by Dave Barry
“I saw him at Publix that time,” she said. “Bob Soper.”
Wally said nothing.
“He was at the deli, waiting just like everybody else,” she said. “He couldn’t have been nicer.”
Wally said nothing.
“He got the honey-baked ham, a half pound,” she said. “Boar’s Head.”
Wally said nothing. Ten seconds passed; he could feel her standing there.
“I just thought you might want some waffles,” she said.
Another ten seconds.
“I’m definitely gonna vacuum in here,” she said, and closed the door.
Wally, now totally awake, rolled onto his back, stared at the ceiling, and thought, as he did pretty much every waking minute that he spent in his mother’s house, I have got to get out of here. He willed his brain to think about how he was going to get out of there, and his brain, having been through this many times, responded with: despair.
Wally was broke. His only assets, other than his clothes, were his guitar, an Ernie Ball Music Man Axis worth maybe $800 if he sold it, which he never would; and his car, a 1986 Nissan Sentra that ran but was probably not salable, as its body was riddled with some kind of car leprosy. As a professional musician, Wally was currently making $50 a day, playing with the band on the ship, but that was only on days that the ship went out, and that money was usually gone within hours for the necessities of Wally’s life: food, gas, a cell phone, and pot.
Wally was more than $5,000 in debt to three credit-card companies; he did not know the exact amount, because he threw the statements away without opening them. Wally had gotten the credit cards a few months earlier when he’d gotten his first-ever real day job, a short-lived attempt to leave the gig-to-gig life of the bar musician. He’d gotten the job through his fiancée, Amanda, who had grown tired of paying most of the rent on the apartment they shared. Amanda had also grown tired of the band lifestyle.
“No offense,” she’d said one night, “but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life sitting at the bar getting hit on by creeps and listening to you play ‘Brown Eyed Girl.’ ”
“I thought you liked ‘Brown Eyed Girl,’ ” Wally said.
“I did,” she said, “the first three million times.”
“You think we need some new songs?” he said.
“I think you need a new job,” she said. Lately this had become the theme of many of their conversations.
“You’re almost thirty years old,” Amanda said. “How’re we supposed to get married on what you make? How’re we supposed to raise a family if you’re out all night all the time? Do you even want to get married?”
“Of course I want to get married,” said Wally, who was not one million percent sure, but also was not stupid enough to express any reservations now. “But the band, I mean, those guys are my best friends. We’ve been through a lot.”
“You’ve been through a lot of pot, is what you’ve been through,” she said. This had also become a theme. She used to happily partake in the doobie-passing back when they started dating, when she liked the idea that her guy was a musician, an artist. But she didn’t smoke weed anymore, didn’t even drink beer. When she came to gigs, which she did less and less often, she drank Perrier and looked bored.
“What do you want me to do?” Wally asked her. He really meant it. She was changing, and he wasn’t, and he didn’t want to lose her, and it scared him that he didn’t know what she wanted anymore.
“Do you love me?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Of course I love you.” I do love her. That’s the truth. I love her, and I don’t want to lose her.
“Then talk to Tom about the job,” she said.
“OK,” said Wally. “I’ll talk to Tom.”
Tom was Tom Recker, Amanda’s new boss, who was starting a new company and was hiring. He’d hired Amanda away from her job as a secretary in a law firm to be his administrative assistant. As far as Wally could tell, administrative assistant was the same thing as secretary, but with more syllables.
Recker was 26 and had an MBA from Wharton, which he would let you know if you gave him an opening. He lifted weights and Rollerbladed and—although he did not tell people this—believed he looked like Keanu Reeves. His company was called Recker International; he was financing the start-up (Amanda confided this to Wally) with $3 million he got from his father.
Wally’s job interview consisted mostly of a lengthy explanation by Recker of what a great concept Recker International was. It had to do with investments, but Wally really didn’t understand it because every other sentence Recker said had “paradigm” in it. Later on, Wally looked “paradigm” up in the dictionary, but that had not helped.
The actual interview part of the interview had been brief.
“So,” Recker said. “Mandy tells me you play the guitar.”
“Yeah,” said Wally, thinking, Mandy?
“She says you’re in a band,” said Recker.
“Yeah,” said Wally.
“What kind of music do you play?” asked Recker.
“Mostly covers,” said Wally, “but we try to . . .”
Recker interrupted. “I used to fool around with the guitar,” he said.
“Huh,” said Wally. Sometimes it seemed like everybody he met used to fool around with the guitar.
“Tell you the truth, I wasn’t bad,” said Recker, making an air-guitar move that told Wally, in an instant, that Recker had been bad. “I wish I’d kept up with it, but I’m trying to run a business here. Not much time for fun, I’m afraid. Somebody’s got to be the grown-up.”
Right, with Daddy’s money, thought Wally.
“You have any business experience, Wally?” asked Recker.
“Well,” said Wally, “I handle the bookings for the band.”
Recker laughed out loud at that—a hearty, Wharton-man laugh.
“That’s not exactly the kind of experience I’m looking for,” he said, still chuckling at the thought—bookings for the band!—“but I’m going to take a chance on you.” He leaned forward and pressed his fingertips together, a 26-year-old Rollerblader talking to Wally like he was Wally’s dad. “Mandy tells me you’re a fast learner and a self-starter. Is that true, Wally? Would you call yourself a self-starter?”
“Yes, Tom, I would,” said Wally, who, as Amanda well knew, rarely started anything, including breakfast, before 1 P.M.
“Welcome to the Recker International team,” said Recker, reaching across his new desk to give Wally a manly handshake.
“Thanks,” said Wally.
“Hey,” said Recker, still shaking Wally’s hand, gripping it a little too hard, “maybe you can bring your guitar and entertain us at the Christmas party, ha ha.”
“Ha ha,” said Wally. Asshole.
And so Wally quit his band and joined Recker International, where his job title was assistant systems technician. What this meant was that he unpacked desktop computers and then helped the systems technician try, with sporadic success, to hook these up into a network. As far as Wally could tell, it didn’t really matter whether the computers worked or not, because the other members of the Recker International team seemed to have no clear idea what they were doing. There was much wandering from cubicle to cubicle, long meetings about designing the website, and a lot of talk about stock options. He never saw anybody do anything that seemed like actual work.
Except for Amanda. She was working all the time, many nights late, sometimes really late. He asked her what was going on, and she said a lot of things, and he asked her what kind of things, and she said complicated business financial stuff that she was too tired to talk about. He said he thought Recker was taking advantage of her, and she got mad and said she wanted to be part of this, this was important, this was going to be big, and Wally should be grateful to be part of a company run by somebody like Tommy, because he had vision.
And Wally thought, Tommy?
One night, out of loneliness, Wally went to a bar where hi
s ex-bandmates were playing. Wally was pleased to note that the guitar player they’d replaced him with wasn’t particularly good.
During the breaks, his old bandmates sat at his table and gave him a hard time about being a corporate sellout. He gave them a hard time about being stoner bar-band losers. Two breaks and some beers later, he told them what was going on with Amanda. They listened sympathetically—these were Wally’s oldest and best friends—then assured him that Amanda’s new boss was definitely porking her. Wally understood that they were just busting his balls. But when he left the bar, he drove to the Recker International offices.
He let himself in with his security card and closed the door quietly. It was dark in the lobby and in the main cubicle area. Recker’s office door was closed; there was light shining through the bottom crack. Wally could hear talking in there, then silence for a while, then more talking. He decided the talking was a good sign. He thought about leaving, but instead went to a corner cubicle and sat down. He was there almost an hour, not really thinking about anything, suspended in a pure state of waiting.
Finally, Recker’s office door opened. Amanda walked out, holding her purse. Recker was behind her. They were both fully dressed. Recker was holding some papers.
They’d been working.
“Thanks for tonight,” Recker said. “See you tomorrow.”
“OK,” said Amanda.
“I’m afraid it’s gonna be another long one,” Recker said. “We got that stupid brokerage thing to deal with.”
“I’ll be here,” said Amanda, and turned toward the lobby.
She was working late on financial stuff, just like she said, you jealous moron. You faithless jerk. You don’t deserve her.
Wally shrunk down in the chair, praying they wouldn’t notice him, off in the corner, in the dark. Amanda took a few steps.
“Hey, Mandy,” said Recker.
She stopped. Wally’s heart stopped.
“Come here,” said Recker.
And she turned and went to him, and in a second they were locked together, mouth on mouth, and Wally knew this was not the first time. Recker reached down and pulled Amanda’s skirt up over her hips, and she moaned. Wally moaned, too, but they didn’t hear him, as they slid to the floor, groping each other frantically. Nor did they see Wally stand up, take a step toward them, then turn and walk out of the office, eyes burning, trying to get his mind around the fact that he had no fiancée, and no job, and nowhere to live.
A few hours later, he showed up at his mom’s house, the house he grew up in, with all his stuff, which wasn’t much, piled randomly into his Sentra. It was still dark, but his mom was up already.
“Mom,” he said, “I need to stay here for a while.”
His mom looked at him for a moment.
“I’ll make you some waffles,” she said.
ARNOLD PULLMAN, AGE 83, LOOKED OUT THE BIG dining-room window in the Beaux Arts Senior Living Center, which Arnold always referred to as the Old Farts Senile Dying Center.
“Doesn’t look so bad to me,” he said. “A little rain maybe.”
“Arnie,” said Phil Hoffman, age 81, “are you blind? It’s a goddamn hurricane out there.”
Phil was Arnie’s best friend—only friend, really—at the retirement home. They’d met when they were assigned to sit together in the dining room, at a table for four. The other two seats were filled by a man named Harold Tutter, age 77, who could not remember anything for more than fifteen seconds; and a very hostile woman, known to Phil and Arnie only as the Old Bat, who believed that everybody was trying to steal her food.
“It’s not a hurricane,” said Arnie. “It’s a tropical storm, Hector. How bad can it be, with a name like Hector?”
“I don’t like the names they use these days,” said Phil. “I liked it better when it was just girls. Donna, that was a good hurricane name. 1960.”
“Christ, 1960,” said Arnie. And for a moment, he and Phil reflected on 1960, when they were young bucks at the height of their physical powers, capable of taking a dump in under an hour.
During the silence, Harold Tutter looked up from his oatmeal, turned to Phil, and extended his hand. “I’m Harold Tutter,” he said.
“A pleasure to meet you, Harold,” said Phil, shaking Tutter’s hand. “I’m the Hunchback of Notre Dame.”
“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Dame,” said Tutter, turning back to his oatmeal.
“It’s a little rain, is all,” said Arnie, looking out the window again.
“If you’re thinking the boat is going out in this,” said Phil, “you’re nuts.” He reached to get a Sweet’n Low packet from the container in the middle of the table. Seeing his hand move her way, the Old Bat hissed and covered her bowl with both arms.
“I don’t want your food,” Phil told her. “Prunes, for Chrissakes. I’d rather eat my socks.”
The Old Bat gathered her prunes closer to herself, ready to fight for them.
“They call them dried plums now,” said Arnie.
“What?” said Phil.
“Prunes,” said Arnie. “I saw an article. They call them dried plums now.”
“Why?” said Phil.
“Public relations,” said Arnie. “People today, they don’t want prunes. So now they call them dried plums.”
“They can’t do that,” said Phil. “Prunes are . . . prunes.”
“I’m Harold Tutter,” said Tutter, extending his hand to Phil.
“Jesus,” said Phil.
“Good to meet you,” said Tutter, turning back to his oatmeal.
“But do you know where they come from?” said Arnie.
“What?” said Phil.
“Prunes,” said Arnie.
Phil thought about it.
“Prune trees,” he said.
“Nope,” said Arnie. “From plums. There’s no prune trees.”
“You sure about that?” said Phil. “Because I’m pretty sure I saw trees somewhere that were prune trees.”
“Yeah?” said Arnie. “Where?”
Phil thought some more. “National Geographic,” he said.
“Harold Tutter,” said Tutter, extending his hand to Phil.
“Good for you,” said Phil. “May I present my girlfriend, the Wicked Witch of the West.” He gestured toward the Old Bat.
“It’s a pleasure, Miss West,” said Tutter. He reached his hand toward the Old Bat, who recoiled, yanking her bowl toward her so that her prunes fell into her lap. Tutter returned to his oatmeal.
“I used to get National Geographic,” said Arnie. “Marge always said it was so I could look at the titties.” Marge was Arnie’s wife of 53 years. She had died when Arnie was 79, and four months later his children had moved him into the Old Farts Senile Dying Center.
“I remember,” said Phil. “They always had some article in there, some primitive tribe, the Ubongi People of the Amazon, or whatever, and there’d always be pictures in there, the Ubongi women pounding roots with their ta-tas hanging out.”
“Well,” said Arnie, “Marge always claimed I was pounding my root.”
Now Phil and Arnie were laughing, in that old-man way that was 60 percent laugh, 40 percent cough. This caused a stir in the dining room, where there was rarely any sound other than the clink of silverware and the occasional dry echoing braap of an elderly fart. Heads turned toward their table. The Beaux Arts assistant day manager, Dexter Harpwell, a taut man who ran a taut ship, scurried over.
“What seems to be the trouble?” he said.
“No trouble, officer,” said Arnie.
“What happened here?” said Harpwell, spying the Old Bat’s prune-covered lap. He grabbed a napkin and leaned over to wipe her off. “Here, let’s get you clOOOW!”
As the Old Bat sank her teeth into Harpwell’s flesh, he jerked his hand out of her mouth. With it came her dentures, which flew across the table, landing in Tutter’s oatmeal. Tutter regarded them for a moment, picked them out of his bowl, set them aside, and resumed eating.
“Watch out,” said Phil, to Harpwell. “She bites.”
Harpwell, clutching his hand, glared at Phil and Arnie.
“May I remind you gentlemen,” he said, “that disturbing other residents is a Conduct Violation.”
“We didn’t disturb her,” said Phil.
“She’s already disturbed,” said Arnie.
Harpwell turned away, looking for a dining-room attendant. “Nestor!” he called. “Get over here and clean her up.”
The attendant, a large Jamaican man, approached the Old Bat.
“Darlin’,” he said, “you messed up that pretty dress.” Gently, he began to clean her off. She made no move to stop him.
Harpwell turned back to Arnie and Phil.
“I don’t want to see any more of this kind of outburst,” he said. “If I do, I’m going to have to take disciplinary action.”
“Golly,” said Arnie, “will it go on our permanent record?”
“Can we still go to the prom?” asked Phil.
“I’m Harold Tutter,” said Tutter, extending his hand to Harpwell. Harpwell, ignoring him, gave Arnie and Phil one last glare, then walked tautly away.
“My pleasure,” said Tutter, returning to his oatmeal.
“Talk about a guy who needs some prunes,” said Phil.
“Dried plums,” said Arnie. “Hey, Nestor.”
The attendant looked up from the Old Bat.
“We’re gonna need your taxi service tonight,” said Arnie.
“Tonight?” said Nestor. “You want to go out on the boat in this weather?”
“My point exactly,” said Phil.
“A little rain, is all,” said Arnie.
“Man, I bet that boat won’t even go out in this,” said Nestor.
“Well, if it does,” said Arnie, “you’ll take us, right?”
Arnie and Phil had a deal with Nestor: On nights when they wanted to go to the ship, he drove them. When the ship returned, he picked them up, brought them back to Beaux Arts, and sneaked them in through a service door. Arnie and Phil paid for this service by giving Nestor all the pills that they were handed at mealtimes by the pill man, who walked from table to table dispensing vast quantities of medication. On a normal day, the pill man gave a total of 17 pills to Arnie and 23 to Phil. Neither man had any idea what most of the pills did. One day they’d decided simply not to take them. Not only did they not die, they both felt better, and more alert, than they had in years. From then on, they slipped their pills to Nestor in return for various favors, the main one being transportation to the ship. Nestor sold the pills to various parties in his neighborhood, where he was known as The Doctor. He was saving up for a Lexus.
