Wish List

by John Locke

  Hoping to diffuse her anger with humor, I say, “I guess a blow job’s out of the question?”

  Lissie grits her teeth.

  “Don’t even try to tell me you weren’t thinking about another woman. What’s really going on? Are you having an affair?”

  “No! Honey, I swear!”

  She climbs back in bed and turns her back to me. “Thanks a lot, Buddy.”

  I put my hand on her shoulder. “Look, I—”

  “Just…stop.”

  “But—”

  “Real class act, you are.”

  “But—”

  “Asshole.”

  Out loud I say, “Jesus, Lissie,” but in my mind I’m thinking, How did she know?

  But then I realize, women always know.

  Chapter 4

  It’s the middle of the night. Lissie’s sleeping soundly.

  I slide carefully out from under the covers, pad down the hall, and creep softly down the steps to the kitchen. I pour myself a glass of water, sit at the counter, open my laptop and fire it up. I feel guilty, like I’m sneaking porn or something. When the welcome bell chimes, I nearly jump out of my skin, and shuffle quickly to the hallway to look up the stairs to see if Lissie’s coming. I stand there a full minute, but the house remains quiet, save for the light whooshing of my laptop fan in the next room.

  I go back to the kitchen counter, click the internet icon and wait for the welcome page. When it appears, I type www.wishlist.bz in the address bar. A few seconds pass while I wonder what the hell .bz stands for, and then the survey appears, just like Mike said it would. I type in my email address, skip over the bullshit wording that gives the nut jobs hope that their wishes can come true, then type my list quickly:

  Sex with Jinny Kidwell

  A million dollars

  My boss dies a horrible death

  I pause. The first three are bullshit; I know it, everyone knows it. But I allow myself to think, what if?

  What if I put down something plausible? Maybe there’s some whacko millionaire out there who’s reading these lists, waiting for a sincere wish to pop up.

  I think about it a full minute and finally decide to do something special for Melissa, something to get her mind off what happened earlier. Wish number four becomes “Two Front Row Seats, Springsteen Concert, Louisville, Kentucky, Friday, March 12, 2010.”

  Chapter 5

  The next morning Lissie’s still upset. We barely speak while drinking our coffee. I apologize for the second time.

  “You can’t apologize for something until you admit doing it,” she says.

  Her eyes are pale blue, large, and full of disappointment. She looks down at her wheat toast and spreads honey on it.

  Lissie works as a counter sales clerk in the makeup department of Macy’s, nine to five, weekdays only, a schedule that allows us to spend quality time together every workday morning.

  “I’m apologizing because I disrespected you last night.”

  She takes a bite of her toast and looks at me while chewing.

  I add, “Instead of cherishing you.”

  She sighs. “Let’s just get through the day.”

  “It was stupid,” I say.

  “Was it?”

  “I was having a guy moment. I was being a jerk.”

  She studies my face with those giant doll eyes. Then, amazingly, she winks.

  “Maybe tonight you’ll get another chance. You know, to get it right.”

  I rush to her side and give her a hug. We’re cheek to cheek, and her upper body is pressed against mine, and I think about Jinny Kidwell once again…

  And realize I wouldn’t trade Lissie for ten Jinny Kidwells.

  Moments later I’m driving to work, a place where morale is so low you could shoot craps on it. My boss? What can I say—he’s a client-stealing scumbag. I’m a loan officer at Midwestern Meadow Muffin’s main office in downtown Louisville. That’s not the actual name of the bank, but I don’t want to be sued for slander. I’m on I-65, heading under the interstate, trying to merge into the right lane so I can make the Jefferson Street exit, thinking about how Boss Ogleshit threatened to fire me. Ogleshit isn’t his real—oh hell, who gives a damn? I’m broke. Let them try to sue me! I work for Edward Oglethorpe, VP of Midwest Commercial Savings and Loan.

  Friday, before closing, Oglethorpe said, “Buddy Flapjack? I hope you’ve got another career lined up, because time’s run out on this one. You’ve got one week to submit—” he looked at the printout in his hands—“three million in new loans. That’s new loans, Buddy.” To my coworker he said, “Marjorie Campbell? You’re next in line. It’s time to stop resting on your laurels, people. You’re only as good as your last loan app.”

  I merge onto Jefferson Street and turn left into the bank’s parking lot. I find a space, turn off the engine, and take a deep breath. If you’ve ever seen an abused dog cowering before its owner, that’s me each day at the bank.

  You need to realize—well, you don’t need to realize anything at all. But I want you to know there are four loan officers here at the main branch, and we’re all good at what we do. But every time we land a strong client, Oglethorpe swoops in, bribes them with golf dates, lunches, and sports tickets, and tells them to deal with him for future loans.

  “What about Buddy?” my clients say.

  “Buddy’s a great guy,” Oglethorpe says, “but he’s a worker bee. If he writes your loan it has to go to committee for approval. That’s fine for the average customer, but you’re top tier, so why deal with subordinates? You need money, call me, personally. I can get you same day approval.”

  We can’t compete with Ogleshit, so we’ve become hamsters on a wheel, always scrambling to replace the clients he steals.

  As I enter the main office, all five senses are assaulted by the contrived atmosphere some bullshit artist conned the bank’s management into buying. This is supposed to appeal to customers? Who says so? And who signs off on these decisions? Who approved the blue and black geometric-patterned carpet, the plastic potted plants and fake ivy clinging to the walls, the shiny wood veneer desktops, and mind-numbing Muzak piped through the ceiling speakers? Who selected the sickening sweet air freshener that squirts a blast of “Sunny Island Breeze” every fifteen minutes the first and third weeks of the month and “Polar Ice Mist” the second and fourth?

  Muzak’s upbeat version of “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” is playing, as it does every two hours of every day, as it has for the past six years, as it will for the rest of my career, which apparently means Friday. The cloying tune is half over, and I’ve been conditioned to know that “Please Release Me,” is on deck. I wonder why companies like mine pay people to make bad music sound worse.

  I pass Gus, the narcoleptic security guard, and head to my desk. Along the way, I nod in the general direction of the tellers’ forlorn faces, but avoid making eye contact, since I can’t abide their hapless glances.

  I place my briefcase on my desk and take a seat in my faux leather executive desk chair. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, steeling myself for the beepy, electronic version of “Please Release Me” that’s cuing up even as we speak. I open my eyes and flip the tabs on my briefcase to remove some papers, and feel a cold wave of evil wash over me. I look up and—

  “Jesus!” I say, startled by the face that could launch a thousand shits.

  Oglethorpe’s secretary, Hilda, is standing over me, frowning, tapping her watch. My eyes instinctively go beyond her scowl to the faux wood clock on the wall. I’m five minutes early, which makes me ten minutes late, as per Oglethorpe’s Fifth Rule of Success.

  “Guess you don’t care about office rules, since you’re out of here on Friday,” she says.

  Bad as Ogleshit is, he’s not the boss I wish would die.

  Hilda is.

  Since Ogleshit is out of the office most of the time, schmoozing my former power clients, Hilda has assumed control over the office. Everything that happens within the confines of that space
is recorded in her journal: every remark, mistake, or profanity. Every water break, bathroom break, cough, giggle, or fart.

  The bitch is relentless.

  Last month, deep in an audit, I noticed it was 11:30 p.m. and realized I’d been working sixteen hours. I looked across the conference table at Hilda and said, “Wow, it’s almost midnight.”

  Hilda’s look told me I was dogshit on her shoe.

  “I’m fading,” I said.

  “Sink or swim, Pancake,” she said. “Your choice.”

  “Can I at least get some crackers, maybe take a quick cat nap?”

  “Man up, Pancake. This ain’t preschool, it’s your job.”

  I manned up, kept my job.

  When my grandmother was dying in the hospital, and the rest of my family had gathered at her bedside, I asked Hilda if I could leave an hour early to share her final moments.

  “You a surgeon?”

  “No.”

  “Faith healer?”

  “No.”

  “Not much you can do then.”

  “But she’s dying!”

  “Then let’s remember her as she was, before the bad times. Wait a minute. Did she ever bake cookies for you?”

  I nodded.

  “Goody. Cling to that happy thought till closing time. But don’t let it interfere with your work.”

  I know you think Hilda can’t be this bad.

  You’re right.

  She’s worse.

  Chapter 6

  Lunch. Second best part of the day, next to closing time.

  Unless I’m entertaining a client, I only get forty-five minutes, so I have to make it count. I rush out the door, jump in my eight-year-old Taurus, and head for Tokyo Blue, where every Monday they offer a discount for those who sit at the sushi bar and order off a special menu. If I can get a seat at the bar, I’ll have time to make lunch happen. If not, it’s burger and fries, back at my desk.

  The drive is four blocks to Broadway, two to Eighth, where a nearby parking lot provides easy access to the restaurant. Naturally, the lights are timed to make me stop at every intersection, which gives me plenty of time to think about the shameful way I’d spent the morning. I’d been forced by desperation to turn to the one thing I swore I’d never do: write letters to total strangers, invoking their children’s affiliation with my niece, who attends Bluegrass Academy, the city’s most prestigious private school.

  I have two hours to change my mind, but the letters are already in the mail bag for the two o’clock run. I felt dirty signing my name to the sixteen dreadful letters, all of which had been personalized with information I extracted from my poor niece, Reece.

  I wince thinking about the expression I’ll see on Lissie’s face tomorrow when her sister calls to tell her the disgusting way I’m pimping loans. Would she read one of the letters aloud to my wife? Of course she will:

  Hi John and Beth,

  My niece, Reece, told her Aunt Lissie and me how “awesome” your daughter, Meagan is. Apparently, our girls are quite the pair! Reece isn’t ours, of course, but we get her on “loan” regularly. And that thought made me wonder if Meagan’s parents are getting the best possible terms on their “loans.”

  On the chance you might benefit from the best loan rates in town, I’d like to call you Wednesday to see if we can meet on Thursday, so I can offer you a complimentary portfolio review.

  Sincerely,

  Charles ‘Buddy’ Pancake.

  I know what you’re thinking: could I possibly sink any lower? Stick around. You have no idea.

  So sure, I hate myself. How could I not? But I loathe my job and my bosses even more.

  How bad is my job? When I think about today’s lone bright spot, this is what I come up with: I only have to hear “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” and “Please Release Me” two more times today.

  Unless Hilda makes me stay till six-thirty.

  In which case I’ll kill myself.

  Chapter 7

  Tokyo Blue is filling up fast, but I spot three empty seats at the sushi bar. I claim the middle one, and within seconds a long-haired kid in a corduroy jacket and designer jeans grabs the one to my left. I can’t help but notice the kid’s Prada loafers and wonder how he managed to find employment that allows him to dress like this, and pays him well enough to afford it. I’m about to ask what he does for a living when I hear a voice to my right say, “What’s good here?”

  I turn my head to find the seat on my right occupied by an elderly lady wearing a hat that looks so ridiculous, people behind her are pointing and laughing. It’s enormous, and beige, with a dozen huge, mud-brown feathers protruding a foot out the top, arranged in a circle, like some sort of aviary Stonehenge. I can’t tear my eyes away from it, and wonder if maybe someone is filming the customers’ uproarious reactions for a hidden camera TV show.

  “What’s good here?” she repeats.

  “I’m sure it’s all good,” I say, slightly annoyed. I’m thinking about the whiz kid on my left, wondering if he’s self-employed. Maybe he could use a line of credit to expand his business.

  The elderly lady says, “What do you order?”

  I frown. I’d hoped to have a quiet lunch, maybe fortify myself with a glass of sake to keep me from going back to work and cutting Hilda’s head off. For a moment I think about stuffing her bloody, severed head in her panty hose like so much sausage, and smuggling it out of the bank. I picture her fat head bobbing up and down in the Ohio River current like a volleyball.

  “I usually get the Derby Roll,” I say. “It’s got tempura shrimp in it. I don’t usually go for the raw stuff.”

  She’s watching the sushi chef pack a roll.

  “Does he touch everyone’s food with his hands like that?” she says, her voice much louder than necessary.

  The sushi chef glares at her across the top of the glass bar, and I can only hope he doesn’t think we’re together. I look at his face and feel like hiding under my chair. She can’t possibly comprehend the magnitude of the insult she’s given him—suggesting he’s unclean. I try to diffuse the tension before the old bat insults him again.

  “What type of sushi do you normally like?” I ask.

  “Never tried it. Nor will I, after watching Tokyo Joe put his hands all over the food like he’s searching for a tumor.”

  “For the love of God!” says a young lady on the far side of the bar. She gives her ahi tuna a look of horror and lets it fall to her plate.

  “Well, if you don’t eat sushi…” I say to the old bat.

  “I’m here for my granddaughter.”

  I don’t understand. If she’s here for her granddaughter, why is she sitting at the raw bar with me?

  “Did she stand you up?”

  Her face registers surprise. “Of course not! She’s running late.”

  I nod. My interest lies only in the kid on my left, and who, if anyone, is handling his finances. But I can’t seem to shut the lady up. I’ve become a conversation hostage.

  “That’s what they say nowadays,” she says. “’Running late.’” She picks up a plastic menu in her gloved hands and frowns. “What does ‘running late’ even mean? She’s not running, she’s just late.”

  The young man on my left finally looks up. A wave of recognition passes over his face.

  “Mrs. Blankenship?”

  She tilts her head up so she can peer at him through her bifocals.

  “Do I know you, young man?”

  He stands.

  “Not personally, ma’am, but I help manage your AMCT.”

  “My what?”

  “Ali Maddox Charitable Trust.”

  “That’s Allison,” she says, emphatically. “Not Ali.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. We often abbreviate, and shouldn’t. My mistake.”

  Extending his hand to her he says, “I’m Rob Ketchel.”

  She nods. “I don’t shake hands. Nothing personal, but you look like a scruffy vagabond to me. I suppose it’s the style nowadays.�
�� To me she says, “I like the cut of your jib, though.”

  She turns her attention back to the menu.

  Rob is uncomfortable standing there with his hand outstretched. He holds the pose a moment, then reclaims his seat.

  “My granddaughter intends to hit me up for a loan,” Mrs. Blankenship says. “You’d think she’d have the courtesy of meeting me at a decent restaurant and showing up on time.”

  My outlook brightens. “A loan, you say?”

  Chapter 8

  Even without the hat, Mrs. Blankenship is overdressed for Tokyo Blue. She’s wearing a tan linen skirt, white silk blouse, and a linen jacket that’s too young and hip for her. The jewelry adorning her hands and wrists is the old fashioned, inherited kind.

  It’s finally coming together for me: Mrs. Blankenship. The Allison Maddox Charitable Trust. Sitting next to me, liking the cut of my jib, is none other than Whitney Blankenship, one of the wealthiest women in America.

  I signal the waitress and clear my throat.

  “I’ll have a Derby Roll, and my lady friend will have a miso soup and salad.”

  Before Mrs. Blankenship can protest, I say, “My treat.” Then I whisper, “They don’t touch the soup or salad with their fingers.”

  She assesses me a moment, and says, “Well, why not? Serves my granddaughter right. I’ll just start eating without her.”

  “An excellent lesson in punctuality,” I say. Then add, “What type of loan is your granddaughter seeking?”

  Mrs. Blankenship raises her eyebrows at my impudence.

  “I’m only asking because I might be able to help. I’m a loan officer.”

  “For whom?”

  “Midwest Commercial.”

  “Truly?”