I throw both coons in the trunk and drive myself to the emergency room, where I’m given the first of a series of extremely painful shots. I doze off on a bench post-treatment and dream of a den of pathetic baby raccoons in V-neck sweaters yelping for food.
When I wake up I call in. Tim asks if I’m crazy, kicking a raccoon to death in front of clients. Couldn’t I have gently lifted it off, he asks, or offered it some rotting fruit? Am I proud of my ability to fuck up one-car funerals? Do I or do I not recall Damian Flaverty?
Who could forget Damian Flaverty? He’d been dipping into the till to finance his necktie boutique. Tim black-jacked him into a crumpled heap on the floor and said: Do you think I spent nine years in the slammer only to get out and be fleeced by your ilk? Then he broke Damian’s arm with an additional whack. I almost dropped my mug.
I tell Tim I’m truly sorry I didn’t handle the situation more effectively. He says the raccoon must’ve had a sad last couple of minutes once it realized it had given up its life for the privilege of gnawing on a shank of pure fat. That hurts. Why I continue to expect decent treatment from someone who’s installed a torture chamber in the corporate basement is beyond me. Down there he’s got a Hide-A-Bed and a whip collection and an executioner’s mask with a built-in Walkman. Sometimes when I’m invoicing late he’ll bring in one of his willing victims. Usually they’re both wasto. I get as much of me under my desk as I can. Talk about the fall of man. Talk about some father somewhere being crestfallen if he knew what his daughter was up to. Once I peeked out as they left and saw a blonde with a black eye going wherever Tim pointed and picking up his coat whenever he purposely dropped it.
“You could at least take me for coffee,” she said.
“I’d like to spill some on your bare flesh,” Tim said.
“Mmm,” she said. “Sounds good.”
How do people get like this, I thought. Can they change back? Can they learn again to love and be gentle? How can they look at themselves in the mirror or hang Christmas ornaments without overflowing with self-loathing?
Then I thought: I may be obese but at least I’m not cruel to the point of being satanic.
Next day Tim was inducted into Rotary and we all went to the luncheon. He spoke on turning one’s life around. He spoke on the bitter lessons of incarceration. He sang the praises of America and joked with balding sweetheart ophthalmologists, and after lunch hung his Rotary plaque in the torture chamber stairwell and ordered me to Windex it daily or face extremely grim consequences.
Tuesday a car pulls up as Claude and I approach the burial pit with the Carlisle raccoons. We drag the cage into a shrub and squat panting. Claude whispers that I smell. He whispers that if he weighed four hundred he’d take into account the people around him and go on a diet. The sky’s the purple of holy card Crucifixion scenes, the rending of the firmament and all that. A pale girl in a sari gets out of the car and walks to the lip of the pit. She paces off the circumference and scribbles in a notebook. She takes photos. She slides down on her rear and comes back up with some coon bones in a Baggie.
After she leaves we rush back to the office. Tim’s livid and starts baby-oiling his trademark blackjack. He says no more coons in the pit until further notice. He says we’re hereby in crisis mode and will keep the coons on blue ice in our cubicles and if need be wear nose clips. He says the next time she shows up he may have to teach her a lesson about jeopardizing our meal ticket. He says animal rights are all well and good but there’s a substantive difference between a cute bunny or cat and a disgusting raccoon that thrives on carrion and trash and creates significant sanitation problems with its inquisitiveness.
“Oh, get off it,” Claude says, affection for Tim shining from his dull eyes. “You’d eliminate your own mother if there was a buck in it for you.”
“Undeniably,” Tim says. “Especially if she knocked over a client trash can or turned rabid.”
Then he hands me the corporate Visa and sends me to HardwareNiche for coolers. At HardwareNiche you can get a video of Bloodiest Crimes of the Century Reenacted. You can get a video of Great Bloopers made during the filming of Bloodiest Crimes of the Century Reenacted. You can get a bird feeder that plays “How Dry I Am” while electronically emitting a soothing sensation birds love. You can get a Chill’n’Pray, an overpriced cooler with a holographic image of a famous religious personality on the lid. I opt for Buddha. I can almost hear Tim sarcastically comparing our girths and asking since when has cost control been thrown to the wind. But the Chill’n’Prays are all they’ve got. I’m on Tim’s shit list if I do and on Tim’s shit list if I don’t. He has an actual shit list. Freeda generated it and enhanced it with a graphic of an angry piece of feces stamping its feet.
I buy the coolers, hoping in spite of myself that he’ll applaud my decisiveness. When I get back to the office everyone’s gone for the night. The Muzak’s off for a change and loud whacks and harsh words are floating up from the basement via the heat ducts. Before long Tim tromps up the stairs swearing. I hide pronto. He shouts thanks for nothing, and says he could have had more rough-and-tumble fun dangling a cat over a banister, and that there’s nothing duller than a clerk with the sexual imagination of a grape.
“Document placement and retrieval specialist,” Freeda says in a hurt tone.
“Whatever,” Tim says, and speeds off in his Porsche.
I emerge overwhelmed from my cubicle. Over her shoulder and through the plate glass is a shocked autumnal moon. Freeda’s cheek is badly bruised. Otherwise she’s radiant with love. My mouth hangs open.
“What can I say?” she says. “I can’t get enough of the man.”
“Good night,” I say, and forget about my car, and walk the nine miles home in a daze.
All day Wednesday I prepare to tell Tim off. But I’m too scared. Plus he could rightly say she’s a consenting adult. What business is it of mine? Why defend someone who has no desire to be defended? Instead I drop a few snots in his coffee cup and use my network access privileges to cancel his print jobs. He asks can I work late and in spite of myself I fawningly say sure. I hate him. I hate myself. Everybody else goes home. Big clouds roll in. I invoice like mad. Birds light on the Dumpster and feed on substances caked on the lid. What a degraded cosmos. What a case of something starting out nice and going bad.
Just after seven I hear him shout: “You, darling, will rot in hell, with the help of a swift push to the grave from me!” At first I think he’s pillow-talking with Freeda by phone. Then I look out the window and see the animal rights girl at the lip of our pit with a camcorder.
Admirable dedication, I think, wonderful clarity of vision.
Tim runs out the door with his blackjack unsheathed.
What to do? Clearly he means her harm. I follow him, leaving behind my loafers to minimize noise. I keep to the shadows and scurry in my socks from tiny berm to tiny berm. I heave in an unattractive manner. My heart rate’s in the ionosphere. To my credit I’m able to keep up with him. Meanwhile she’s struggling up the slope with her hair in sweet disarray, backlit by a moon the color of honey, camcorder on her head like some kind of Kenyan water jug.
“Harlot,” Tim hisses, “attempted defiler of my dream,” and whips his blackjack down. Am I quick? I am so quick. I lunge up and take it on the wrist. My arm bone goes to mush, and my head starts to spin, and I wrap Tim up in a hug the size of Tulsa.
“Run,” I gasp to the girl, and see in the moonlight the affluent white soles of her fleeing boat-type shoes.
I hug hard. I tell him drop the jack and to my surprise he does. Do I then release him? To my shame, no. So much sick rage is stored up in me. I never knew. And out it comes in one mondo squeeze, and something breaks, and he goes limp, and I lay him gently down in the dirt.
I CPR like anything. I beg him to rise up and thrash me. I do a crazy little dance of grief. But it’s no good.
I’ve killed Tim.
I sprint across 209 and ineffectually drag my bulk around Industr
ial Grotto, weeping and banging on locked corporate doors. United Knee Wrap’s having a gala. Their top brass are drunkenly lip-synching hits of the fifties en masse and their foot soldiers are laughing like subservient fools, so no one hears my frantic knocking. I prepare to heave a fake boulder through the plate glass. But then I stop. By now Tim’s beyond help. What do I gain by turning myself in? Did I or did I not save an innocent girl’s life? Was he or was he not a cruel monster? What’s done is done. My peace of mind is gone forever. Why spend the remainder of my life in jail for the crime of eliminating a piece of filth?
And standing there outside the gala I learn something vital about myself: when push comes to shove, I could care less about lofty ideals. It’s me I love. It’s me I want to protect.
Me.
I hustle back to the office for the burial gear. I roll Tim into the pit. I sprinkle on lime and cover him with dirt. I forge a letter in which he claims to be going to Mexico to clarify his relationship with God via silent meditation in a rugged desert setting.
“My friends,” I write through tears in his childish scrawl, “you slave away for minimal rewards! Freedom can be yours if you open yourself to the eternal! Good health and happiness to you all. I’m truly sorry for any offense I may have given. Especially to you, Freeda, who deserved a better man than the swine I was. I am a new man now, and Freeda dear, I suggest counseling. Also: I have thought long and hard on this, and have decided to turn over the reins to Jeffrey, whom I have always wrongly maligned. I see now that he is a man of considerable gifts, and ask you all to defer to him as you would to me.”
I leave the letter on Claude’s chair and go out to sleep in my car. I dream of Tim wearing a white robe in a Mexican cantina. A mangy dog sits on his lap explaining the rules of the dead. No weeping. No pushing the other dead. Don’t bore everyone with tales of how great you were. Tim smiles sweetly and rubs the dog behind the ears. He sees me and says no hard feelings and thanks for speeding him on to the realm of bliss.
I wake with a start. The sun comes up, driving sparrows before it, turning the corporate reflective windows wild with orange. I roll out of my car and brush my teeth with my finger.
My first day as a killer.
I walk to the pit in the light of fresh day, hoping it was all a dream. But no. There’s our scuffling footprints. There’s the mound of fresh dirt, under which lies Tim. I sit on a paint can in a patch of waving weeds and watch my colleagues arrive. I weep. I think sadly of the kindly humbler I used to be, bleary-eyed in the morning, guiltless and looking forward to coffee.
When I finally go in, everyone’s gathered stunned around the microwave.
“El Presidente,” Claude says disgustedly.
“Sorry?” I say.
I make a big show of shaking my head in shock as I read and reread the note I wrote. I ask if this means I’m in charge. Claude says with that kind of conceptual grasp we’re not exactly in for salad days. He asks Freeda if she had an inkling. She says she always knew Tim had certain unplumbed depths but this is ridiculous. Claude says he smells a rat. He says Tim never had a religious bone in his body and didn’t speak a word of Spanish. My face gets red. Thank God Blamphin, that toady, pipes up.
“I say in terms of giving Jeffrey a chance, we should give Jeffrey a chance, inasmuch as Tim was a good manager but a kind of a mean guy,” he says.
“Well put,” Claude says cynically. “And I say this fattie knows something he’s not telling.”
I praise Tim to the skies and admit I could never fill his shoes. I demean my organizational skills and leadership abilities but vow to work hard for the good of all. Then I humbly propose a vote: Do I assume leadership or not? Claude says he’ll honor a quorum, and then via show of hands I achieve a nice one.
I move my things into Tim’s office. Because he’d always perceived me as a hefty milquetoast with no personal aspirations, he trusted me implicitly. So I’m able to access the corporate safe. I’m able to cater in prime rib and a trio of mustachioed violinists, who stroll from cubicle to cubicle hoping for tips. Claude’s outraged. Standing on his chair, he demands to know whatever happened to the profit motive. Everyone ignores him while munching on my prime rib and enjoying my musicians. He says one can’t run a corporation on good intentions and blatant naïveté. He pleads that the staff fire me and appoint him CEO. Finally Blamphin proposes I can him. Torson from Personnel seconds the motion. I shrug my shoulders and we vote, and Claude’s axed. He kicks the watercooler. He gives me the finger. But out he goes, leaving us to our chocolate mousse and cocktails.
By nightfall the party’s kicked into high gear. I bring in jugglers and a comedian and drinks, drinks, drinks. My staff swears their undying loyalty. We make drunken toasts to my health and theirs. I tell them we’ll kill no more. I tell them we’ll come clean with the appropriate agencies and pay all relevant fines. Henceforth we’ll relocate the captured raccoons as we’ve always claimed to be doing. The company will be owned by us, the employees, who will come and go as we please. Beverages and snacks will be continually on hand. Insurance will be gratis. Day care will be available on-site.
Freeda brightens and sits on the arm of my chair.
Muzak will give way to personal steros in each cubicle. We will support righteous charities, take troubled children under our collective wing, enjoy afternoons off when the sun is high and the air sweet with the smell of mown grass, treat one another as family, send one another fond regards on a newly installed electronic mail system, and, when one of us finally has to die, we will have the consolation of knowing that, aided by corporate largesse, our departed colleague has known his or her full measure of power, love, and beauty, and arm in arm we will all march to the graveyard, singing sad hymns.
Just then the cops break in, led by Claude, who’s holding one of Tim’s shoes.
“If you went to Mexico,” he shouts triumphantly, “wouldn’t you take your Porsche? Would you be so stupid as to turn your life’s work over to this tub of lard? Things started to add up. I did some literal digging. And there I found my friend Tim, with a crushed rib cage that broke my heart, and a look of total surprise on his face.”
“My Timmy,” Freeda says, rising from my chair. “This disgusting pig killed my beautiful boy.”
They cuff me and lead me away.
In court I tell the truth. The animal rights girl comes out of the woodwork and corroborates my story. The judge says he appreciates my honesty and the fact that I saved a life. He wonders why, having saved the life, I didn’t simply release Tim and reap the laurels of my courage. I tell him I lost control. I tell him a lifetime of scorn boiled over. He says he empathizes completely. He says he had a weight problem himself when a lad.
Then he gives me fifty, as opposed to life without parole.
So now I know misery. I know the acute discomfort of a gray jail suit pieced together from two garments of normal size. I know the body odor of Vic, a Chicago kingpin who’s claimed me for his own and compels me to wear a feminine hat with fruit on the brim for nightly interludes. Do my ex-colleagues write? No. Does Freeda? Ha. Have I achieved serenity? No. Have I transcended my horrid surroundings and thereby won the begrudging admiration of my fellow cons? No. They exult in hooting at me nude during group showers. They steal my allotted food portions. Do I have a meaningful hobby that makes the days fly by like minutes? No. I have a wild desire to smell the ocean. I have a sense that God is unfair and preferentially punishes his weak, his dumb, his fat, his lazy. I believe he takes more pleasure in his perfect creatures, and cheers them on like a brainless dad as they run roughshod over the rest of us. He gives us a need for love, and no way to get any. He gives us a desire to be liked, and personal attributes that make us utterly un-likable. Having placed his flawed and needy children in a world of exacting specifications, he deducts the difference between what we have and what we need from our hearts and our self-esteem and our mental health.
This is how I feel. These things seem to me true. But what’
s there to do but behave with dignity? Keep a nice cell. Be polite but firm when Vic asks me to shimmy while wearing the hat. Say a kind word when I can to the legless man doing life, who’s perennially on toilet duty. Join in at the top of my lungs when the geriatric murderer from Baton Rouge begins his nightly spiritual.
Maybe the God we see, the God who calls the daily shots, is merely a subGod. Maybe there’s a God above this subGod, who’s busy for a few Godminutes with something else, and will be right back, and when he gets back will take the subGod by the ear and say, “Now look. Look at that fat man. What did he ever do to you? Wasn’t he humble enough? Didn’t he endure enough abuse for a thousand men? Weren’t the simplest tasks hard? Didn’t you sense him craving affection? Were you unaware that his days unraveled as one long bad dream?” And maybe as the subGod slinks away, the true God will sweep me up in his arms, saying: My sincere apologies, a mistake has been made. Accept a new birth, as token of my esteem.
And I will emerge again from between the legs of my mother, a slighter and more beautiful baby, destined for a different life, in which I am masterful, sleek as a deer, a winner.
OFFLOADING
FOR MRS. SCHWARTZ
Elizabeth always thought the fake stream running through our complex was tacky. Whenever I’d sit brooding beside it after one of our fights she’d hoot down at me from the balcony. Then I’d come in and we’d make up. Oh would we. I think of it. I think of it and think of it. Finally in despair I call GuiltMasters. GuiltMasters are Jean and Bob Fleen, a brother/sister psychiatric practice. In their late-night TV ads they wear cowls and capes and stand on either side of a sobbing neurotic woman in sweater and slacks. By the end of the bit she’s romping through a field of daisies. I get Jean Fleen. I tell her I’ve done a bad thing I can’t live with. She says I’ve called the right place. She says there’s nothing so shameful it can’t be addressed by GuiltMasters. I take a deep breath and spill my guts. There’s a silence from Jean’s end. Then she asks can I hold. Upbeat Muzak comes on. Several minutes later Bob comes on and asks can they call me back. I wait by the phone. One hour, two hours, all night. Nothing. The sun comes up. Brad from Complex Grounds turns on the bubbler and the whitewater begins to flow. I don’t shower. I don’t shave. I put on the same pants I had on before. It’s too much. Three years since her death and still I’m a wreck. I think of fleeing the city. I think of working on a shrimper, or setting myself on fire downtown.
CivilWarLand in Bad Decline Page 6
