by Bergen, KC
“I am here to clean up the dishes.”
“We’re not done yet!”
“I’m done,” the young brunette said, pushing her plate toward Novak.
“Thank you.” Novak picked up the plate and put it in the tray. “Can I get you anything else?”
“Your accent. Where are you from?” she asked.
“Slovenia.”
“How interesting. Where’s that?”
The old man scoffed. “I don’t give a rat’s ass where he’s from!”
“Thank you,” Novak said. “I don’t want a rat’s ass.”
The girl snickered, but the old man’s face turned red. “How dare you make fun of me, boy?!”
“I didn’t mean to make fun of you,” Novak said. It was the first time he’d heard anyone offer to not give someone a rat’s ass. He thought it was an odd thing to say but nonetheless nice. Still, he respectfully backed away, as he could tell the old man was getting upset. “Enjoy your meal with your wife.”
“My wife? She’s my granddaughter, you pervert!”
“What seems to be the problem here?” It was Claus, the manager.
“This obnoxious young man is harassing me and my granddaughter!”
“I am terribly sorry,” the manager said. He beckoned for Becky to handle the disgruntled customer.
To his dismay, Novak noticed that the people at the nearby tables were casting discontented glances at him, whispering amongst themselves.
Claus led Novak away from the dining area to the bar. “I thought you knew what you were doing?”
“I thought so too.”
The big man sighed heavily. “So you’re from Slovenia. Do you have a work permit?”
“Since I was little, I have always had a permission to work.”
“I mean papers. Do you have a work visa?”
“Yes, I have a Visa card in my wallet. It works.”
“No, I’m not talking about a Visa credit card—a V. I. S. A.” Claus scratched his bald head. “Papers proving that you’re allowed to live and work in the US. I take it you’re not a US citizen. Are you a permanent resident?”
“Yes. I arrived today, and I’m here to stay.”
Two patrons sitting at the bar started laughing. One of them, a guy with a mullet, turned toward Novak. “You’re not the sharpest knife in the drawer, buddy.”
The other guy chugged from his beer mug. “And even though he’s from Slovenia, like the first lady, he’s not much of a looker either!”
The guys cracked up, and the manager had a hard time composing himself. “Listen, we’re not hiring anymore.”
“What? But I can do better.”
Claus folded his arms. “I’m sure you can but not here.”
The guy with the mullet said, “Maybe in Slovenia.”
24
Michael and his father met up with Peter South in the parking lot. Dressed up as KGB officer Tristan Drimov, Peter was wearing a slick suit and a tie.
“Looking good,” Brian told Peter as Tristan.
“Spasiba,” said Tristan.
“What did you call me?” Brian said, yanking at Tristan’s tie.
Michael nudged his dad. “I think he said ‘thank you’ in Russian.”
“I knew that.” Brian let go. “Just watch your mouth around my son.”
Gasping for air, Tristan loosened his tie. “Spasiba, Michael.”
“You should thank me,” Brian said. “Lesson number one: A KGB officer should always be prepared to defend himself.”
They went inside, and Michael took a seat next to his father at the desk.
“Okay, so what are Mary’s hobbies?” Brian asked Peter.
“Art, traveling, and yoga.”
“Good. You can throw music and movies in there too. And what’s her childhood fantasy?”
“To be a … maid?”
“No, you idiot! To be a Mer-maid. Listen, you have to memorize this. Screw it up and I’ll give The Wizard of Ass to someone else.”
“No! Please, I’ll get it right.” Peter scrunched up his eyebrows. “Why do you want me to do this anyway? This chick is your ex-wife.”
Brian glanced at his son. “I have my reasons. Don’t ask questions, Peter, just do your job. Now, I have some homework for you.” Brian gathered up the notes on the desk and handed them to Peter. “You need to study. We both do. I … We”—Brian patted his son’s shoulder—“will write a story for you, sort of a poetic introduction that’ll win Mary over. I’ll even provide you with some golden nuggets in Russian, just in case. But you need to get into character as a Russian KGB agent.”
“Da,” Peter said.
“What?” Brian asked.
“Da means yes in Russian. I’ve been studying on my own. I take this protein—uh, protagonist role very seriously.”
“Good.” Brian leaned forward in his chair, maintaining intense eye contact with the actor. “Because you must become Tristan Drimov. Have you heard of method acting? Stanislavski?”
“Of course. Stan Slavski … No worries, I’ll take care of it.”
Brian impatiently tapped his desk. “You’d better deliver, or you’ll never work in this town again. And I’m not just talking about this small town. I’m talking about LA too.”
“Why are we in the boonies, then, instead of LA?”
“Because I’m paying less than a grand a month for this place. It’s perfect! Do you want to pay rent in LA? Do you?!”
“Jeez, chill. It was just a question.”
“No more questions!” Brian unclenched his fists as he turned his attention to his son. “Anything you’d like to add, playa?”
“I thought you said no more questions.”
Peter chuckled at Michael’s remark, but quickly substituted the chuckle with a cough as Brian glowered at him.
“I meant no more questions from the actor. You are my co-director and co-producer and may ask as many questions as you’d like.”
Michael tried to think of a question. This whole operation seemed pretty straightforward, but he had this bad feeling in his gut that he couldn’t shake. However, he couldn’t ask about that. Before he could come up with anything, his phone rang. It was his mom.
“Excuse me for a sec. Got to take this.” Michael left the office and went into the lobby/living room. “Hey Mom. Yeah, my dad picked me up. We’re at his house.” His mom didn’t know that Brian was living and working in the same place, and because she didn’t allow Michael to step foot in his dad’s office, he usually said that he was at his dad’s house. “I’ll be back later. Just go on and eat without me. What am I? A dog on a leash?” Michael scoffed. “No, I don’t know where that Slovenian weirdo went. He’s probably out stalking his next victim.”
Mary claimed that Novak was a nice guy.
“You don’t know that,” Michael replied. “Why is he even at our house? You could have told him to stay at a hotel or something. It doesn’t feel safe to be at home anymore. Yeah, whatever. Okay, I’ll be there in a couple hours.”
He hung up the phone, pissed off at his mom for treating him like a little boy. He was twelve! And she was the one acting irresponsibly. His dad was right; she’d turned their home into a danger zone.
Michael went back into the office, and he had a question to ask. “We need to speed things up,” he said. “When will we go live?”
“Good question,” Brian said. “How much time do you think we need before we’re ready to implement the plan?”
Michael thought of his unsafe home situation. He wanted Novak out of his house right away, but he understood that they needed time to prepare. Having a plan was one thing. Preparing for success had a bit more to it, but his dad had told him to always put the squeeze on the actors to wring the best performance out of them.
“It depends on our talent’s work ethic.” Eyeing Peter as Tristan, Michael folded his arms and tried to speak like his dad, with flair and confidence. “You’ll be ready in three days, right?”
“Da.”
25
Novak turned and walked away. Behind him, the manager and the two patrons at the bar were laughing it up. Feeling humiliated, Novak left the restaurant. Back outside, it was as if nothing had happened; it was still sunny, beautiful, and touristy. Novak suddenly disliked the sense of being a tourist, someone who didn’t belong. But he was no citizen or resident either. A so-called visa, a stupid piece of paper, was blocking his access to the fruits of his own labor and to this great country. He did a quick search on Google, and found out that it was an expensive piece of paper.
Novak trudged along the cobblestone street, thinking of ways to get money, when someone tapped his shoulder.
“Excuse me, man. Hablas Español?”
A short Hispanic fellow was standing behind Novak.
“No, only English. And Slovenian.”
“Bueno. Okay.” The Hispanic man made a pinching motion with his fingers, leaving an inch of space between index finger and thumb. “I speak a little English. Un poquito. I’m Julio.”
“Novak.” He shook Julio’s hand.
“You looking for job, man?”
“How do you know that?”
“I come into restaurant. They tell me to start today. New bus boy. But I also have other job. So I come late, you know. But I see what happen … Puta madre! Bad people, man.”
“I didn’t mean to take your job.”
“I don’t want to work for bad people. Come with me.”
“Where to?”
“Other job, man. Have you ever washed cars?”
“I am a shepherd. I have washed sheep.”
“Did you dance with them too?”
“Who would dance with … What kind of car wash is this?”
“You’ll see.”
“But I don’t have any papers.”
“Don’t worry, man.” Julio grinned. “Don’t ask, don’t tell. You need money, no?”
“Yes.”
“If you work hard and ladies like you …” Julio rubbed his fingers together. “Good money.”
In serious need of money, Novak decided to tag along.
Ten minutes later, Julio and Novak were approaching a car wash. However, it sounded more like a disco. Loud music was blaring and a tall blinking neon sign read, “Manny’s Manly Car Wash.” As they came closer, Novak spotted a white minivan being attended to by a man wearing nothing but a thong. He was cleaning the passenger side window with plenty of suds and circular butt motions. Inside the car, four women were whistling and whooping.
“What kind of place is this?” Novak asked.
“It’s new,” Julio said. “Tip is great, man. Better than working in restaurant.”
The car washer finished cleaning the window, grabbed a hose, placed it in front of his hips, and spritzed the car with water while thrusting and grinding. Then he poured soapy suds all over himself and slid onto the hood of the van. He spun around like a break-dancer, and the girls honked and squealed.
Novak halted. “This is the job you were telling me about?”
“You no like? Better than busboy!”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, man! You will love it.”
“If you think it’s such a great job, then why start working at the restaurant?”
“It was only until I can make enough as a—how you say?—cartist.”
“Cartist?”
“Yes. Car wash artist.”
“I thought the tip was great.”
“It is, man. But the place is new. Don’t have enough clients yet. You have to give it some time.”
The cartist servicing the van finished flopping around on the hood and then focused his efforts on the antenna. He quickly moved a soapy sponge clenched in his hand up and down the antenna. He blew kisses at the girls in the car, and they went wild.
“Don’t you find this work demeaning?”
“No way, Jose. Women make money doing this. Why not men, man? It’s the twenty-first century. Equality, ese!”
“I suppose you have a point.” Novak thought it was a stupid point, but it was definitely a point. “But what about—”
“Enough questions, man. Let me show you around.”
26
Mary tried calling Novak’s cell phone, but there was something wrong with the connection. She worried about him. Why had he left the house without leaving a note? In her head she heard Michael accuse her of making their home unsafe. Maybe he was right.
To distract herself from the worries, she went into her office and logged onto the computer. She didn’t want to work, though, so she read Tristan’s latest message. He’d just returned from a mission and was feeling lonely and thinking of Mary. Work was not everything, he wrote. He was right about that. She found herself thinking of him too as she browsed through his photos. She had contacted Tristan first—not Novak. If the handsome KGB officer had only responded sooner.
Mary stopped herself from brooding on what-ifs. She had to focus on reality and began typing a response.
“No,” she said. Carol had advised her to not write back right away. Mary feared that she would make a bigger mess of things, so she logged off and closed the laptop.
The doorbell rang. Mary checked her watch. It was about time for Michael to come home. Had he left his key? She went to the front door and looked through the peephole. It was Novak, and he looked sad.
She opened the door. “Hi Novak. How are you?”
“I tried to find work.”
“Work? But you just got here.”
Novak padded inside. “A man needs a job.”
“But you also need a visa and papers to work in this country.”
“Yes, now I know.”
Mary spotted a dilapidated vehicle in the driveway. “Whose car is that?”
“Mine. Or, more precisely, it belongs to Rent-a-Wreck. I just rented it.”
Mary eyed Novak. “Why did you leave without telling anyone?”
“Right after you left, your son was picked up by …” Novak snapped his fingers.
“Brian?”
“Yes, Brian. And I didn’t want to be here all by myself while you guys were out working, so I decided to go look for a job.”
“What do you mean we were working?”
“You went to work. Then Brian and Michael went to work.”
“Oh, really?” Mary couldn’t believe that her son had lied to her on the phone. He’d gone to his dad’s porn studio. Unless, of course, Novak had misunderstood the course of events.
“Why? Did I say something wrong?”
“No, not at all. Can I get you something to eat or drink?”
“Yes, both please.”
Mary heated up some leftover Chinese food, chicken broccoli and white rice, and poured Novak a tall glass of apple juice. While he ate and chatted with Mary, Michael walked in.
“Hello, Michael!” Novak said.
Michael responded with a look of disdain. Mary approached him. “Look at me,” she said in a hushed tone. “Can you honestly say that you were not at your dad’s porn—workplace?”
“Dad picked me up and brought me home, like he said he would.” Michael glared at the intruder at the dining table. “Why? What have you heard?”
Mary flashed a smile at Novak. “Nothing. Well, I’m glad you’re home.”
“At least one of us is glad to be home.”
“Are you hungry? Want some food?”
“Nope. I’m going to bed.”
“Good night,” Novak said.
Michael didn’t reply but went straight to his bedroom and slammed the door shut. Mary returned to the dining table. “I’m sorry. He’s usually not this bad.”
“He’s a good guy. But I met Brian and he did not seem like a good guy. No offense.”
“None taken. And you’re right, he’s not.” Mary almost felt like elaborating, but she preferred to keep things light and positive. “So what do you want to do tomorrow? Or see?”
“What do you mean?”
; “Sightseeing. I said I’d show you around.”
“Yes, that’s true. But don’t you have to work?”
“I haven’t scheduled any showings. I can take a few hours off, no problem. I am my own boss, and Michael has summer school.”
“Okay. Well, I’ve always wanted to see LA. Hollywood, Beverly Hills, Santa Monica.”
“So let’s do it.”
27
The next morning Mary brought Novak to LA. Strolling down Hollywood Boulevard, Novak spotted his favorite superhero, Batman. Mary took a picture of them together. After the shoot, Batman held out his hand.
Novak slapped Batman’s hand. “High-five!”
“No,” Mary said. “I think he wants money.”
Novak was taken aback and slightly disappointed. “Well, I guess Bruce Wayne didn’t become a billionaire from giving away freebies.”
“If I was a billionaire,” Batman croaked, “you really think I’d be out here sweating my balls off in this damn costume?”
“You’d rather be walking around as Bruce Wayne?”
“You’re as funny as the Joker.” Novak handed Batman two dollars and the rude superhero impostor shook his head at the meager reward. “I feel robbed.”
“Welcome to Gotham City,” Mary said.
“Nice one!” Novak said and gave Mary a high-five.
***
Under sunny skies, Mary and Novak were strolling down Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica. As they passed a street musician playing the violin, Novak asked Mary to dance. Smiling, she took Novak’s hand and they waltzed to the tender music, soon cheek to cheek. Several onlookers thought the dancers were part of the performance, and came forward to drop coins into the musician’s open violin case.
***
Riding the Ferris wheel, Mary and Novak took in the magnificent view of Santa Monica beach and the gleaming Pacific Ocean.
“This is like a dream come true,” Novak said, enjoying the other magnificent view—of Mary sitting next to him.
Mary licked at her ice cream. “Yes, I’d almost forgotten how beautiful it is here.”
Novak gave Mary a look of admiration. “Very beautiful,” he said.
