Underwood, Scotch, and Wry

by Brian D. Meeks

  “To answer your first question, I was implying exactly that. As for why I might cavort, as you say, with younger women, I say this: because I can. We are consenting adults. I don’t fool around with students anymore.”

  “Arthur, you know I like you, but this has to stop. What is this about a sexual harassment suit?”

  “I’m being sued.”

  “By whom?”

  “You remember Crystal. She wore the red dress that showed off her considerable…”

  “Yes, I remember her. She wore it to the Christmas party if I recall.”

  “If I recall, you commented about the cut of the dress twice.”

  Grosvenor took a long pull from his drink and sighed. He said, “I don’t remember making any such comments, but, yes, I do remember her. Is there any merit to this suit?”

  “There is not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “What about this hearing? I may not be a model employee, and I’ll admit to a certain disregard for the decorum of academia, but the SMS 301 was going well. I didn’t want to teach the stupid thing, but I did. Attendance was at nearly 100 percent.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Then why is Mary on the war path?”

  “Why do you care? You’ve always made it clear you were too good for teaching.”

  Quiet settled over the call.

  “Arthur, are you still there?”

  “Yes. I’m just thinking. You’re right. I’ve been an arrogant S.O.B. since day one. I probably owe you an apology, but, since I suspect your fingerprints are on that story, I’m not paying up.”

  “What’s the bottom line?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “I’m being run out of town on a rail, and, for the first time, I think I actually mind.”

  “I’ve got to go. I have another call. You’re sure the suit doesn’t have any merit?”

  “I am,” Arthur said and hung up.

  Jonathan didn’t really have another call. He needed to think, and he could only take Arthur in small doses.

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  Rebecca was pretty but in a wholly generic way. She had been the head cheerleader in a tiny high school. Her first job, which she considered beneath her, was running a register at the Wal-Mart on the edge of town. Among the blue-clad crew she was a flawless diamond who shone so brightly that one had to look away for fear of permanent retina damage. Despite loathing her job, she considered it a character flaw to not excel. She was employee of the month for an entire year until the manager called her in. He explained that though she was still the top employee, they were giving it to Ellen because her father had passed and the fifty-dollar bonus was much needed.

  Rebecca had graciously accepted an end to her reign, though it secretly ate her up inside. She could no longer look at the wall covered in her head shots. It wasn’t just any Ellen who had been given her award; it was the same girl who, after the summer between sixth and seven grades, had returned to school with attention-grabbing breasts. It had been an unforgivable transgression.

  It wasn’t until Rebecca stepped foot on the University of Iowa campus that she encountered the limits to her charm and physical appeal. Iowa City was crawling with women who were pretty, charming, and dead set on getting their advanced Mrs. degree after four years of sorority life.

  Serious girls were on campus, too, but she couldn’t be bothered with them. Those girls weren’t even in the game. After a year of thinking she might get a business degree, she declared a journalism major. She had written some stuff for the high school newspaper, so it seemed like a plausible choice.

  A member of the Tri-Delta sorority, Stacy, dated Mark who was a senior in journalism. Rebecca hated everything about Stacy but especially the way she said she came from the “North Side” of Chicago. Stacy had a BMW, fake boobs, and shiny hair that seemed to be unaware of the concept of “bad hair days.”

  Journalism became Rebecca’s passion when Mark was nearby. She subscribed to the New York Times and kept abreast of the important articles and bylines. He read it daily, and she was always ready to chime in on the most current of events and always from the correct point of view.

  Rebecca, wearing a plaid skirt and white blouse, just happened to run into Mark at the library. She had some questions about journalism and writing and how he got so many good ideas for his articles in the Daily Iowan. Once he was talking about himself, she fawned until he suggested they go get a drink.

  Rebecca never thought of herself as a booty call but when he graduated and left for The L.A. Times with Stacy, who now wore a massive diamond, by his side, Rebecca slid into an abyss of rage that stayed with her to this day. Rebecca was no longer petty and jealous; she was angry. It wasn’t just Mark but all cheating bastards like him.

  Her journalism degree landed her an internship at a small paper. Though she never slept with any of her bosses, there was an air of eventuality and hope that hung about her, which made an offer of permanent employment a foregone conclusion.

  Once she was ensconced, she wormed her way into the best stories. Still, the best stories weren’t that interesting. For two years she had been looking for something that would get her noticed outside of Nowheresville, USA.

  She hated the small town. Rebecca had long ago set her eyes on New York where she would make a name for herself and laud it over the Marks of the world. This story was the punch on her ticket.

  It was late. A few people were still working on stories, but most people had left for the day. Rebecca had turned in her copy earlier in the day, but she wanted to give it a little more polish.

  She banged away on her laptop and carefully skirted the edges between facts and reasonable assumptions. Rebecca wove in the questions from her interview with President Grosvenor and, with great flare, used his non-answers as ringing indictments of Arthur.

  Somehow, in her mind, she had cast Stacy as the victim during her affair with Mark. It didn’t matter that Mark had waited for Stacy and not Rebecca at the end of the wedding aisle; she was the one to be pitied. Crystal reminded her of the girls of Tri-Delta. It was easy to feel sorry for her from Rebecca’s lofty and enlightened perch in the fourth estate.

  Though she hinted there were others who would come forward, she had found nobody willing to go on record. It was easy to dig up names of women who had been involved with the literature professor but none would say a bad word against him. She wrote, “Of the many women who fell under the professors spell, none were willing to revisit the memories they had long since buried. It is only the bravest among them, Crystal, who has come forward to shed light on his long history of abuse.”

  Her editor had questioned if it was wise to go so far as to claim abuse. Rebecca, after undoing one button, had stormed into his office, leaned over his desk, and demanded that he trust her. She knew the facts, and they were ironclad. Arthur was a monster. It was their job to stop him. She emphasized the word their. It would run as she had written it.

  In the editor’s defense, his wife, a beast of a woman, had left him two months earlier because “she wasn’t attracted to him anymore.” It had left him with a blind spot with regards to Rebecca.

  She closed her laptop, satisfied that there was nothing more to be done.

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

  In one day Arthur would appear before the committee who would judge him, he imagined, harshly.

  The reporters had tired and gone home. He was free to leave the house.

  The refuge of his tiny home and the slow moving clock had provided ample opportunity to continue with his new story. He wasn’t sure where it would end, but the journey had been enjoyable. He liked the characters and their tale.

  Arthur missed Wen. They had decided it best that she not come over before the inquisition. Eric visited once or twice, and Kurt came over to help with getting Crystal’s confession recorded, but, besides that, it was him and Maltese.

  He had had ti
me to read. The books were comforting, but each one was well-used. He wanted something new. The bookstore would help.

  A tiny bell let the staff, which consisted of a man in bifocals and grey tabby named Elizabeth Bennet, know that a customer had arrived. Lizzy purred at his leg. Arthur picked her up.

  All bookshops should have at least one feline employee, he thought. Arthur carried her as he wandered through the stacks, and she let him. They passed Twain, Turgenev, and Tolstoy, all without comment from his furry helper. Lizzy seemed disinterested in Nabakov, too. Arthur loved his writing, but he already had read most of his work.

  The one saving grace he had found in giving up writing to badger students about literature was that it was his job to read. Over the last ten years he had read much that was great and much that was not. He wanted something new but not fresh off the press. He wanted old but new to him.

  Lizzy reached out a paw in the C’s and batted the spine of a book by Paulo Coelho: The Alchemist. Arthur remembered the book coming to press. It had been an international bestseller. He couldn’t remember why he passed it up.

  He read the blurbs. An echo of a comment from the past suggested someone might have used the word “phenomenal” to describe the work. It was entirely within the realm of possibilities that the word had led to his dismissal of the work as trivial.

  The first few pages, though, were anything but. Arthur was hooked. He returned Lizzy to her box on the front counter, and her assistant rang him up.

  It was time for lunch, so Arthur walked to the diner with the blue awning at the end of the block.

  The waitress was college age and nice enough looking that Arthur might have lingered in his admiration of her figure, but he didn’t. He noted she was pretty, placed his order, a BLT and Pepsi, and cracked open the book.

  It began, “The Boy’s name was Santiago.” Within three pages Arthur liked him. He read on. When the food arrived, he nibbled at the fries because he could do so without taking his eyes off the page.

  Eventually, he ate the BLT. It was delicious, but the sandwich’s flavor paled in comparison to the story that Coelho had crafted. It had an easiness about it. On more than one occasion Arthur set the book aside. A passage needed to be discussed, but he was alone in the crowded diner.

  A young man, sporting Seattle grunge finery, sat next to him. He knew the waitress and called her by name. From his drab olive-green satchel he withdrew a battered copy of The Alchemist.

  Santiago had talked of omens as had the people he ran into, and it seemed to be an important theme of the book. Surely, this was a sign. Arthur didn’t believe in signs.

  Arthur held up his copy and said, “I just started it.”

  “It’s one of my favorite books, dude. I totally devour it every few months. Have you gotten to the part with the old man who sits next to him on the bench?”

  “I just have. How did you know?”

  “The bookmark.”

  “You really do know the book.”

  “Totally.”

  “What makes it so important to you?”

  “It makes me want to wander and wonder.”

  “Kerouac did that for me a long time ago.”

  “I’ve read him, too. Same sort of thing only this one is more so.”

  “Are you a student?”

  “Mechanic. It’s my day off, or I’d be covered in grime and have my name on my shirt. The name’s Carl.”

  “Nice to meet you, Carl. I’m Arthur.”

  “Why are you reading it?”

  “I just bought it at the bookstore down the street based on the cat’s recommendation.”

  “I totally know what you mean. Elizabeth Bennet is a well-read cat. She put me onto Elmore Leonard a while back.”

  Arthur smiled. He wanted to ask how an auto-mechanic got into books or how someone who liked to read got into fixing cars, but Arthur couldn’t figure out how to say the words without being offensive.

  “You’re probably wondering why a grease monkey reads stuff like this.”

  “Well, yes, but you did say it was to make you wonder and wander.”

  “You haven’t gotten there yet, but I like to think of myself as the alchemist more than Santiago. Or even the Englishman. I used to empathize with Santiago, but it’s changed over time somehow. Maybe that is why I keep rereading it? Each time I learn something new.”

  “Where does it make you want to wander to?”

  “The desert,” he said.

  Arthur didn’t understand because he wasn’t that far along in the book, but he suspected it would make sense later. Carl opened his copy and started to read. Arthur finished his sandwich.

  There was something about sitting next to this man, a boy really, reading a book that Carl knew so well, and he, the literature professor didn’t that told Arthur there was a point to it all.

  It was uncomfortable reading next to Carl. He had a sense he might get called on or that a pop-quiz was eminent. Arthur paid his check and left.

  The coffee shop up the street put enough distance between him and the young Coelho scholar and engine expert that he could continue reading.

  Arthur sat and read. He read until he was done. By the end, he had more questions than answers, but one thing was clear: if he wanted clarity, he needed to get back home and write.

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  The deposition was at eleven; the inquisition started at two. Arthur and his lawyer, Jerry Arches, arrived before Crystal and hers. Arthur thought it odd since the meeting was at her lawyer’s office.

  Jerry said, “This is going to be fun.”

  Arthur said, “I have to admit after the last article, I’m ready to take my pound of flesh.”

  Jerry looked at Arthur and squinted. He said, “I may not be a literary scholar, but it didn’t work out so well for Shylock.”

  “Two points for knowing The Merchant of Venice. Do they know I’m paying you by the hour?”

  “They do.”

  The door was held open for Crystal and her husband. The team of three lawyers introduced themselves. A stenographer took her seat, too.

  Arthur didn’t pay attention to the underlings’ names, but Ms. Paula Kingston scared him a bit. He imagined her long, serious nose, thin lips, and eyes could calculate a person’s net worth by their shoes.

  His shoes needed a polish, but he knew it didn’t matter.

  “Gentlemen, before we begin this deposition let me take this opportunity to suggest a number that will save us all a lot of time.”

  “We are open to hearing your offer,” Jerry said.

  Ms. Kingston tore a piece of paper off her yellow pad, scrawled a number, folded it, and slid the paper across the table.

  Jerry looked at the number first then showed it to Arthur.

  Arthur said, “A quarter of million seems a little steep.” He took the piece of paper and wrote a counter offer.

  Ms. Kingston opened it and said, “I don’t think ten thousand dollars is going to suffice.”

  “It’s negative ten thousand dollars.”

  She didn’t understand.

  Arthur continued, “Of course, in addition to a check for ten thousand dollars, I’ll also need you to pay my attorney’s incredibly reasonable fees.”

  “Mr. Byrne, you do not understand the magnitude of trouble you’re in. I don’t appreciate this joke. It isn’t funny.”

  Arthur said, “In that case, I’m going to need to insist on fifty thousand...plus fees.”

  Jerry had a smile that would have cost him a fortune in the poker rooms of Atlantic City. Ms. Kingston noticed, and her expression changed. She didn’t say anything for a while. Arthur kept his poker face on, but he could tell she was starting to realize she might be drawing dead.

  Crystal was dumb, but she had done the math. Her face had lost all its color. Her husband just looked angry.

  Ms. Kingston gave a glance towards Crystal and said, “What have you got?”

  Jerry opened his briefcase and removed a digit
al recorder. He also pulled out a transcript. “In the interest of expediency, I’ve taken the liberty of highlighting the important bit.” Jerry flipped to the third page, spun the document around, and slid it to Ms. Kingston.

  She read the highlighted part, then the whole thing. Crystal looked like she was going to pass out.

  Her husband said, “What is this all about?”

  Arthur said, “In Crystal’s defense, she did this because she loves you.”

  The husband looked suspicious.

  “Listen, we hooked up three years ago over and over again...I digress. The point is, it was before you two met. She loves you.”

  The husband said, “We’ve been dating for four years.” Now, he was furious.

  Arthur looked at Crystal and said, “Oh, well, in that case, she cheated on you repeatedly, occasionally wearing a little French Maid outfit that’s burned into my memory.”

  Jerry removed a photo taken at a Halloween party from his briefcase.

  Crystal said, “Oh, I forgot about that.”

  Arthur said, “She’s got great legs, a spectacular ass, and her...well, I don’t need to tell you.”

  The husband stormed out.

  Ms. Kingston said, “Since this trip down memory lane is costing my client by the minute, I’d like to take a moment to consider your original offer.”

  Jerry said, “You rejected that offer.”

  “You’re not seriously asking for fifty thousand plus expenses?”

  “Actually, we have a third, perhaps more palatable offer,” Jerry said as he pulled an envelope out and handed it to Ms. Kingston.

  Crystal scowled at Arthur and said, “You really fucked me.”

  “You always did have a problem with ambiguity. Yes, I did, repeatedly, but you’re not mad because of the past or what I just said. You’re pissed because I didn’t take you home two weeks ago. That guy you married is a chump, and you know it. Take the offer and start over. Maybe you can be happy.”