Bunny Man's Bridge

by Ted Neill

  “Honey. Don’t say that,” she says.

  “Relax, June.”

  “I’m just trying—”

  “I know what you’re trying to do. Don’t. I’m having a good time. Sometimes you just—”

  “Can I get you some coffee, Mr. Harmin?”

  He looked at me with his mouth open, pointed back at his wife and goes, “Can’t you see I’m having a conversation here? You mind holding on for just one goddamn minute?”

  “He’s just doing his job,” Mrs. Harmin says.

  “I know he’s doing his job. He’s doing it badly.”

  Their friends kept smoking the cigars. They were giving me dirty looks. Me, of all people. I could tell you who the real asshole was at that table, and it wasn’t me. But what could I do? These people are our paychecks. Harmin asked for a Baileys and coffee.

  His wife says to me, “He’s had enough.”

  “That’s it,” Mr. Harmin goes. “That’s it. Get up. Get up. Go over there and sit with your friends for a while. Just leave me over here in peace with my buddies.” Mickey started pulling her chair out from under her. Her eyes were glistening. I watched the black line of mascara under them, waiting for it to break. She blinked, then got up and left the room.

  I got Mr. Harmin his Baileys; he handed me a bunch of empty glasses from the table as if he couldn’t wait for me to take them. But he was already ignoring me again, looking at one of his buddies’ college-aged daughters with a D-cup out on the dance floor. The chairs were emptying out as people got up and danced. The DJ was the main attraction now. All we had to do was make sure the bar was stocked and tables cleared. Fabian needed rum. When I went downstairs to get it, I saw that Mr. Ferguson was still at the bar, talking to Elias. The two of them seemed to be real involved in some topic. I didn’t see what Ferguson was drinking. He yelled out when he saw me and says, “Hey, there’s Bob.”

  I acted like I didn’t hear him. He goes, “I guess Bob is deaf and dumb.”

  That was what he said.

  Things went on uneventfully up in the Presidential the rest of the night. The Harmin guests danced. Other members strolled by as they left the Mixed Grill. Around eleven, things started winding down. The DJ was just doing slow stuff, and the floor was covered with deflated balloons. The Harmins’ daughter was asleep on some chairs with her thumb in her mouth and someone’s sports jacket over her. Fabian kept sliding drinks over the bar on little cocktail napkins, working on our tip. I loved him for it. Mr. Harmin was sitting in the corner, red faced, smoking a stogie with one of his buddies. Mrs. Harmin still hadn’t come back, so I decided to check on her.

  The only room that would still be open would be the lounge. Sure enough, she was there, sitting in one of the plush chairs, her fingers completely covering her face. She moved them away. Her mascara had run. Steve was sitting next to her with his elbows on his knees. I had not seen him all night, but that probably meant he had been busy with one of the wedding receptions upstairs. It was a busy night. Steve looked real concerned. He saw me, touched Mrs. Harmin’s knee, then led me to the doorway. He put his hand on my shoulder.

  “Rookie, I need you to do me a big favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Can you make sure Mr. Ferguson gets to his car all right?”

  I thought of that big man and all the steps from the Mixed Grill to his car, and all the drinks that he had put in himself.

  “Drunk duty,” I said. Now I knew what Fabian had been talking about.

  Steve’s I-need-a-favor face melted away and he goes, “You’re learning, Rookie. Go. I’m going to take care of Mrs. Harmin.”

  I’m sure he did. I remember one night a wedding reception got out of hand, and the bridal party ran naked through the sprinklers. I was looking for Steve. Someone told me he had gone out on the course to break up the streakers. I went out there, found him leaning against a tree, smoking a cigarette and watching the girls. He saw me and said, “Great view, huh, Rookie?”

  I went to the downstairs kitchen. The dishwashers were mopping the floor. I went out on the back patio and looked at the golf course. I sat on a folding chair that had been left outside from an earlier luncheon. It was a shit night, all humid and sticky. I couldn’t even see Bull Run for all the haze. The course was empty, except for huge bugs flying in front of the floodlights. I decided I would go home after I got Mr. Ferguson to his car. Fabian could clean up. I’d let him get the whole tip. It just wasn’t worth it to me. I was done with this type of work. I was thinking I’d get a job in an office somewhere. I know it sounds square, but at the moment, I never wanted to have to serve some asshole again.

  I stared at some moths that had drowned in a puddle underneath one of the patio lights. I started thinking of my grandfather then. I spent about five minutes thinking of some of the times we went fishing. Those were good times. I had both eyes back then. Grandpa never knew me with the patch. Then I started thinking about when he died and going to his funeral. That was when I decided to go downstairs.

  The Mixed Grill was dark. Elias was locking up the liquor in the wooden cabinets. Mr. Ferguson was slumped on the bar. I didn’t think he was conscious. If that were the case, I’d never get him to his car, that’s what I was thinking, but I guess he wouldn’t exactly be able to drive if he was unconscious, and then getting him to his car would have been pointless. I started to reach into my pocket for my phone to call a cab. Just then, I noticed how ugly and old his sports coat was. It was frayed on the sleeves, and there was a hole burnt in the front from cigar or cigarette ash. You’d think a guy that rich would dress better. Then again, if he can’t fuck, what’s the point in trying to look nice?

  Elias said to me over his shoulder, “Good luck, Sid.”

  Ferguson mumbled like Elias was talking to him. I tapped him on the back and told him it was time to go. He was pretty responsive and pushed off the bar to get up. Then he began to fall over. Elias yelled at me.

  “Come on, you’ve got to support him.”

  But it’s not like he offered to help. I’m not small, but Mr. Ferguson is a big guy. I put my shoulder in his armpit. He turned towards the steps.

  “Oh, no. We’re taking the elevator,” I said.

  “What elevator? There’s no fucking elevator, Bob.” He still thought my name was Bob.

  “Yeah, there is. It’s for beer kegs.”

  I took him through the kitchen. The dishwashers were gone. The elevator is on the far side of the building; we use it for kegs and other things too heavy for the stairs. Ferguson was saying how he wasn’t allowed back in the kitchen. It was for employees only, he told me. “For the help,” he said.

  I told him to fuck off, which was a mistake, ’cause then he turned around and tried walking back towards the steps, leaning on the counter for support. He was saying that he didn’t need some kid insulting him. That was all I needed, him going off on his own, slipping and cracking his liver-spotted head open on one of the steel counters.

  I said sorry about a million times and told him that I really respected him and how everyone respected him. I don’t know if he believed it. I hoped he wouldn’t remember my groveling. I got him to turn around and to walk onto the elevator. Once he was inside, the whole thing sank down about five inches. When I got on, he moved as far as he could from me, or maybe he was just falling against the wall. I hit the button.

  The keg elevator is very slow and we were stuck in there a while together. He stared at the floor, his eyelids halfway down. I tried not staring at his ugly jacket; it just reminded me of how much I didn’t want to be there. Then he looked up at me, stared me in the face, like he was trying to focus or something. I knew what he was thinking. I know the look people get now when they are going to ask me about my eye patch and how I lost my eye. Maybe he thought because I had been such a suck up just before to get him in the elevator that we were friends now and that we were going to have a moment. But, thank God, he started, “How’d you . . .” but he didn’t finish his sente
nce. Instead he coughed, and it just turned into a wheeze, and when he stopped he was just quiet, like he’d lost the thread or something, or just couldn’t spare the breath.

  He was breathing hard through his lips. I started thinking about his lips. They were all chapped and red, surrounded by whiskers he had missed shaving. But those lips had been all over his stripper wife’s body, and now she was bedding down with some other man. There’s been a few girls I’ve dated that I couldn’t care less about. But others that, well, it still burns me if I think of some other guy boning down with them. It’s probably worse with your wife.

  No wonder he was such an asshole.

  The elevator stopped. He leaned on me, and I led him out of the kitchen and through the lounge, which was empty. There were plenty of couches in there in case I had to drop him. Going that way, we also avoided the Harmin party. Ferguson never fell though. I guess I figured he was sobering up. My dad was like that. Heavy drinker, might stumble when he first got up, but sort of found his sea legs, so to speak, once he was moving.

  I got Ferguson to the front door. He took the steps real slow. We didn’t say anything. I led him to his Caddy. He pulled out his keys. They jingled in his hand like he was trying to shake out a tune—Jingle Bells, I thought. But everything sounds like Jingle Bells. I unlocked the door and started the ignition for him. Then he sat down. I wasn’t out of the way yet, and he knocked my head, hard, against the frame of the door. I saw stars for a moment before my head cleared.

  I was running my fingers through my hair to see if I was bleeding. One final injury to add to insult, I figured. I didn’t know if he had done it on purpose or not. He reached for the seat belt but couldn’t get it. It was just a few inches out of his reach. I was staring at that gap between the silver buckle and his fingers. Then I realized he was staring at me. His face was real still, like he was thinking real hard, trying to recognize me. But he didn’t know me. Maybe he expected me to pull the buckle the two inches to his fingers for him. I don’t know, but then he says to me: “What the fuck are you looking at, you dumb pirate motherfucker.”

  I slammed the door instead of helping him. He forgot about the belt, turned to the wheel, and backed out. He took a while to find the right gear, and then when he started forward, he made this big, wide turn. He came right at me. I had to jump out of the way. I hurt my wrist pushing off the hood.

  Asshole.

  That’s it. I guess I was the last one to see him, if you don’t count the people who would have seen him at stoplights he ran and stuff. I’ve probably told you more than you wanted to hear, but you said I can’t be charged. My lawyer explained everything to me. It’s a private club after all. So I took the liberty. I wanted you to know why I did that. You know—it was a whole combination of things that night. You see, it’s fucked up, but I thought I was doing him a favor. I thought I was doing everyone a favor.

  12.

  Idolatry Soup

  Soother was a peon working at the Megapolis Foods Inc. manufacturing, packaging, and shipping plant. He was a fairly handsome, if lean, young man with sandy hair and wire rim spectacles. When he was sitting at his job along the inspection line, one got the impression that Soother’s mind was hard at work—on matters beyond his immediate task, for that required little thought. Soother was assigned to the soup department, where it was his job to ensure that all the labels on the soup cans were right-side up. If they were upside down, the can was pulled from the assembly line and disposed of.

  Soother was a dynamic young man, bursting with ideas and creativity. He yearned for an opportunity to share them. He finally had his chance when Megapolis Foods Inc. was having problems selling one of its signature products: Megapolis Soup. As a result, the company’s shares had seen a precipitous drop. Layoffs loomed. Worried for his own job, Soother decided he had little to lose. He walked upstairs to Mr. Megapolis’s office and burst through the door. Mr. Megapolis was a tall, silver-haired man. His desk was at least the size of a nineteen-fifties Chevy. The back of his chair rose behind his head, much like a throne. Soother’s palms were slick with sweat, but it was not fear that caused his hands to shake and his pulse to quicken, rather excitement. He got right to the point. He told Mr. Megapolis what the problem was and how to solve it.

  “It’s your marketing,” Soother said. “The product is solid. It’s the best out there, but the public needs to be reminded of that.”

  Mr. Megapolis was under considerable strain. The wrinkles in his forehead and around his eyes had deepened in just the past few days. He had a board of directors to answer to, as well as anxious stockholders, not to mention a lifestyle to maintain. He was ready to listen.

  “How do we accomplish that, Mr.—”

  “Soother, my name is Soother. And, well, we need a major change. We begin with the title of the soup. We don’t call it Megapolis Soup, but rather: Idolatry Soup. Our slogan will go from ‘Buy Megapolis Soup, It’s Good’ to simply ‘Idolatry Soup: It’s Better than GOD!’”

  “I like it,” Mr. Megapolis said, the lines around his mouth turning upwards in a smile for the first time in weeks.

  The changes were immediate. Soon sales of Idolatry Soup were breaking all previous sales records. In short order, the entire name of the company was changed from Megapolis Foods Inc. to Idolatry Foods Inc. Soother was promoted to Senior Vice President and had an office next to Mr. Megapolis himself. Mr. Megapolis was profiled in business magazines. The public consumption of Idolatry Soup, per capita, was far beyond the government’s daily recommended caloric intake. Obesity rates swelled. Sales of diet books increased, giving new life to a flagging publishing industry. At first, clothing retailers had to increase their orders of plus sizes, leading to improved sales for manufacturers, and those improvements moved all the way down the supply chain, to producers such as cotton farmers, who had to hire more workers and buy more machines to process more cotton. The farmers got to upgrade their beat up pickup trucks to luxury SUVs, which helped the auto industry and all those related. When the diets (and exercise) promoted by the diet books grew in popularity, sales of stylish workout clothes shot up, as well as sales of running shoes, gym memberships, and exercise machines. This was followed by another wave of purchases of new, stylish, slimmed-down outfits and stylish shoes and accessories to match. Single people joined dating websites. New couples went out on dates, allowing restaurants and coffee shops to expand. Young people got more jobs as servers and baristas. In time, couples had more babies, which meant sales of baby clothes and toys, and the virtuous cycle went on and on . . . .

  Everyone in the world was satisfied, satiated, and fulfilled.

  Except for one person . . . God. As one might have guessed, God was not a fan of Idolatry Soup. He was hoping that the name would just be a fad and would change in a few years as marketing trends tend to. But this did not happen. Quite the opposite in fact: Idolatry Foods Inc. became an institution of society. So, God decided to sue.

  But this presented God with an immediate challenge: there were no lawyers in heaven. He thought of asking the Devil for one, but decided such a request would be inappropriate. He searched all about Heaven for a lawyer, but his search was fruitless. Finally, St. Paul, who had been a tireless advocate of the Church in life, volunteered to represent God. But first he had to apply to and attend law school. With his significant connections, St. Paul was accepted into a prestigious program and, by the grace of God, graduated in only one year.

  They were ready to take on Soother.

  Much time had elapsed though. By now, Soother was married to Mr. Megapolis’s daughter. Together they had five children: Cain, Sodom, Jezebel, Salome, and Judas. Soother was also now President and CEO of Idolatry Foods Inc. As President and CEO, Soother had a deep bench of talented attorneys in stylish yet conservative charcoal-with-pinstripes suits.

  God was suing Soother for slander and copyright infringement. But Soother brought his own countersuit against God. He said he was representing the 4.3 million people (the b
est estimate from archeologists and biblical scholars) killed by God in various floods, plagues, and tribal wars during the territorial expansion of his kingdom. There were also the various environmental protection laws that God had violated with his acts of turning the Nile into blood and burning a column of fire day and night for forty years without the proper permits or off-setting carbon emissions. Finally, the UN was even investigating alleged war crimes attributed to God. These included charges against God for the killing of non-combatants and even genocide for various acts during the Old Testament period. A team of investigators was sent to Jericho to gather evidence.

  It was the trial of the millennium, albeit with a few initial technical difficulties. The court administrators would not accept “I am who I am” as a legal name. Then there was the problem that no one could actually see God, for his radiant presence blinded everyone in the courtroom. But this was sorted quickly, when it was pointed out that the glare was not from God at all, but rather the various lights from TV cameras. These were adjusted, and people could then see that God was actually a very fatherly-looking fellow with deep, sad eyes, white-as-snow hair, and a long beard. He was less like George Burns, Morgan Freeman, or Alanis Morissette for that matter, and resembled more of a vagrant-on-the-street picking through the trash for food. One older woman, who was a bit senile, asked him for his autograph, thinking he was Walt Whitman.

  The trial began. St. Paul presented his case. Commentators agreed that he did a respectable job, considering it was his first appearance in court and that he was a legal team of one. But his reputation was called into question when opposing council brought up the unresolved issue of his participation in the stoning of the first Christian martyr, St. Stephen.

  “That was two thousand years ago,” St. Paul stammered. “I didn’t even cast a stone. I was just holding the jackets of the guys who were doing the stone casting.”