Retirement Projects

by Charles Hibbard

  Chapter 13

  Arthur did finally knock on my door a couple of days later. Looking out through the little peephole thing, all I could see was a broad expanse of business suit. I let him in.

  “So, Rondelle,” he said, dropping his vast bulk onto the couch. I couldn't tell whether it was a deliberate mispronunciation or a lame attempt at camaraderie. “How's retirement treating you?”

  I had never really looked at Arthur before. We'd passed in the hallway or on the stairs a few times, but only once had I actually had a conversation with him. April had left a message on our machine, begging us to feed Mitochondrion for a few days, since she had to be out of town unexpectedly. Well, I guess now I knew what that had been about. I'd been kind of bent out of shape because when I went up there I found the cat box brimming with Mitochondrion's litter-encrusted turds, like a bowl of those little crunchy toffee logs, plus there was only enough food in the bag for a couple of days. I was annoyed at April's irresponsibility. She hadn't even told us when she was coming back. So I bought more food, sulkily ignored the turds, and kept going up there to feed poor Mitochondrion, who had taken to leaping up on me like a manic little terrier and digging his claws into my arm when he sensed it was time for me to leave. He was a very sociable feline, with an authoritative presence, and he was lonely.

  Anyway, the last time I let myself into the apartment to feed him, I'd found Arthur there, half bathed in the golden light of a table lamp, like a gray 21st -century Vermeer. He was working at the desk that was, along with an aging leather couch, the only furniture in the living room. Doing the books, I suppose. At the time I had noted only that he wasn't the sort of physical specimen I would have picked out as a boyfriend for April. He made more sense as a business manager, although he didn't exactly fit the mold of procurer, either. We'd exchanged a few pleasantries, oohed and ahhed over Mitochondrion for a minute, and then I'd left.

  But now he had developed a certain significance in my life, so I examined him closely as he sat quietly on my couch, heavy hands on his knees. The other P-word totally didn't fit – I couldn't have dreamed of applying it to him. He was round, middle-aged, grizzled of hair and beard, bespectacled, with a physical and mental gravity that seemed profound and unshakeable. I interpreted his supernatural calm as a sign of unusual intellectual acuity. The only colorful note, his necktie, featured a collection of smiley faces, not all smiling, on a shimmering black background. He looked at me, apparently waiting to hear about retirement.

  “Oh, it's . . . fine, I guess,” I told him. “I don't know that I've quite figured out what it's all about, this not working thing. But I'm getting there. I have my little projects.”

  He nodded. “I hear you're quite the knitter.”

  I demurred, citing my novice status. “It's a lot harder than you might think,” I added. Retired, and knitting. I felt it was necessary to keep the crumbs of my manhood swept into as high a pile as possible.

  He continued to stare at me, and finally nodded again. “Anything else good?” he asked. What was I going to say? I've been having sex with your girlfriend. Just a couple of times. Nothing too serious.

  He took care of that problem for me. “April tells me you and she had a bit of a party the other night.”

  I didn't deny it.

  “How was it? Meet your standards?”

  “It was pretty standard, yes,” I said. Which was true, as I've already mentioned, despite April's professionalism. That didn't sound properly enthusiastic, I suppose, but I wasn't going to start trying to explain to him the distinction I'd rediscovered while I was plugging his . . . employee? Business partner? I was sure that wasn't the point anyway. His expression became slightly pained, though still not at all perturbed.

  “Not satisfied?” he said. “We haven't had any complaints heretofore. Quite the contrary, in fact.”

  "Oh no, I was!" I tried to think how to say it. “I just didn't think it was going to be a. . . business meeting.” I felt that I was gesturing too much.

  “What were you thinking?” he asked. I had to admire the way he stepped lightly over the boundary of irony without forcing me to acknowledge it.

  “The thing is, if I'd known. . .” I was still gesturing. “I don't have that kind of money. Or anything like it.”

  “You saw the website,” he pointed out.

  “Yes, but only afterwards.”

  “You went up there again the next day.”

  “I had to talk to her, for god's sake! I didn't know what was going on.”

  “You did more than talk, I heard.”

  “Well, that wasn't my intention. Anyway, she said that was just between the two of us.”

  “That's a decision that would have to be jointly made,” he said. “She has a business partner.” He sighed and leaned back, folding his heavy hands in his lap and gazing sadly at them. “So it seems that you're currently into us for 4,000 dollars,” he said. I just looked at him, waiting. “How much do you have? Liquid, I mean.”

  I was thinking fast, trying to decide what to tell him. “I have a couple of thousand in the bank,” I said, “but that's it. My entire savings. Plus I get about 1,500 a month. Before taxes.” The size of the pension check suddenly seemed pathetic to me. It was embarrassing to say the number out loud. “That's about three months of income we're talking about. I would never have paid three months of my income to get laid, for god's sake. If I'd known.”

  “You did get laid,” he observed. His voice had not risen in response to my agitation. “By a professional. And on the second occasion you did know. Do you generally expect to receive services without paying for them, Rondelle?”

  “I didn't know they were services!” I almost screamed. It sounded even more pathetic than the 1,500 dollars.

  “You thought that April was romantically interested in you.” That absurdity hung in the air while he sat silently for a time, thinking. Finally he said, “A transaction has taken place. There has to be a payment. The kind of business I'm in, it would be disastrous to let somebody use our services without paying. Regardless of any special circumstances, which I don't really think these are. The fact is, Rondelle, you got your ashes rather nicely hauled, and now you seem to be looking for some kind of compassionate exception. Or maybe the senior discount. But it can't work that way. You're a client like any other client. If anything, April should get combat pay for handling your account. An old-age pensioner. And word will get around if I let you off the hook.”

  I thought it best to ignore his sarcasm. “It's not like I'm going to tell anybody,” I said. “Even if April had been . . . even if it had been what I thought it was, I wouldn't be telling anyone. And I'm certainly not going to go around bragging about visiting a prostitute.” I didn't like to use the word with regard to April, but he was pushing me a little harder than I liked.

  “Maybe not,” he said, “but these things have a way of getting around. I might even find it necessary to mention it here and there. I'm not sure how that would go over. You being a respectably retired teacher, presumably still a role model for our nation's youth. It might raise a few eyebrows among your friends. And affect your marketability as a substitute teacher.”

  I thought about the knitting group, who were all I had for friends these days. Victor Carogna's eyebrows would certainly be elevated by the news, but he'd be cheering me on, I was sure. As for the women: “You'd be informing her friends that she's a call girl. Do you really want to subject April to that?” Arthur was silent again, looking at me thoughtfully.

  “I think we need to reach some compromise here,” I said, pushing what I felt was my advantage. “Obviously I owe you something, but frankly, I don't really see how you can enforce this.” I didn't add that he couldn't very well go to the cops, after all. I didn't really want to go to the cops myself, in case he had ideas of making something unpleasant happen to me, the way it did on TV; but that would undoubtedly go worse f
or him than for me, so he probably wouldn't do it. I felt I was playing my hand masterfully. “Look, I think I'm partly in the wrong here. Certainly the second time was. . . I shouldn't have done that, and I should probably pay for it. Although 2,000 seems like a lot. I could probably afford about 50 a month.”

  “Fifty a month,” he said. “That's 40 months for 2,000 dollars. Eighty months for the full amount, which is really what you should pay. Almost seven years. Not to mention there'd have to be interest. I don't know that we want to wait that long to discharge the debt. It's a long time. Things could happen. To us – to any of us – and to the business. We're not General Motors, you know.” He paused. “I've noticed you use a bike for transportation quite a lot. It's a dangerous way to get around the city. Bikers are always getting flattened by buses, or just hitting bad spots in the pavement and breaking a lot of bones. You could even have an accident just walking. Crossing the street. There are some pretty nasty intersections in this neighborhood. Then what happens to my money? It wouldn't be good business practice.” He stroked his graying beard. “Possibly we need to find another way. Although I'm not enjoying the feeling of being taken advantage of, Rondelle.”

  “It's Randall,” I said, trying to maintain my momentum. But what he'd said about the bike had suggested unpleasant possibilities I hadn't thought of.

  “Randall.” He hoisted himself off the couch. “Randall. I'll think about this and you think about it. Hopefully we can find a satisfactory arrangement that will cause a minimum of pain for all concerned.” I stood at the door and watched him start wearily up the stairs. “I think you should steer clear of April,” he added, without looking back. “Her artistic instincts have a way of getting the better of her judgment.”