The Stand-In

by Steve Bloom

  “Arrivederci! Welcome to The Gun. We aim to please!” Cocking his fingers, he blows imaginary smoke from the barrel gangster-style. “Murphy. Peter Murphy, Night Manager.”

  “Julie, you know this creep?” Mindi asks, giving The Murf a dubious once-over.

  “Don’t ask,” Julie answers, rolling thickly lashed eyes.

  “Right this way, ladies,” The Murf directs, unflappable. “Best seat in the house.”

  He ushers them to the now candlelit booth and makes a great show of removing the Reserved sign on it. Next, in a much rehearsed gesture, The Murf dramatically waves away the menus that the flunkies present, bowing and scraping all the while.

  “If you’ll allow me,” says Mr. Suddenly Slick. He snaps his fingers with commanding presence. “Two Vito Gargantuans on rosemary ciabatta, extra peppers, extra cheese! The works! Pronto! Move your asses!”

  The flunkies bolt back behind the counter. Despite my self-imposed misery, I’m curious to see how the new and improved Murf’s going to play with Julie, but he shoots me a sharp look that makes sticking around out of the question.

  “See you Saturday,” I say.

  He nods. Saturday. Then he spins back to Julie, clasping his hands, smiling slyly.

  “Usually I’d recommend a crisp Chianti to go with the Vito, but since we’re still waiting to hear back on the liquor license and you’re under twenty-one anyway, we offer a wide variety of nonalcoholic beverages.”

  “Just water,” replies Julie.

  ---

  The lights blink on up and down Main Street, or what’s left of it. Most of the storefronts are boarded up, long abandoned, their faded signs epitaphs to misplaced toil and dashed endeavor. A cold wind chills me to my bone-weary soul as I trudge back to my car. I am so tired of it. Of me. I begrudge The Murf nothing, wish him only the best, but his newly acquired sense of purpose accentuates my utter lack of one. Because I have lost mine. Fucking Deferred. I’m spent, the tank’s dry. Besides, what difference does it make? Why keep banging my head against an impenetrable ivy-draped wall? Why not just give up, take the path of least resistance, go with the flow? It’s not like someone’s keeping track or even gives a flying fart. There’s no one out there to monitor my misbehavior, acknowledge my struggle, or sympathize with my plight, no one in my corner to cheer me on, to push and prod. It’s just me, always has been. And I’m feeling it more than I ever have before.

  “HEY HO! LET’S GO!” my cell phone taunts. Yeah, right. What a joke. You ain’t going nowhere, chump. Purely out of reflex, I take the call.

  “Yeah,” I answer dully, too dejected to ply on the professional facade.

  “I want you to know I had to beg, grovel, and generally debase myself,” a girl’s voice announces from the other end of the line.

  I recognize the voice. I never expected to hear it again.

  “Celia Lieberman?” I say. I’ve had no contact with Celia Lieberman or any other Lieberman for weeks. Hearing her voice brings back painful memories of Shelby and the Good Life, both of which are farther than ever out of reach.

  “Uncle Max will see you at his office at 10 a.m. sharp on Saturday,” she informs me proudly. I can hear Gayle shrieking in the background. “Celia! Come see the darling dress I just bought you!”

  Then it dawns on me what Celia Lieberman’s going on about. Uncle Max. The physics professor at Columbia. The potential fingerhold that I never thought would happen. Could Uncle Max be the edge I lack and so sorely need to tip the delicate balance my way just once? I press the phone closer, not sure if I’ve heard right.

  “He will?” Renewed commitment to my own slim cause courses in my veins. Instantly I’m recharged, remotivated.

  Gayle screeches again in the most annoying way possible. “Ce-lia!”

  “I’ll meet you in front of Low Library at nine forty-five,” Celia Lieberman says to me, then shouts at the top of her lungs: “LEAVE ME ALONE! I’M ON THE GODDAMN PHONE!!”

  My right eardrum’s blasted out. The pain’s penetrating and intense. I stagger back from the shock waves ricocheting in my skull.

  “Eight months, eleven days . . . ,” Celia Lieberman mutters to herself. But I can’t much hear her. I can’t hear anything except a tremendous ringing that doesn’t seem to be going away.

  “You’re coming with me?” I croak finally.

  “I can’t let you walk into the lion’s den alone,” she says.

  “What do you mean, lion’s den?” I ask suspiciously.

  She clicks off before I can get an answer.

  Uncle Max

  No matter how many times I experience it, it still floors me. That first distant glimpse of the shimmering City on the northbound train. It comes at you all of a sudden, out of nowhere. A massive mountain range of glass, steel, and enterprise, towering past vast marshlands, beyond the glittering Hudson. It’s like that scene in The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Lion go skipping merrily across the fields of poppies toward the Emerald City sparkling ahead—except I don’t pass out stoned on opium. I stare out my window in awe. I haven’t been around much: Boston and Philly a couple of times, Baltimore once, but no great world capitals like London, Paris, or Beijing, but even so, I somehow know in my soul there’s no City like mine. And nothing gets me stoked like just diving into it. Because in the City, you never know what’s around the corner. In the City, any and all things are possible.

  ---

  When I arrive fifteen minutes early, I discover Celia Lieberman’s already there. Perched way up at the top of the great granite stairs to Low Library, sitting cross-legged, absorbed in a book. I almost don’t recognize her because it’s the first time I’ve ever seen her when she wasn’t wearing a doofy gown or fluffy outfit that Gayle’s picked out for her. Bundled in a knit cap, parka, and jeans, Celia Lieberman actually appears somewhat normal. She quickly tucks away the book into a pocket as she spots me approaching. She stands. I hold out my hand for her to shake. She takes it. Looking her steady in the eyes, I shake her hand firmly for a full five seconds, then release it. Her arm flops limply at her side.

  “So how was it?” I inquire by way of greeting.

  “How was what?” she responds, mystified.

  “The average college interview lasts a mere 6.3 minutes,” I explain. “Every second counts. Thus, the handshake, as my one PPC, assumes enormous importance in the Admissions Process.”

  “PP say what?”

  “Physical Point Of Contact. It’s in all the self-help books.” How so like Celia Lieberman not to know. But then anybody who gets in Early Decision to Stanford doesn’t need to know much about the gentle art of kissing ass like the rest of us mere mortals.

  “A short, weak handshake exposes a lack of confidence,” I explain in all seriousness. “But squeeze too long and hard and you might come off as a pushy jerk. The secret’s a comfortable middle zone.”

  “You’re scaring me, dude,” she says, stepping back.

  I thrust out my hand again.

  “Go ahead,” I instruct. “Give it another whirl.”

  “If I must.” Celia Lieberman reluctantly re-shakes my hand. I give her the full treatment again—steady look in the eye, count to five, release.

  “So how was it?”

  “Weird,” she answers. She plucks two cups of hot Starbucks from the steps and presents one to me.

  “Better not,” I beg off. “I’m wired enough as it is.”

  “You’re nervous?” she asks, surprised.

  Yes, I’m nervous. What does she expect? The lion’s den? What’s that about?

  Dwarfed by immense edifices of higher learning on all sides, we wend our way through the bustling campus. This is a serious place, full of serious people thinking about serious things. It’s almost like you can hear all the brain cells humming. And you know what? I love it.

  “So why do you want to go to Columbia?” Celia Lieberman drills me.

  “Because it’s the closest Ivy League school to my ho
use that I have a prayer of getting into,” I answer lamely but honestly.

  “No, dummy, not the real answer. Authority figures totally get off on lofty, altruistic horseshit.”

  Tell me about it. I think of Little Billy and what almost was and smile secretly. Celia Lieberman has no conception of just how lofty and full of altruistic horseshit I can be.

  “Especially Uncle Max. He considers himself quite the intellectual giant, though he’s a bit lacking in the social graces,” she advises. “What did you say in your Short Essay?”

  “I ended up writing about what a buzz I always get coming here.”

  “Here?” She looks at me, not following.

  “Here. Columbia. Van Am Quad.”

  I stop, taking in the whole view. The Rotunda, with its weathered, chiseled words of wisdom from some forgotten notable. Taint Gate with its ancient clock that still works. Old school, understated, stately. An oasis of calm and reason in an increasingly crazed planet. Oh, to be just a tiny part of it.

  “You come here a lot?” Celia Lieberman asks.

  “Whenever I get the chance.”

  We resume our trek. I expound, though I’m not sure why.

  “I know it sounds hokey but I always picture the people who were once late to class on the very concrete we’re walking on. Alexander Hamilton. Jack Kerouac. Rodgers and Hammerstein. Even Lou Gehrig. Only when they were young like us and just anybody. Both Roosevelts, James freakin’ Cagney, Barack Obama. Before they did their things and made their marks. I don’t know, but it’s . . . it’s like touching greatness. That’s kind of what I said in my Short Essay, but better because I did like a thousand drafts.”

  “Wow,” she says. “Good one.”

  “And, actually, it’s not bullshit,” I admit a little shyly, wondering to myself why I am telling her any of this. Probably because I’m never going to see her again.

  “Uncle Max will eat it up,” Celia Lieberman predicts, trotting ahead of me. “Just be sure and mention Enrico Fermi. He was a member of the Physics Department here when he worked on the Manhattan Project.”

  “I know who Enrico Fermi is,” I object, even though I don’t, hurrying after her.

  ---

  Uncle Max is a real bundle of charm. Craggy and gray, in a fraying sweater-vest, and out-of-control bushy eyebrows, which I have this tremendous compulsion to forcibly pluck. By the way he’s glowering at the prearranged interruption, Uncle Max must have been on the brink of some cosmic breakthrough. And I can kind of believe it, judging from the stacks of thick scientific texts piled everywhere and the twin blackboards crammed with hastily scrawled calculations of dizzying complexity. I can see what Celia Lieberman means now about the lion’s den. I’m way intimidated.

  “Thanks, Uncle Max,” Celia Lieberman twitters nervously. “I really appreciate . . .”

  “C’mon, let’s get it over with,” Uncle Max barks. What was it Celia Lieberman said? A bit lacking in social graces? Try totally lacking. He opens his office door all the way, brusquely motioning her out into the hallway, and double-locks it after her.

  “The daughter’s as batty as the mother,” he grumbles, settling behind a cluttered desk. “You have a name?”

  “Brooks,” I stammer. “Brooks Rattigan.” I hastily remove a surprisingly heavy centrifuge from a dusty chair and sit.

  “Well, Mr. Brooks Rattigan, I’ll tell you what I tell everyone who asks for assistance for admission into this august institute of so-called edification. I’m a professor of physics, which doesn’t rate very highly around here. I have absolutely no influence with admissions whatsoever. So if you don’t mind, I’m an extremely busy man . . .”

  Then, swiveling around in his seat, he surveys the two blackboards, picks up a nub of chalk, springs up, and resumes furiously jotting and erasing jumbles of letters and numbers. I sit there, stunned. That’s it? I got my hopes up and schlepped all the way to Morningside Heights not to get my 6.3 minutes? Uncle Max could at least pretend not to give me the brush-off. I’d like to mess up his equations. I’d like to tweeze the hairs in his brows one by one by the roots. Giant intellect, my left testicle. Try giant asshole.

  But I don’t say this.

  “Enrico Fermi!” I do blurt, desperate not to waste my only chance at a chance.

  He turns to me, curious. “What about Enrico Fermi?”

  As I rack my brain for a follow-up, Uncle Max’s cell vibrates. He grimaces at the number on the display.

  “Close the door on the way out,” he mutters to me. Shuddering, steeling himself, he picks up his phone and clicks on. “What now, Marion?”

  I’ve been dismissed. I will get no audience, no consideration, let alone glowing recommendation. Dejected, I stand and heft the centrifuge back on the chair.

  “What do you expect me to do about it?” Uncle Max growls into his phone. “Take her myself?”

  I reach for the doorknob. I start to turn it.

  “Don’t yell, Marion!” yells Uncle Max. “I understand it’s her senior year. But be reasonable. In the overall scheme of the universe, the Winter Formal hardly rates . . .”

  Winter Formal? I perk up. I linger, sensing opportunity, smelling fresh meat.

  “That’s not fair. But . . . yes, but, but . . .” Uncle Max wages a losing battle to get a word in edgewise. “Of course I’m all broken up about it. Gravity’s our only child, but she’ll live.”

  Suddenly I’m hearing electric guitar solos and a choir of heavenly voices. Dark clouds are parting, blinding celestial light is pouring down on me. I’m illuminated.

  “Get a grip, Marion! It’s not a tragedy . . .” Uncle Max flinches as I hear the line go dead on the other end. He shakily clicks off, rubbing his temples, a monumental migraine coming on. He’s forgotten I’m there, that I exist. I let him twist in the wind for a moment or two, which is what the old grouch deserves. Oh, how swiftly the worm has turned. Picking my moment, I pounce.

  “Excuse me, Professor,” I offer in my most helpful tone. “But I couldn’t help overhearing that you have a daughter . . .”

  “Gravity,” he says miserably, reaching for a large bottle of extra-strength aspirin.

  “A lovely name. Must be a very special girl.”

  He puts down the bottle and looks at me. For a self-proclaimed genius, the cogs sure turn slowly for Uncle Max.

  “Winter Formal,” I mention in passing, coaxing him with my palms to reason it out, to make the connections and arrive at the obvious solution.

  “Oh, she is!” he professes fervently, finally, finally getting it. “An, uh, inspired ceramicist . . .”

  ---

  Celia Lieberman’s pacing anxiously when we emerge twenty-three minutes later. Me with a shit-eating grin, followed by a fawning, effusive Uncle Max.

  “The Dean of Admissions is an old poker pal of mine, Brooks,” he enthuses. “I’ll be sure to give him the full-court press first chance I get.”

  “Thanks, Max,” I say magnanimously. “Anything you can do.”

  Her mouth drops in astonishment as Max, overcome with gratitude, crushes me in an emotional bear hug.

  ---

  “You are such a sleaze!” howls Celia Lieberman, almost choking on her foot-long after I tell her what went down.

  I am a sleaze. A fat, happy one. I marvel at how the winds of fate have so suddenly and so uncharacteristically blown my way. I revel in my ability to spot and seize the moment, take immense pride in my complete lack of scruples. A sleaze, you bet your sweet ass I am. And to celebrate my underhanded feat, I’ve treated us both to two of New York’s finest, heaped high with all the fixings as we thread down the vibrant, teeming sidewalks of upper Broadway.

  “I can’t believe you stiffed poor Uncle Max for 150 bucks,” Celia Lieberman says, mustard dribbling down her chin.

  “Hey, that’s 40 percent off the normal rate, and he insisted,” I say, swallowing hunks of delicious animal fats and artificial additives. “What I can’t believe is that somebody named their daught
er Gravity. No wonder she’s depressed.”

  Suddenly, Celia Lieberman halts, stricken. “Hey, you didn’t tell him anything about me?”

  “Please, I’m a trained professional,” I reassure her. “Discretion comes with the job.”

  We come to the corner and the stairs to the subway. Celia Lieberman stops again.

  “Well, this is me,” she says.

  What she means is this is where we say good-bye, which I abruptly realize will be for the last time. All Lieberman business has been transacted. I should be jumping up and down for joy, but I’m not. I’m appreciative and grateful that Celia Lieberman, that anybody, in fact, has come through for me. As Celia Lieberman awkwardly sticks out her hand to shake a fond adieu, something falls to the ground from her parka pocket. Gallantly I bend to retrieve it for her.

  It’s a paperback book, the one she was reading earlier. The blue cover crinkled and faded, the pages tattered, yellowed, worn around the edges. I recognize it. I should. We have a bunch just like it at home. Skies of Stone by Charles Rattigan.

  Just seeing the title almost takes my breath away. I hand Charlie’s one claim to anything back to Celia Lieberman, looking at her questioningly.

  “Where did you . . .”

  “Online. And let me tell you, it wasn’t easy . . .” she replies uneasily, quickly pocketing it again.

  “How is it?” I ask, mildly curious, but mostly weirded out that she has a copy.

  “So far a real downer, but in a really good way,” she informs me. She pauses. “Are you telling me you’ve never read it?”

  And give that asshole the pleasure? No, I haven’t read it. For a whole slew of reasons that I’ve never been able to sort out and have long ago given up trying to. Mostly I guess because I’ve never wanted to experience firsthand the sheer magnitude of Charlie’s wasted potential. Good? I’m sure it is. But what’s done is done. No use crying over spoiled talent. What’s the point of thinking what might have been if Charlie could have just kept it together? Good? With my luck, I’m sure Skies of Stone is goddamn terrific. Read it? No fucking way.