by John O'Brien
Even darker than Indiscretions, is his first thought, and the name rekindles a pang that now feels like it will be ever near, ever clear, in his own dark places. It’s awfully early for a bar to be open, let alone have customers, drinking customers, though one guy does seem to be having coffee. But Carroll knows that there are people who drink at this hour, drink, in fact, around the clock. His own experience with alcohol is limited to a sip of champagne (which he never would have touched except the office manager put it in his hand and practically made it sound like drinking it was part of his job description) at his first and only Christmas party at the firm. It tasted funny, and he had no way of knowing if it was spoiled (it was sort of warm) or if all champagne tasted that way. So he poured it down the sink when no one was looking. Then he drank some Tab and left, never going to another office party, always pleading a previous commitment, which was true: shortly after that was when he started frequenting Indiscretions (ouch). So whatever’s in it, this drinking business, it’s beyond him. On the other hand, he doesn’t feel like there’s much to lose this morning, and maybe it would be a good time to find out.
As his eyes adjust to the mostly red light in the place he picks out a stretch of three stools and climbs aboard the center one, glad, having now gotten a better look at the other customers, for the buffer zone on either side.
“Yeah!” barks the bartender as he rises from his perch near the well. He seems friendly enough, mostly all business.
Looking down at the square cocktail napkin sliding to rest on the bar in front of him, Carroll realizes that he is ill equipped to respond. He knows from watching TV that this scene works like a script. He’s supposed to get what he always gets, but it doesn’t look like sparkling apple cider will fly here; besides, that’s not what he walked in for.
“What do people usually get?” he tries.
The bartender, old, big, and tough but tempered by an air of being ready to accept you on his side, sighs, but he is also amused. He knows that The Guys are now looking on—indeed, the other customers have all looked up and quieted down their murmurs to listen—and that he has an obligation to draw out the scene. He can also tell that this guy is shaken about something and that’s why he’s in here, not by any means a drunk.
“Well that depends on if you’re a man who drinks liquor in the morning. Now I also got coffee. Or I could pour you some juice—orange or grapefruit or cranberry. Or you could have a beer. Lots of people like a beer to get started.” Both Ors are accompanied by a turned-up palm and a nod to something under the bar, presumably the cooler, but the message is clear: this list will be recited only once. He steals a quick glance at The Guys and lips are bitten.
Carroll, much to his own surprise, is not terrified. “Um . . . say, like a rum and Coke. Do people ever get that?” Then he adds, totally out of the blue, an assertive tone to his voice when he says, “It’s like this: I don’t drink, but I want to now.”
At this The Boys begin to lose interest. Carroll just lost any effeminate quality that they may have detected in him, and so as sport he is likely to be a disappointment. He’s just a funny stiff who doesn’t drink, and to them that’s just not that funny.
Bartender too knows the game is over, so he plays it straight. Professional, these guys, usually, the best ones are. “You can have that if you want. But if it was me I’d get either a screwdriver or a greyhound. That’s juice with vodka. Or if I really wanted to drink serious I’d get a shot or two of whiskey. Have it on ice if you’d rather. Maybe a little water.” That oughtta do it.
Carroll’s turn. It’s one of those times to make your best guess, using the information at hand. “Whiskey then, I guess, with some ice . . . and some water.”
Bartender nods and has it to him in no time. “Two bucks,” he says, and when Carroll hands him three he adds, “Next one’s on me.”
Carroll looks at the amber contents of the glass before him, looks to his right and left at the room around him. This may not be the most cheerful place he’s ever seen, yet at the same time it doesn’t have that menacing undercurrent you always notice in bars in TV movies or cop shows like Hunter. While he knows he’s being monitored by the men around him, he’s pretty sure that everyone here just wants to be left alone. Maybe it’s the early hour, but he should be okay as long as he keeps to himself. It sure doesn’t smell too good; that you never get from TV. But that’s nothing compared to the whiskey in his glass, which is positively noxious.
A guy down the bar is smiling at him. Interested and wanting to be helpful, he suggests, “Best all at once,” and by way of demonstration lifts his glass of beer and downs it.
Picking up the whiskey, Carroll apes him, this in total disregard for every signal his body can get out every step of the way, importunately: no, no, no! Of course the next signal is: Puke! Right Now! Just Puke! He gags instead and keeps it down. Slowly and deliberately he rises, thanking the bartender and turning toward the door.
“How ’bout that, eh?” the guy down the bar wants to know.
But Carroll chooses not to respond. Instead he walks outside and into the alley next door, which leads him to a grease and soot encrusted Dumpster at the rear of the building. Here, in relative seclusion, he jams his finger down his throat and gets an immediate reaction. Squatting, to kneeling, to sitting on a plastic dairy crate, he wipes his mouth with his sleeve. This isn’t working either. If I focused my life on one thing, talking to Stevie just one more time, that would have to work, right? Right.
Well, that’s enough of that, he thinks, sitting at his desk now for the last three hours, ostensibly updating file inventories but in truth biding his time until the Solo client arrives for that afternoon meeting with Pam’s boss. Liquorwise he’s pretty much recovered, and to cap things off he surreptitiously (though he’s alone in the room) takes the final pull from a Pepto-Bismol bottle purchased at a liquor store on the walk back this morning and kept at the ready since then in his bottom drawer. File inventories, he’s never seen a single one that wasn’t dotted with tiny red stickers used to denote a missing jacket. That’s how they always referred to a lost file when he was being trained, a “missing jacket.” How would they classify SoLo/Bombgate, the office manager and Sandra, the old clerk? He can hear it now: Don’t stick your neck out. If they’re happy then we’re happy. Remember, it’s not the finding, it’s being able to say it’s found, and that’s one less red dot on your inventory. Sandra would’ve said something like that, and the OM would’ve smiled scandalously: now Sandra . . . , tacitly going along with this dubious procedure while at the same time reserving a lifeboat of disapproval should such an inventory not sail when it finally got upstairs. Carroll stands up from his desk, knocking it and causing the roll of red stickers to fall onto the floor, where it spins a moment before settling goofily, like one of those plastic Slinkys they make nowadays that are supposed to be safer for the kids than the old metal ones but we all know they’re just cheaper in plastic. These guys act like saints but it’s all in the wallet, or if it is about safety then it’s done at the behest of their insurance company’s lawyer. That’s the real motivation for sainthood these days: fear of litigation. He marches out of the room. Banks of fluorescents burn coolly, hot on his heels.
Pam won’t look up (still mad) though she knows he’s coming down the hall. Maybe he’ll just walk by and annoy someone else with some new crusade.
“So how’d the client like that file, Pam?” he fairly shouts, or at least the loud and clear voice sounds like shouting when one considers the source . . .
. . . sure, he’s a nice guy and all that, thinks Pam, but this is not a take-charge dude, say a Gene Hackman in The Poseidon Adventure or a Paul Newman in The Towering Inferno. Give me an earthquake and you won’t find me hightailing it down to the file room for protection. “Are you okay, Carroll?” she asks, like this is the real issue. Then remembering his question: “They’re still in there (nod to her boss’s door). I told you not to worry about it, it’ll be fine.”
New computer installations around the office have required alterations to some of the secretarial bays. One of these is next to Pam. Wallpaper is stripped away, dry-wall cut. The piece Carroll is looking at has Magic Marker on it from one of the workmen; it says, NO CUT HERE. And that’s it. So does that mean that you can cut anywhere else, or do you have to look for a marker that says CUT HERE? Maybe it means that they checked and discovered that there exists no cut there, but they’re not sure about everywhere else. You don’t know. You gotta be that guy, the one who wrote it, or at least you gotta work for him. Otherwise you’re on your own. A dry wall indeed, that with the writing on it. Carroll winks at Pam. He can’t remember ever winking at anyone before in his life, didn’t even know he was able. Some people can’t, independent movement evolved right out of their brows, plucked away like the hairs that will surely follow. He turns, raps twice loudly on Pam’s boss’s door, and throws it open.
No one speaks at first, all waiting for Carroll. The three men in this room look up expectantly, at the ready to get the dope on whatever emergency would require such an improbable intrusion. A nice surprise here is the presence of the fat-fuck corporate partner from twelve, who no doubt just dropped in to say hi. Sitting before the desk in one of the client chairs, he has his hands folded over his crotch and his eyebrow raised, as if about to declare himself the ranking authority in the room and order Carroll shot. Pam’s boss, behind the desk, is caught with his arm outstretched in a gesture. He made the unfortunate choice of freezing it when Carroll burst in, and now he’s uncertain of how to bring it down (to just do it would be to actually acknowledge this impossible interruption). The Solo client, in the remaining client chair, can tell that something’s up but has no idea what it could be, and he looks back and forth between the two other men for a clue. But to no avail, for it is him whom Carroll addresses, when presently he speaks.
“I’m sorry we were unable to locate the contents of your Bombgate file, sir. But don’t worry, it’ll turn up, I’ll keep—”
“What is this?” demands Pam’s boss petulantly. Putting his outstretched arm to good use, he waves Carroll aside, as if to make room for Pam, whom he sees pushing inward from the hall. “Pam! Who is this?”
Meanwhile, the corporate partner manages a stunned, “You!” but it gets lost in the more urgent demands of Pam’s boss, who, like it or not, seems to have assumed control here (well . . . it is his office).
Solo Client is baffled. The kid is talking to him, but better let these two handle it. Wonder who the hell he is? Probably just some poor drunk underpaid grunt. Awkward. Just wait it out. Hell, Client remembers his own mailroom job. Used to get all the pussy he wanted in that job. Wonder if it’s the same these days (though this guy doesn’t look up to it). And what the hell is Bombgate? Thought that old thing was dead. Wonder if I’m still being billed for it? Better have Gail check on that.
“Carroll!” Pam entreats, grabbing his arm and tugging.
He looks at the three men before him. Pam’s boss is on the verge of rising, for no apparent reason other than to maintain his momentum as the one who will handle this problem. But Carroll can see that he just wants Pam to deal with this, get it out of his life, the way she would a typo in a document or a bond salesman on the phone. Fat Fuck is trying to piece together in his head some witticism with which he hopes to take the client’s mind off of the interruption. Don’t bother, Carroll wants to tell him, for the client is clearly not concerned with these events, is lost in thoughts of his own while he waits for Carroll to move out of his way like an old lady in a crosswalk. It’s obvious (how could he not know it would be like this) that none of these three men cares about anything he has to say. In fact, Solo Client appeared to not even understand the reference to Bombgate, just looked dumb and embarrassed, as if at a dinner party and the hostess’s three-year-old just peed in his lap. Even now his eyes wander. Carroll couldn’t get his attention if he were sleeping with the guy’s daughter, waving her panties around with a broomstick. Maybe he should try reminding him that he’s being billed for the time spent on this. That might do it, riveting stuff.
Pam’s boss has an inspiration; it’s there in his eyes. “Look . . . Carl, we appreciate your concern, but we have all the files we require. Perhaps you should go work this out with Pam and the office manager and (a patiently indulgent smile, forced hard and maybe to his credit) let us get on with our meeting here.”
Carroll feels utterly dejected. He allows Pam to pull him from the doorway but breaks away from her in the hall, where he walks evenly to his desk as she goes directly for the phone. He can feel the phone lines buzzing all around him, odious little wires, myriad threads, all mottled and crooked, a big net waiting to be drawn up. He stops and leans against the wall, hitting it with his elbow and causing a startled temp to tap the stop pedal of her Dictaphone. Those things are antiques now, but then there’s carbon paper in the supply room as well. That net, first Pam to office manager, but by now there have been other calls, OM to Pam’s boss, Pam to her friend on twelve. It gets tighter faster, finally so fast that you’re stuck. On second thought, there’s nothing he needs at his desk, and he could do without the collateral confrontation with the office manager, who will certainly be heading there by now to intercept him. Best the elevator. Best commence straightaway with the erasure of this place from his future. That net. Phones are ringing around him. Paranoia, sure, but still. . . . You go to all this trouble to cut a hole, you’d better walk through.
The Vega sputters and almost stalls when he pulls into the gravel lot, and Carroll wonders again whether this is such a great idea. But car and driver both regain their resolve as he crosses into the alley and parks in a place that allows a good view of the back door to the club as well as of the lot, most of it. No commitment here, if things go south he can just pull away.
Though this wasn’t his destination upon leaving for the last time the parking garage of his office he’s not all that surprised to find himself sitting here. After all, he wasn’t about to go home and this is the only other place he ever goes. That of course must stop, did stop. He can’t walk into the club; he knows that. But maybe just this one last time he can sit in the lot. Turns out it’s late enough for the staggered shift change to begin, and with any luck at all he’ll be able to get one final look at Stevie when she enters the club. He may not know what she drives, and he can’t be absolutely sure she’s even working tonight; but he does know that all the dancers enter through the back door, and since she was off last night it’s likely she’ll be here tonight. But it’s okay either way; it’s nice just to sit here and look at everyone walk in and out. Relaxing, like maybe how it is to be dead, just sitting at the sidelines, watching others take their turns. The office, now there’s a place he is glad to be done with. No, it’s not likely he’ll be sitting across Olympic Boulevard looking at that building with longing eyes anytime soon. Not that he minds working—he’s not lazy—but time comes for everyone to make choices, even him, and walking out like that makes twice today that he made himself be sick.
Here comes a black Datsun Z. That’d be Candy; he knows, he saw her get into that car one night last month. Purely by chance, that he saw her, he wasn’t spying or anything, just happened to be leaving when she was. She even said goodnight to some guy getting into a car next to her, some customer whom Carroll recognized as a semi-regular. It was pretty perfunctory, like Goodnight, whoever the fuck you are, or Goodnight, come one step closer and I’ll scream, but still it would’ve been nice if she’d said it to him too. He even fumbled with his keys for a second to give her a chance, even thought she looked his way, but nothing. Into the black Z and gone. then to add insult to injury the guy whom she did speak to looked at him and smiled, gloating like. So Carroll said goodnight to him, but he didn’t respond, and later Carroll felt stupid, like the time they were showing off scars in the lunchroom and by the time he got up the nerve to display a childhood cut on his elbow everyone was on to a new topic and ignored him. Th
ere he was, sleeve rolled up and no one looking. So he went to the sink and washed his hands as a sort of cover. He was right; that is Candy. Locks her door, into the club and gone.
Two men whom he has seen many times inside just came outside. They walk to their Lincoln and get in the front seat, where, as nearly as he can make out, they take turns pulling on a bottle of something. Probably liquor. The club serves no alcohol by law, Carroll knows, but that doesn’t keep the hot shots from drinking. Twice he’s walked in on somebody sipping from a small bottle in the men’s room, and once he saw a guy adding to his drink below the counter level from a flask he kept in his boot. Now these two guys are getting back out of the Lincoln and returning to the front door. It’s supposed to be no in-and-out privileges, like the parking garage at work if you don’t have a card, but some guys get in and out all they want. Must be the same guys whose names are on that clipboard kept by the DJ/doorman. Do the drunks and crooks in this world get everything, or do the guys who have everything become drunks and crooks? For his part Carroll would be happy just to talk to Stevie one more time, but that, even if he sees her in the lot, would be risky. She may not have been working last night but you can’t tell what she might have heard, can’t tell about what friends she has here, what the net at Indiscretions is like. That’s getting to be a real liability for him, a mini-crook in his own right. He doesn’t want another escort by that black guy, doesn’t want to ruin that relationship too, such as it is.
Here comes a white Toyota. But it doesn’t park, merely cruises the lot, passing by the empty spaces as well as the taken ones. That sort of thing makes Carroll nervous, but the car swings out into the alley and away without spotting him at all, not that he has any reason to think they would care. A silver something—he can’t identify it—pulls into one of the empty spaces after turning fast (practically on two wheels) into the lot. But once the dust settles he can see that it’s nothing, just three guys in short-sleeve white shirts and ties, probably done with work for the day, heading for the entrance. That rankles, when you think about it, that these nobodies can waltz in there like they own the place when he has to sit in his car and watch, afraid even to be in the lot. Well, you make your bed. . . . There’s that white Toyota again. This time it stops right in the middle of the lot and (surprise) out pops the new redhead from the passenger side. She slams the door and storms into the club. Mad. Must’ve been a fight because whoever is driving the car speeds away so fast that Carroll can see the gravel kicked up, hitting some of the parked cars, and it takes forever for the dust in the lot to settle.