Tricky Business

by Dave Barry

  “If you and your daughter cannot interact within the parameters of the Tot-a-Rama paradigm,” she said, “then I’m afraid you will have to discontinue your participation.”

  “OK,” said Fay. “You bet. We’ll discontinue our participation in your paradigm. Although I sincerely doubt that you have a fucking clue what that word actually means.”

  Around the room, nine mommies emitted simultaneous gasps. Fay, holding Estelle, marched to the door, opened it, and marched out. Then, realizing she was barefoot, she reopened the door and reentered the classroom. The mommies, who had already begun buzzing, fell silent as Fay picked up her shoes and Estelle’s tiny sneakers, then left again. She heard the buzzing resume as she closed the door; she knew it would continue for days, maybe weeks.

  Still barefoot, Fay carried Estelle briskly through the rain across the parking lot to the Probe. She put Estelle into her car seat, made sure she had her juice cup and her little plastic dolls. Then she put on her shoes and slid behind the wheel. Then she put her face in her hands and cried.

  “Mommy crying,” said Estelle.

  “Mommy’s OK, honey,” sniffed Fay.

  “Mommy OK,” said Estelle. “Crying.”

  “I’m not crying, honey,” said Fay, turning to give Estelle a big, fake smile.

  “Snow White,” said Estelle, holding up a little plastic Snow White doll. It was her favorite toy. She knew, even at age two, the basic story: The girl is beautiful, but sleeping. Then the handsome man comes. He kisses her! She wakes up! She’s happy! Forever! Or at least until she encounters a little plastic divorce-lawyer doll.

  “Snow White,” said Estelle again. “Sleeping. Man kiss.”

  “That’s right, honey,” said Fay. “The man kisses her.” She fished a tissue out of her purse, blew her nose, then got her cell phone and called her mother.

  “Hello?” said her mother.

  “Hi, it’s me. Can you come over tonight? I’m sorry, but the ship is going out.”

  “It’s going out? In this hurricane?”

  “Yes. I called.”

  “Well, tell them you can’t go.”

  “Mom, I have to go. It’s my job.”

  “Well, you should get a different job.”

  Fay sighed. “Mother, just please tell me if you can come over tonight, OK?”

  “OK, I’ll come over, so later on I can explain to Estelle that her mother was a crazy person who went out and got herself killed in a hurricane.”

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  A silence. Fay, from years of experience, knew what her mother would bring up next. And, sure enough:

  “I talked to Maggie today.”

  Maggie was Fay’s younger and, in her mother’s view, ragingly perfect sister, with a perfect and highly successful husband who enabled her to care full-time for her three perfect children in a perfect modern house with a foyer that could easily swallow Fay’s entire apartment.

  “Great,” said Fay. “How is she?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “Great.”

  “She’s doing very well.”

  Another silence.

  “As opposed to me,” said Fay.

  “I didn’t say that,” said her mother.

  “No, you never say it,” said Fay.

  Another silence. Fay broke it:

  “Mom, listen, I’m sorry. I’m just tired. I really appreciate you looking after Estelle. I promise this job will end soon.”

  “I certainly hope so. That boat is no place to meet a nice man.”

  “Mother, I am not trying to find a man, OK?”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. I have to go. The Young and the Restless is starting. Good-bye.”

  Her mother hung up. Fay pressed the OFF button on her phone and told herself that she was not going to cry for the nineteen-millionth time over the vast unbridgeable chasm between her life and her mother’s expectations.

  “Snow White,” said Estelle.

  “Yes, honey,” said Fay. “That’s Snow White.”

  “Man kiss,” said Estelle.

  “That’s right,” said Fay. “The man kisses her.”

  Another silence.

  “Mommy crying,” said Estelle.

  Four

  ARNIE AND PHIL WERE IN THE OLD FARTS SENILE Dying Center recreation room, where no recreation had ever taken place. Slumped randomly in chairs around them were a dozen other residents, a few staring into the distance with unfocused eyes, the rest asleep, or—you never knew here—deceased.

  Arnie and Phil were watching the big-screen TV, which was tuned to NewsPlex Nine, the top-rated local news show, which specialized in terrorizing its viewers. The NewsPlex Nine consumer-affairs reporter once did a week-long series, with dramatic theme music and a flashy logo, on fatal diseases that could, theoretically, be transmitted via salad bars. The reporter did not find any instance of this actually happening, but the series did win two awards for graphics. It was entitled “Death Beneath the Sneeze Shield.”

  NewsPlex Nine loved bad weather. At least ten times per hurricane season, the weather guy—no, make that the StormCenter Nine meteorologist—would point to some radar blob way the hell out in the Atlantic, next to Africa, and inform the viewers that, while it did not pose any immediate threat, he was keeping a close eye on it, because under the right conditions, it could, theoretically, strengthen into a monster hellstorm and attack South Florida with winds that could propel a piece of driveway gravel through your walls, into your eyeball, and out the back of your skull.

  Needless to say, the members of the NewsPlex Nine team were all over Tropical Storm Hector, which as far as they were concerned was the most exciting thing to happen in South Florida since several weeks earlier, when a German tourist opened his hotel mini-bar refrigerator and discovered what turned out to be the left foot of a missing Norwegian tourist. The meteorologist was already hoarse from speculating about the bad things that Tropical Storm Hector could, potentially, do.

  “Look at his hair,” said Arnie. “Six hours he’s talking, he’s waving his arms in front of the radar, his hair is perfect. How the hell do you keep hair holding still like that?”

  “How the hell do you keep hair?” said Phil.

  “I hate this channel,” said Arnie. “A little rain, they act like it’s nuclear war.”

  “You wanna change the channel, be my guest,” said Phil, gesturing toward the remote control.

  “You kidding?” said Arnie. “What am I, Einstein?”

  The remote control had 48 buttons. No resident of the Old Farts Senile Dying Center knew how to operate it. They were the Greatest Generation, men and women who had survived the Depression, defeated the Nazis, built America into the greatest nation the world had ever seen. But this damned gizmo had beaten them.

  Every now and then, a resident would bravely pick up the remote and, with shaking hands, push some buttons in an effort to change the channel. The result was almost always bad. Sometimes the TV would shut off entirely. Sometimes the screen would turn bright blue; sometimes a menu would appear, and nobody could figure out how to get rid of it, and everybody would watch the menu until a staff member wandered by and fixed the problem. So although the center had cable TV and received 98 channels, the residents were limited to whichever one happened to be on when they entered the room. Today it was NewsPlex Nine.

  “Look at this,” said Phil. “They’re showing the supermarket morons again.”

  On the screen, for the third time since Arnie and Phil had started watching, was a reporter in a Publix supermarket. This was a standard element of the NewsPlex Nine storm coverage: the frenzy of food-and-supplies buying by panicked residents, who for the most part were panicked because they’d been watching NewsPlex Nine.

  “As we’ve been seeing all afternoon,” the reporter was saying, “the aisles here are jammed with worried shoppers, stocking up for the worst.” Behind her, people smiled an
d waved at the camera.

  The reporter turned to a fifty-ish woman in a house-dress, put the microphone into her face.

  “What supplies are you buying?” she asked.

  “Well,” said the woman, looking into her cart, “I got batteries and water, peanut butter, bleach, let’s see here . . . soup, cold cuts. Also I got some Vaseline.”

  “For the storm?” said the reporter.

  “No, we’re just out of Vaseline,” said the woman.

  “Back to you in the NewsPlex, Bill and Jill.”

  “What I wanna know,” said Arnie, “is why bleach?”

  “What are you talking about?” said Phil.

  “Always with the hurricane, people are buying bleach.”

  “So?”

  “So, what do they do with the bleach?”

  “You need the bleach,” said Phil. “In case.”

  The truth was that Phil had no idea what the bleach was for, even though, like most South Floridians, he firmly believed you needed some. Everybody bought it, because everybody else did. There were hundreds of thousands of gallons of emergency Clorox in cupboards all over South Florida, sitting, ready and waiting, next to the emergency cans of Spam manufactured in 1987.

  “In case of what?” said Arnie. “A hurricane comes, knocks down your house, you’re gonna do a load of laundry?”

  Phil looked at Arnie for a moment.

  “Does it ever occur to you,” he said, “that you think too much?”

  “That’s exactly what my wife used to say,” said Arnie. “She always bought bleach.”

  “So did my wife,” said Phil.

  The two old men sat silent for a moment, both thinking about their wives.

  On the TV, NewsPlex Nine was now showing a reporter standing on Miami Beach. He was wearing a yellow rain poncho, with the hood off so you could see his hair being blown around.

  “The rain has been coming and going all afternoon,” he was saying, “and as you can see we’re getting some strong gusts.”

  “Oooh,” said Arnie. “Strong gusts.”

  “We’re already seeing some wind damage,” the reporter was saying. “Mike, if you could point the camera over here . . .”

  The camera swung away, focused for a moment on a large palm branch lying on the beach, fronds fluttering.

  “Oh no!” said Arnie. “A branch is down!”

  “Call out the National Guard!” said Phil, and now the two of them were laughing and coughing. This earned them a glare from a man two chairs over, who’d been awakened by the noise. He got up, gave them another glare, and shuffled from the room.

  “What’s with him?” said Phil.

  “My guess,” said Arnie, “he’s off to take his annual shit.”

  “. . . definitely getting worse out here,” the NewsPlex Nine beach reporter was saying. He was squinting, leaning into the wind, as though at any moment he could be blown away. “People are advised to stay away from the beaches, where the surf as you know can be very treacherous.”

  Two young men appeared behind the reporter, both in bathing suits. They waved happily at the camera, shoved each other in jocular fashion, then plunged into the ocean. A couple jogged past with a Labrador retriever.

  “I’ll stay out here as long as I can,” the reporter was saying. “Back to you, Bill and Jill.”

  Bill, the male NewsPlex Nine anchor, said, “You take care out there, Justin.” He frowned with concern at the female NewsPlex Nine anchor, whom, unbeknownst to either of their spouses, he was porking nightly in his dressing room. “It’s looking bad out there, Jill,” he said.

  “It sure is, Bill,” said Jill, turning to the TelePrompTer, so she could read what she was supposed to be alarmed about next. “And things are not any better out on South Florida’s rain-slicked highways.”

  “UH-oh,” said Arnie. “Did you hear that, Phil? The highways are rain-slicked.”

  “It’s humanity’s worst nightmare!” said Phil. “Wet roads!”

  “We’ve already had some fender-benders on I-95,” Jill was saying, “and rush hour is shaping up to be a real mess.”

  “Like it’s not a mess every other day,” said Arnie.

  “. . . have a tanker overturned on the Palmetto Express-way,” Jill was saying, “spilling some kind of unidentified liquid across all three southbound lanes.”

  “It’s BLEACH!” said Phil.

  “WE LOST OUR BLEACH RESERVES!” shouted Arnie, pounding his chair arm. “WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!”

  “Uh-oh,” said Phil, looking toward the door. Arnie, following Phil’s eyes, saw Dexter Harpwell, the assistant day manager, entering the room, trailed by the glaring man who’d left earlier. Harpwell walked tautly over to Arnie and Phil, stopping between them and the TV screen. His right hand was bandaged where the Old Bat had bitten him at lunch.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “I’ve received complaints about your noise level.”

  “What do you mean, complaints?” said Arnie. “You mean Mr. Constipation over there?” He gestured toward the glaring man, who had reseated himself and was now glaring straight ahead.

  “Mr. Kremens says you gentlemen are talking so loud he can’t watch television,” said Harpwell.

  “He wasn’t watching the television,” said Phil. “He was sleeping.”

  “This is a community,” said Harpwell. “You have to respect the rights of the other residents.”

  “No question,” said Arnie. “He has a right to sleep. So let him go sleep in his room.”

  Harpwell heaved a heavy sigh. “Mr. Pullman,” he said, “do you recall what I said at lunch today?”

  “Yeah,” said Arnie. “You said OOOW.”

  “How’s that hand?” asked Phil. “I was you, I’d check the Old Bat for rabies.”

  “What I said at lunch,” said Harpwell, “is that if you gentlemen continued to commit Conduct Violations, I would have to take disciplinary action. I’m afraid you’ve given me no choice but to do that now.”

  “How old are you?” said Arnie.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” said Harpwell.

  “It has to do with, I’m eighty-three, which means I was a grown man supporting a family when you were getting happy-face stickers for making peepee on the potty,” said Arnie.

  “How old were you then, Dexter?” said Phil. “Fourteen?”

  “Very funny,” said Harpwell. “But the fact is that . . .”

  “The fact is,” said Arnie, “we’re grown men. We’re more grown than you’ll probably ever be. Just because we got to live in this cemetery, doesn’t mean you can talk to us like we’re kids.”

  “Be that as it may,” said Harpwell, “I’m the authority here, and in the interest of protecting the rights of the other residents, I’m going to confine you two to your rooms this evening after dinner.”

  “What?” said Arnie.

  “You’re sending us to our rooms?” said Phil.

  “That’s correct,” said Harpwell. “This will give you a chance to ponder your responsibilities within the Beaux Arts community.”

  “And what if we don’t go to our rooms?” said Arnie. “You gonna spank us?”

  “If you are unable to function within the parameters of the Independent Living Wing,” said Harpwell, “I’m afraid I’ll have to transfer you to the other building.”

  “What?” said Arnie. “The loony bin? The International House of Drool?”

  The other building was where they kept the truly demented residents, the ones who wore pajamas all day, and wet themselves, and cried out for mommies who’d died forty years ago.

  “You can’t do that,” said Phil.

  “It’s called the Assisted Living Wing,” said Harpwell, “and rest assured, I have full authority, solely at my discretion, to transfer you both there. Unless you prefer to leave Beaux Arts altogether, which is of course your prerogative.”

  “You little prick,” said Arnie.

  “You were a hall monitor, right?” said Phil. �
�In high school? Ratting out the kids who smoked in the boy’s room?”

  “Just keep it up, gentlemen,” said Harpwell, who had in fact been the head hall monitor. “Just keep it up. I’m going to have the night security staff check to make sure you’re in your rooms tonight. Meanwhile, I think we should change to a channel that Mr. Kremens would find more enjoyable.”

  He picked up the remote control.

  “But he’s asleep again,” said Phil.

  “So he is,” said Harpwell, pressing buttons on the remote. “Ah, here we are.” The TV was now tuned to a soap opera. In Spanish.

  “You little prick,” said Arnie.

  “Have a pleasant evening, gentlemen,” said Harpwell, setting down the remote and walking tautly away.

  Phil and Arnie looked at each other.

  “Can he do this?” said Phil. “Can we call a lawyer or something?”

  Arnie shook his head. “First, I don’t know about you, but all the lawyers I know are dead. Second, the little prick holds all the cards. This place, believe it or not, there’s a waiting list a mile long. My daughter tells me I’m lucky to be here, don’t make waves, yadda yadda yadda. They’re looking for excuses to get people out of here, so they can bring in new people, charge them more.”

  “Jesus,” said Phil. “So we go to our rooms, like little boys.”

  “We do,” said Arnie.

  “So I guess we don’t go out on the boat tonight,” said Phil, somewhat relieved by this thought.

  Arnie thought about that for a moment.

  “Not necessarily,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” said Phil.

  “I mean,” said Arnie, “I got an idea.”

  “UH-oh,” said Phil.

  THE WIND WAS STRONGER NOW, PUSHING THE rain slantwise through the sea-scented Bahamian night. Frank and Juan, wearing ponchos, stood under the yellow dock light next to the cabin cruiser. The boat strained restlessly at its lines even in the shelter of the harbor.

  Juan watched the boat shift and heave, and thought about the big waves he could hear crashing out beyond the breakwater. It would be much rougher out there. Juan could not swim. He had never in his life run from anything. He fought anyone who questioned his courage. But now he wanted very much for there to be a reason why he did not have to get on this boat, go out on that dark and violent sea. He would have liked to talk to Frank about this, but he didn’t know how.