sitting in the sunroom. Other times, she wants to dance across the kitchen floor. She still corners me in the bedroom. “For crying out loud,” I say, “it’s two in the afternoon. Why can’t you boff someone online like everybody else?”
“Who’s boffing online?”
“The whole world.”
“Are you boffing online, Sam? Tell me the truth.”
“No, Mary.”
“I’ll find out.”
“I’m not boffing anyone online, for chrissake.”
“I’m watching you, Sam.”
I’m not even sure I’d know how to boff online.
Chapter 80
I take the bus to work. Muller and Judy are using Mary’s car for a catering job. Theirs is still dribbling oil down the driveway. I lent mine to Mary so she can check out industrial kitchens. My hope is she’ll find one with an apartment upstairs, but saying that really raises her hackles. “They’re staying here,” she says. “I’ve already told them we can turn the den into a nursery.”
On the bus, I’m sitting next to a girl who texts with one hand and flicks through songs on her iPod with the other. Her fingers are perfectly coordinated. She texts, checks song lists, then texts some more. The music comes out sounding like an overcharged mosquito. Looking around the bus, I realize most of people have something in their ears. At my stop, I step out on the sidewalk and see Ruby and Max putting paint cans into the truck. I help with the ladders.
The owners on Madison are waiting out front when we arrive. They have these two enormous sheep dogs that gallop around like longhaired ponies. “I’m Ruby,” Ruby says to the couple. “This is Max and Sam.”
The couple can’t do a thing with those dogs. They run around, bumping into everything. One of them sticks its nose in Ruby’s crotch. “Gilbert!” the woman says. “Stop that.”
We go around the house, Ruby taking notes. From what we can see, the upper floor needs a full paint job, foundation included. I help Max get our stuff out of the truck. The dogs follow me, knocking over one paint can. A few minutes later, they crash into a ladder. “Can you ask them to take the dogs inside, Ruby?” Max says.
“I can try.” Ruby comes back five minutes later. “No dice. She says they’ll settle down.”
You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can't Make It Scuba Dive) Page 21
