by Steve Bloom
“I shit you not,” I state, still somewhat in shock. We’re in the men’s room, doing our usual desultory—adjective, superficial, perfunctory—job of mopping the grungy tile. We don’t bother with the gunked-up sinks and the toilets; you don’t want to know about them. Let’s just say we consider them a no-go zone. In short, the men’s room at The Gun’s not a place you want to spend a lot of time in, hence our extreme haste.
“Three hundred non-tax dollars,” I report, swiping like mad. “More than we take home in a whole month slaving in this dump.”
“For one crummy night?” The Murf says. He’s shielding his nose and mouth with a sleeve to protect his lungs from the industrial-strength disinfectant he’s pouring indiscriminately. The stuff’s pure poison but covers the stench.
“That’s just it, it wasn’t crummy. Dana was all right. I pretty much had an outstanding time,” I muse. “Incredible food at a place I’ll probably never be able to chow down at again. Awesome tunes by a really sick band . . .”
“And the Lamborghini!” The Murf wheezes, having inhaled some fumes despite his best precautions. “Don’t forget the Lambo!”
Keeping all physical contact to a bare minimum, I kick open the swinging door for The Murf to make a quick retreat from the chamber of horrors. We abandon the bucket and mop. I scramble right behind him.
“I don’t get it. What’s the catch?” The Murf protests, breathing in and out, once we are safely outside.
There is no catch. My one brush with the one percent is history. Never to happen again. But the brief taste of it has left me hungry for more.
---
Why Columbia? The two simple words stump me. I’ve been staring at them on my laptop for going on an hour now.
The Gun’s closed Sundays, another brilliant move by upper management. Because if The Gun was open on Sundays, it would be the only place open to chow down in town. Duh. But I’m glad. Because I use the Lord’s Day to play catch-up. And every week, I have more and more to catch up on. I battle through two overdue midterms papers, one in AP English and the other in Honors History, and endure hours of tedious reading in Honors Biochem, Spanish, and AP Calc. So it’s not until almost midnight that I am finally ready to start tackling my application to Columbia. For my last meaningful semester, I’ve chosen a brutal academic schedule, but it can’t be helped. I need the weighted points. With my marginal scores, the transcript’s more vital than ever. Rubbing my bleary eyes, I refocus on my screen and the latest monumental task at hand.
Why Columbia? It’s the topic for my all-important first short essay question. I have three hundred fifty words and, though I’ve racked my brain for weeks now, I can’t come up with a single one. Not like my application to Rutgers, which took me all of an hour because Rutgers doesn’t bother with profound, pointless questions. Why Columbia? The honest answer? For the Brand. For an Ivy League degree, the golden ticket, the magic pedigree that will open all the right doors that otherwise will never open for me. For the same self-serving reasons that everyone else has. Because I want to do something interesting and of consequence with my life, to be all I might be if I was only given a chance. But I can’t write the honest answer. Because personal advancement’s too crude and crass for the Admissions Committee’s delicate sensibilities. Mere monetary gain’s so beneath them, the gatekeepers to the Good Life. Of course, they’re all loaded; the ones who get to do the asking always are. No, I have to act all lofty and high-minded. I have to profess to want to make the world a better place in some small, insignificant but symbolic way. In the immortal words of Strack, it’s such crap.
Bursting with indignation, I furiously type:
Why Columbia? Why Filetto di Manzo? Why Lamborghini? Why Boss? Why, for that matter, Johansson? Why Columbia? Like it’s not totally obvious. But no, they have to make you come out and say it, to make you get down on your knees and beg. Why not fucking Columbia, you sick sadistic assholes? Because it’s the best. Duh. Why ask such a stupid bullshit question?
Then I stop typing and frantically backspace, taking hold of my senses.
That’s it, Brooks, alienate the crap out of them in the first paragraph of your application. Alienate. Verb. To totally piss off . . .
“HEY HO, LET’S GO!”
I snatch up my cell before I can check the display, grateful for any interruption.
“Igor’s House of Pain. Igor speaking.”
A long pause with lots of background noise, and then a deep, muffled voice responds: “This Rattigan?”
It’s a sinister voice. A voice that sends shivers shooting up and down my spine. A voice that sounds like it’s in the concrete business and can either personally pound me into pulp or order someone else to do it. I gulp. The past has finally caught up with me. My mind reviews who I’ve recently offended. I get lost. It’s a substantial list.
“And this is?” I ask cautiously.
“Brooks Rattigan?” the voice repeats ominously.
“Sorry, but I think you have the wrong number.” I hurry to click off, when the voice yelps, “No, don’t hang up! It’s Lou Frohnapfel! I work with Todd Burdette! He said I should call!”
Todd Burdette? Todd Burdette is Burdette’s uncle. I pause. Why would Burdette’s uncle tell Lou Frohnapfel to contact me? Then I almost start to laugh as it dawns on me what has to be the answer. Because it can only mean . . .
“Let me guess,” I say. “You have a daughter?”
“A lovely girl,” Lou’s tone warms considerably. “Honor Roll. Co-captain of the Passaic field hockey team. Homecoming Dance is this weekend . . .”
“Look, Mr. Frohnapfel, I’m really sorry . . .” I can’t believe it’s happening again.
“Sylvie’s never been, and she has her heart set on going, and no one’s asked her . . .”
“Love to help you out, but I just can’t. I work weekend nights.” Besides, I think to myself, unlike Havendale Hills, Passaic is hardly new territory to me. I’ve been to Passaic. And it’s not that much different than Pritchard.
“I’ll pay you fifty dollars.”
Fifty whole dollars? My pride, which I didn’t know I had, is actually hurt.
“I’m the Assistant Weekend Night Manager,” I haughtily inform him. “I’ve already taken one Saturday off.”
“Okay, seventy-five! My wife’s all over me!”
Seventy-five. Frohnapfel’s not even in the ballpark.
“If I ask for another, I’ll be fired.” I am finished with the conversation.
“One hundred!”
I roll my eyes. My hackles are up. I mean, I’m not going to do it, but I’m not going to do for a lot more than a lousy C-note. I feel compelled to set the record straight.
“For your information, Mr. Frohnapfel, last Saturday I netted over three hundred.”
“Three!” Frohnapfel shouts. “Burdette told me two, you little rat!”
I am outraged. The son of a bitch is trying to lowball me.
“Two-fifty,” I say, just to let him know who he’s dealing with. “Take it or leave it.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll take it!” shrieks Frohnapfel.
Two-fifty. Two-fifty’s real money. I glance at my laptop screen. At the words that have come to define my life: “Why?” And the resounding answer: “Columbia!” Another two-fifty lets me quit the mindless drudgery at The Gun and buys me the time and edge I so desperately need if I am to raise my Verbal those crucial seventy-five points. Another two-fifty’s worth risking my job for. And, like The Murf noted, what’s the catch?
I lean back in my chair and put up my feet. In an instant, our roles have reversed. I’m in the driver’s seat, and he’s the mule pulling the cart. I know I shouldn’t, but I smile despite myself.
“I’ll need to rent a suit. I don’t own one,” I say reluctantly, still on the fence.
“And the suit! We done now?” he snarls.
“And gas.” I know I’m pushing the envelope, pressing my advantage unfairly, but the rush of having actual leverag
e for once in my life is so great I can’t help myself.
“Gas? It’s just forty minutes! We’re in Passaic!”
Forty minutes without traffic, he means, which there always is. Try more like ninety minutes on a good day—and that’s each way.
“I use high-test,” I say. “Last time was murder. And tolls. They really add up.”
“You’re killing me, kid!”
“Nice chatting with you, Lou.” I grin. I hold all the cards. I silently count to myself. Whatever will be, will be. Going once, going twice, going, going, go—
“All right! All right!” the once-mighty Frohnapfel squeals. “Two-fifty plus the suit and gas and gratuities! Satisfied, you bloodsucker?”
I am.
---
Well, folks, it all kind of snowballs from there. At work the next day, when Pat threatens to fire me if I take off another Saturday night, I experience the supreme satisfaction of telling him to buzz off and walking off the job. I am fine with it because the way I figure it, where there’s one Frohnapfel, there’s got to be more. Greener pastures beckon. Standing in, I decide, will become my new temporary vocation. The Murf, needless to say, is less than understanding.
“You do realize you’ve completely lost it?” he asks as he exhales a huge cloud, offering the bong to me. I beg off, pulling up my jacket in the crisp night air.
“So I make a few girlish dreams come true and rack in the ducats at the same time,” I posit, for the sake of argument. “No harm, no foul.”
We dangle side by side on the swings in the playground of the elementary school we once attended together. We go back that far. Since those halcyon—adjective, tranquil, happy—days, the swings have been our favorite place to kick back and ruminate—verb, to contemplate one’s place in the world.
“But it’s like being gigolo!” The Murf declares.
“Gigolos have sex, dude. I’ve given that up, remember?” I get a little huffy. “They’re paying me to spend time with their little darlings, not make time with them. I do have some standards, you know.”
“Since when?”
I smile. My friend knows me too well.
“I need this, Murf. If I don’t have to spend one-third of my waking hours punching a clock anymore, I can keep up with my classes, which means I can work on my application and cram for my boards.”
“You’re a sick man, Rattigan. A very sick man.” The Murf shakes his head woefully.
“And with the kind of money I make, I can afford Farkus.”
“Farkus?” The very sound of the word repels him. “What is it, some kind of banned brain steroid?”
“Close. An SAT coach,” I explain. “Farkus knows all the tricks, traps, shortcuts, ins and outs, dos and don’ts. Not only the dorks in Science Club but the dweebs on the Robotics Club swear by him. Plus, at two-fifty a crack plus expenses, I might actually bank some serious dime toward tuition.”
“Dude,” The Murf cautions. “Senior year only comes by once and it’s going by fast and you’re fucking wasting it.”
“So I’ll be missing a few parties,” I admit grudgingly.
“A few parties?” The Murf jumps in. “Try one nonstop one!”
“I’m investing in my future,” I say doggedly. “And if you ever got your shit together, you’d be buckling down too.”
But, like always, The Murf’s not hearing it. He just shakes his head.
“Gina Agostini, man,” he says sorrowfully. “Gi-na A-gos-ti-niiii.”
Gina Agostini. Of dark backseat and darker back room. For a second, the sweet tingling sensations sweep over me. The promise of late nights and early mornings of overheated passion, which I risk forfeiting. But in the end I don’t waver. Because I’m hurtling at supersonic speed to a crossroads, maybe the biggest in my life. And, as the great Yogi Berra advises, I’m taking it.
The Murf and me look at each other. For the first time, a gulf is forming between us. We both feel it.
“So you’re just going to desert me to fend for myself in that hellhole?” he grumbles. Unlike me, The Murf can’t just up and quit. He needs the cash to make ends meet and The Gun, pitiful as it is, is one of the only places offering gainful employment around Pritchard.
“I’ll visit whenever I can,” I promise. I feel guilty. The Murf is going to be lost at The Gun without me, but desperate times require desperate measures. Somehow, I resolve, I’ll make it up to him.
---
I’ll spare you the blow-by-blow with Sylvie. Let’s just say, for Lou Frohnapfel’s daughter, she’s astoundingly attractive. And if you’d ever met Lou, you’d appreciate what I mean. And the Frohnapfel abode. It has sort of a giant Egyptian temple thing going on, but in Passaic. Now there’s a combination for you. Sylvie looks radiant in her new grown-up dress as I deftly pin on the corsage. I do my usual configurations for the camera with the extended, and I mean extended, Frohnapfel clan. Then it’s off in Lou’s Lexus LS 460. It lacks the oompf and acceleration of the Lambo, but I’m genuinely impressed by the ergonomics. Those Japanese designers pay such attention to detail.
My culinary horizons continue to broaden. I find both the Chateaubriand and the level of Sylvie’s conversation enthralling. Her reach is Cornell. She goes to parochial school so the dance is over way early, at like ten. We stop for a burger with her crowd and, before I know it, the Lexus is back at the door by eleven. Sylvie’s mom’s weeping tears and Lou gets all misty-eyed and slips me an extra fifty. We actually hug. I ask Lou to spread the word. Lou says he’ll see what he can do.
Monday morning I get two calls, one from Montclair, the other from Piscataway, for the same Saturday, and suddenly I have a couple of tycoons on call-waiting engaging in a bidding war in five-dollar increments for my services. To my credit, I feel honor-bound to accept my first offer. Mustn’t be too greedy. Don’t want to get a bad rep when the enterprise is just launching. Tuesday I get three more inquiries for the Saturday after that. Wednesday I’m turning down business left and right. I’m fitted for a suit at Bissell’s Menswear, which is purchased on installment, which I figure I can double and add as a surcharge.
---
Alana Schmitz has a great smile and a slight acne problem but nothing that won’t clear up with time and the right medication. Having met like just two minutes ago, we nonetheless pose arm in arm before an enormous carved mantelpiece like we’ve been together for years. She’s applying Early Decision to Brown, wants to be an actress, and knows the lines to every movie every made. I know because I try to stump her but can’t. Her dad owns a Jag F-Type. We’re talking supercharged V8, top speed well over two hundred. This baby moves like a bullet. I find my allegiance to the Lambo is sorely tested. We sup on sushi. A first for me, but definitely not the last. I dig the brininess. We get down at the big dance and then afterwards hang with a bunch of her over-emotive, kind of dippy—but in a nice way—theater friends singing wacky folk songs around somebody’s fire pit. At the stroke of twelve it’s back to the castle, where I am fawned over by effusive parents. Strictly routine. Ka-ching! I net a cool two-eighty.
By my fourth Saturday, all mantelpieces look the same. Brianna Karp wears a beige halter number and braces that were supposed to come off last year. Mrs. Karp practically suffocates me in her bosomy embrace. She’s divorced and there is no Mr. Karp, so I’m forced to make do with her Land Rover, which drives like a Sherman tank compared to my previous modes of luxury transport. Yeah, I know—oh, the sacrifices we make, right? We have yakitori. Another first-but-not-last for me. I love the whole skewer thing. Bri-Bri’s a gas with a wicked sense of humor and a nastier moonwalk. She’s hoping for Swarthmore. Ka-ching! Chalk up another two-seventy-five in the kitty.
When Charlie asks what’s up with the suit, which I’m stunned he’s even noticed, I tell him I found a new gig with a fancy caterer. He doesn’t suspect a thing. In the meantime, my phone keeps buzzing. And why not? My testimonials are through the roof. Permit me just a small sampling:
“Thanks, Brooks, you�
�ve made this the happiest day of my life!” Sylvie Frohnapfel, Passaic.
“God bless you, Brooks Rattigan!” Marjorie Karp, West Orange.
“Brooks Rattigan treats a girl the way she wants to be treated, even if it’s just for one night.” Alana Schmitz, Montclair.
“So polite!” Burdette’s aunt, Havendale Hills.
“Discrete.” Burdette’s uncle, Havendale Hills.
“Responsible.” Jack Schmitz, Montclair.
“Respectful.” Joanne Schmitz, Montclair.
“A great listener!” Dana Burdette, Havendale Hills.
“A true humanitarian!” Lou Frohnapfel, Passaic.
“And he’s a terrific dancer!” Bri-Bri Karp, West Orange.
How’s the song go? Got to keep the customer satisfied. Well, I do, and at the same time I’m living the high life. Everybody’s happy. It’s too easy. Then comes the fateful Lieberman call. But I’m getting way ahead of myself.
Because it’s now almost October 13 and Zero Hour approaches . . .
Final Showdown
The SATs are less than a week away, and as the last precious minutes tick by, I am increasingly panicked and on edge. Despite my endless hours of mental toil, my practice Verbal’s going not up but down, and all this abstinence from everything worth living for has me busting at my fraying seams. I’m chugging Red Bull like water and taking long cold showers to stay alert. But I know it’s all going to come down to Farkus.
He’s expensive. Like really, really expensive. Farkus commands an hourly rate a Wall Street lawyer would envy. Try $325 an hour. I’ve budgeted myself five hundred, which gives me just over ninety minutes. Lily Gunkel says that’s more than plenty, and her scores shot up over two hundred. After just one session with Farkus, Phil Chen’s went up almost three. The man, I’m assured by one and all, is a giant of the craft, a genius, a game changer. And you can’t argue with results. Even so, I’m apprehensive because I can never quite get the specifics about what exactly makes Farkus so fantastic.
I pace back and forth. It’s three after the top of the hour, and when you’re being charged by the minute, every minute matters. I peer outside through the blinds and spy this spanking-new cherry-red Porsche Boxster GTS—list price at least seventy large without the extras—whip up along the curb to my dingy garden apartment complex. A telephone pole’s blocking my view so I can’t see who gets out, but I can hear slow, ominous steps making their way across the courtyard and up the three flights of stairs. They seem to take forever. The suspense is killing me. I am in my own horror movie.