by Nathan Roden
“ I talked to a supervisor and they gave my number back. I didn’t want to have to call a hundred people to change my number; I’m going to have to leave again in a month. I just wanted to let you know, sir—better now than at two in the morning, you know?”
“Sure, Lee. Not a problem. I don’t suppose you know anything about the guy who had this number?”
“No. Sorry. That would probably be illegal.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Thanks for calling,” Babe said.
Mr. Pendleton stopped, and turned, looking at Babe with his head slightly tilted, panting.
“How the heck should I know?” Babe said.
Babe had just picked up the television remote control when his phone rang again. It was his father.
“How you doing, Dad?”
“I’m fine, Josh. How is Jack?” Robbie Babelton asked.
“Getting better every day. He should be out of this hospital by the end of next week. How is it look—?”
“Josh, listen. There’s no easy way to do this. I need you to see something. Call me right back. Okay. Can you do that now?” Robbie asked.
“Yeah, Dad. Sure. What is it?
“Check the C-Span website. No, they won’t have it. Shit, it’s probably on You Tube, already.”
“What is it, Dad?”
“Look it up on the computer, Josh—Rick Richmond interview. I want you to see it before it’s all over the place. Please. Call me right back.”
“Okay, Dad,” Babe said.
Babe turned on his computer and watched his hands shake as he waited for it to boot up.
Shit. Shit. What is it now?
Babe went straight to You Tube, where his fears were confirmed. The Rick Richmond interview topped the home page. “Rick Richmond’s Senior Moment”, with 475,000 views. “Stepford Candidate Malfunction”, and “Robo-Senator gets a virus”, hot on their heels. It was already viral.
Rick was seated in a one-on-one interview with a woman who was a regular field reporter with CNN. The interview began with the standard election year banter—nothing unusual; not until Rick referred to the reporter by the wrong name. The reporter was visibly shaken. Her eyes darted around as she sought help from her production team. She squirmed in her seat.
She retained enough composure to ask her next question, making no attempt to hide the fact that she was reading from her notes. Rick Richmond gave a stutter free, concise answer.
The only problem was that it was the same word-for-word answer he had given to the previous question—a completely different question. The reporter was panicking. She put a finger to her ear piece and mumbled something barely coherent about technical difficulties. The network cut away to a previously recorded program.
“Hello, Dad?”
“What do you think, Josh?” Robbie asked.
“No one could make a diagnosis from that, but it doesn’t look good. Campaigns are grueling and exhausting but Rick has been doing this for years. The damn video is already viral. It was on the You Tube home page and I watched the view count go to a million five while I was logged on. Shit, even if it was just a temporary flub he’s going to take a beating for it,” Babe said.
“I can’t believe that enough people watch C-Span for this to blow up,” Robbie said.
“The problem is, Dad, these days, as soon as someone captures a video it can be all around the world in a few minutes. There are thousands of people that live for blood in the water like this,” Babe said.
“God, do I feel old. I have a son saying ‘these days’. The first time I hear you reference ‘the good old days’, I’m going to order my scooter chair. Do you think this is…you know? Alzheimer's or Dementia? I don’t think your mother can handle this, Josh.”
“Yeah, I know. Those are a possibility. Let’s just hope his party people handle this right. Politics is one thing, but, man. I hope they don’t just kick him to the curb,” Babe said.
“I’m not going to call your mother on her cell unless I can’t get her at home by afternoon. I don’t even know where they were when that interview was done. Are the two of you…? When I talked to your mother on Christmas evening it sounded like the two of you had been fighting—”
“We had a little misunderstanding on Christmas Eve, but we’ve talked a few times since. We’re okay.”
“That’s good, son. Call me if you hear from her, all right?”
“I will. And, uh, Dad?”
“Yes, Josh.”
“If you decide to go to Chicago before you come up here, let me know. I could come and stay with you for a few days,” Babe said.
“That would be great. Let’s see what we find out.”
Babe tuned the television to ESPN and muted the volume. He grabbed two beers from the icebox and sat in the floor. Mr. Pendleton climbed into his lap. It felt like a really good time to take the edge off— before he had a shower and got ready to go back to the hospital.
“Mr. Pendleton, you’ll never know how good you had it out there—living in those bushes. At least you didn’t wake up in the morning with Mean Old Mister Reality standing over you holding a shovel full of shit, and saying, ‘Well, would you look at that! I believe you have some empty room there in your lap, Mister Man. Let me just empty this shovel full of shit in there. There you go. You’re welcome, Podner. See ya again, real soon.’”
Babe emptied the second beer in one long swallow. He turned Mr. Pendleton to face him and took a paw in each hand. He sang an impromptu song to accompany their impromptu dance.
*Life is short, and then you die.*
*Somebody punches you in your eye.*
*Let’s be friends, I’m a real nice guy.*
*No. Take this shit, and don’t you ask why.*
*Shit, shit, shit,*
*Shit, shit, shit,*
*Shit, shit, shitty, shit.*
*Shit, shit, shit.*
Babe released Mr. Pendleton from the dance and held the dog’s head in his hands. He spoke in a stuffy, old English accent,
“Do not look at me after that fashion, SIR. I am a trained PSYCHOLOGIST.”
Babe exited the bus juggling a paper sack filled with three bottles. He shook his head at his absence of coordination. One good thing about not driving—if you could behave yourself well enough to avoid the charge of public intoxication, there was no charge for busing while intoxicated.
That runs the count to two balls and one strike, with one out in the Boston half of the eighth. The Red Sox are attempting to avoid a sweep at the hands of the Evil Empire, in this, the third game of a three game set in the city that never sleeps….
Babe squeezed around the big screen television that threatened to block off the entrance to Jack’s hospital room. Jordan grabbed the remote control and lowered the volume. Babe sat his paper bag on the night stand and took out three quart bottles.
“I don’t know if it’s cool or not, but this used to be Gatorade.”
Jordan and Jack simultaneously lifted plastic cups.
“And these,” Jordan said, “used to be empty. There’s more in the sink if you need one. You’ve just about missed this game, not that it matters; Rangers and Angels coming up next. At least that might be a game.”
“Yeah, I’m running a little late. I had a couple of phone calls—two, in one day. You may not know this about me, but I am a social butterfly.” Babe said, pulling up a chair.
“Uh-huh. Well?” Jordan asked.
“My step-dad. He melted down in an interview on C-Span. I don’t know—it might be Alzheimer’s. It looked pretty bad, and of course, there’s a feeding frenzy. The damn video is everywhere. I hope the late night guys have enough decency to lay off.”
“I’m sorry, Babe. We heard about it from a nurse,” Jack said.
“That’s tough, Babe. I’m sorry,” Jordan said.
“If you want to go spend a few days with them, it would be a good time. And I do have some good news for you. I just got the call about an hour ago. The paperwork in London’s fil
e wasn’t just run off at Kinko’s. Somebody knew what they were doing. Forensics said these were the best forged documents they’ve ever seen. These people were confident enough that they didn’t burn Singletary’s file. Or maybe they just didn’t think far enough ahead,” Jack said.
“They underestimated Babe, here, is what happened,” Jordan said, before draining his cup. Jack winced as he reached across himself to give his empty cup to Jordan.
“Hit me, Lloyd. You know, I always liked you, Lloyd,” Jack said with a grin.
Jordan smiled at Babe as he stood.
“Just think of how much useful stuff he could keep in that big, ole square head if it wasn’t half full of movie quotes.”
“That’s a fact, Jack!” Jack said.
Jordan handed Jack a full cup, and said in a British accent, “Perhaps you would like me to come and wash your dick for you, you little shit.”
Thirty-Three
“You’ve heard, I’m sure,” Amanda Richmond said.
“Yeah, Mom. How is he?” Babe asked.
“They’re running a series of neurological tests. The physical has shown nothing conclusively, but…he’s not fine, Joshua. He’s not himself and he’s not thinking clearly. I had to make him take a bath and shave. He was starting to smell. Do you remember how he used to shower so often—like he had a phobia? Last night I went in to check on him and he was just staring, sitting in cold water. I’m scared, Joshua; really scared.”
“Have you…have you talked to Dad?”
“Yes. He’s driving up right now. He’s been—dammit, Joshua, he’s been my best friend—” Babe heard his mother begin to cry.
“My ex-husband—I drove him away and everyone else I know is so shallow and selfish. Just like me. He talks to me when he could tell me to fuck off or eat shit and die. And he would have every right in the world. But he doesn’t. And you don’t either, Joshua. I…I miss you both so badly…” Amanda Richmond’s voice trailed off.
Wow. Mom dropped an “F” bomb. And an “S” bomb.
“Mom, I already told Dad that I can come and stay a few days with him in Chicago. I guess… you’re going to be home for a little while?” Babe asked.
“They’ve suspended the campaign, Joshua. I don’t…I think his career is over,” Amanda said, almost in a whisper.
Babe returned home on the last day of April after spending a week in Chicago with his father. Robbie Babelton was still in Chicago, parked at a campground northwest of the city. He planned to stay until the first of June after which he had a month-long reservation at his favorite campground outside of Boston.
“How is your step-father, Babe?” Millie asked.
Tom listened, leaning on the reception counter.
“The initial tests came back normal, but after the neuropsychological tests the doctors are saying that it’s early Alzheimer’s. His behavior is episodic, you know, normal one second and spacey the next. He’s withdrawn from the Senate race, of course. So, I guess that’s that.”
“I’m so sorry, Babe. How is your mother?” Millie asked.
“No easy way around it, I’m afraid. She’s devastated. She’s been with Rick on the campaign trail for a lot of years, and this— this was like running full speed into a brick wall. She’s a hard-as-nails kind of woman. Well, she used to be. I don’t know what she is, now. But it’s painful to watch.”
“I’m sorry, Babe. If you need me to cover for you—if you need to take off a couple of days…” Tom said.
“Thanks. Both of you. But I need to start earning my paycheck. Is MG coming by today?” Babe asked.
“She said she might. She’ll be here in the morning, for sure. We’re supposed to start the preliminaries on a few applicants. Cyber division has openings,” Millie said.
Babe winced.
“Yeah, that makes sense. After I finish with mine, they’ll probably have to interview with the President, and the Pope, and maybe even…” he brought the fingers of his right hand to his mouth.
“No,” Tom interjected. “You don’t mean—”
“That’s right,” Babe said, nodding.
“Chuck Norris.”
“Hey, Babe. One of your clients came by looking for you on Friday,” Tom said.
“Yeah? Who?” Babe asked.
“Gabriel…Something. Greek, I’m pretty sure.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that he was here?” Millie asked in a huff.
“You were out with MG Friday afternoon. What’s the big frigging deal, Mil?” Tom said.
“He does look like a Greek god, doesn’t he?” Millie swooned. “Like he should be on a pedestal in front of a very important building, gazing to the heavens while bringing hope to the masses—his legs twisted to cover his…or maybe not…”
“You want to wait here while I go take an estrogen shot?” Tom asked. “We can put on our jammies and get all moist talking about boys.”
“Fuck you, Reardon,” Millie yelled, covering her mouth.
Tom and Babe only used the word ‘moist’ in front of Millie on rare occasions since they discovered that the word triggered her gag reflex.
“Did he leave a number? An address? Is he coming back today?” Babe asked.
Tom drew Babe back a little and looked at Babe with a puzzled expression.
”Down, Boy. Did this guy borrow money from you or something?” Tom asked.
Babe glanced toward Millie and then looked back at Tom.
“No, no, nothing like that. It’s just that…his was the last interview I finished before everything went to shit. There was a mix up with his phone number and he hasn’t checked back in.”
“He said he would get back to you later and that he would be gone for a few days,” Tom said. “He seemed pretty cool, said he heard I was kind of a geek and maybe we could hook up online sometime.”
Tom seemed puzzled at the way Babe looked when he heard this.
Jack was discharged from the hospital two days ahead of schedule. He wore an arm sling and had a cane to assist him while his wounded thigh healed.
Jordan finally returned to his new home in Washington, where Samantha would no doubt check in on him while he slept for a few days. Jordan rarely left the hospital while Jack was there.
Babe pushed a shopping cart down the aisles of the supermarket and tried to keep up with MG. They had dropped Jack at his house, and MG inventoried Jack’s kitchen and bathroom. She made a list of needed supplies. After studying three or four items in Jack’s refrigerator, MG raked everything that was left into a large garbage bag. From her kneeling position she handed her pad and pen to Babe.
”Just write down, ‘every fucking thing’.”
Babe’s calves were beginning to burn from trying to stay on the same aisle as MG. They had filled one cart already and it stood waiting at the front of the store.
“I don’t remember seeing deodorant in the bathroom cabinet, Babe. Do you know which one Jack uses?” MG asked.
“Is this a test? Is that a real question?” Babe asked.
“Sorry. For a second, I forgot I was dealing with men,” MG said.
“I know which beer he likes. You know. Important stuff,” Babe said.
“They should have a button at the front of the store for people that have been away from home for a long time. They could call it the, ‘out of everything’ button, or the ‘restock my whole fucking house’ button. That way you could just go sit at the bar—maybe get a massage and come back in an hour or two and pick all your shit up.”
“Are you trying to tell me that you’re not having a good time?” MG asked.
“I’m having a marvelous time, MG. In fact, I have this idea for a reality show starring you and me. We follow people home from the hospital, go inside their homes and throw all their shit away, and then we go out and get them all new shit. That’s must-see TV, right? What do you think? You could be a star, baby,” Babe said.
MG was comparing the labels of two rival boxes of breakfast cereal.
“How
do you feel about people that hit their children in public?”
The next night Babe walked into Momma's Sofa as the pregame show for an upcoming Celtic's game came to a close. There wasn't much of a crowd at Momma’s on this early evening. In the entire rear section by the rear entrance there was only one occupied booth. Babe made for his favorite booth in the opposite corner.
He passed by a young couple in the midst of an argument. They seemed immune to his presence.
God, is no place sacred anymore?
He propelled himself into his booth. He turned away from the couple and toward a television as the basketball game neared tip off. He wasn't much of a basketball fan, but as he was fond of repeating—Man, beer, ball. Do the math.
Yes, I know that’s not math. It's not spelling, either. Like ESPN. It doesn't spell anything and nobody remembers what it stands for, but we WILL have all seven channels of it, by God, because there are moments in every man's life when he absolutely must watch sixty-year-old hair-band singers play poker, or see two Asian women battle it out at billiards at three o'clock in the morning. They play pool without drinking. I didn’t even think that was possible. While we’re on the subject—or not—how about this related subject?
If you build a fire outside and have one man stand around it holding a beer, before long another man will appear, then another, and another—like ants drawn to a dropped Popsicle on the sidewalk—like buzzards to road kill.
Then you could have James Earl Jones narrating and describing where these men are coming from— and why.