by Robert Riche
Morrie leads the way to the elevator, with me close behind, and Tony following me. With me in the center, there is a good chance they won’t get to strangle each other before we get outside the door. We take the elevator to the top (tenth floor) to The Skytop Club, one more amenity within the building complex that obviates any need to go outside for services. Within the same complex of buildings you can also shop for anything from fur coats to motorcycles, and there are fourteen other restaurants available, ranging from stand-up hotdog stands to a steak pub or two. Membership in The Skytop Club is limited to executives, whose companies pay annually for the privilege of being overcharged at lunch. But it is a convenient and pleasant dining room for fancy entertaining, and it provides a nice view of downtown Stamford, and of Long Island Sound.
Directly off the elevator there is a receptionist at a desk, one of those quite stylish divorced or early-widowed ladies of about 50, with frosted hair, who has been reduced somewhat from former elevated circumstances. She smiles graciously by way of greeting. She knows us, and doesn’t ask to see my Pro-Tec membership card.
To keep her company, she has a portable radio turned down low, and I catch a snatch of an earnest voice going on about the hostage situation south of the border.
“Anything happening?” I ask her.
“Isn’t it terrible,” she says, and shudders and grimaces, as though having missed an easy putt.
“Any more developments?”
She shrugs. “They’re calling for some kind of negotiations.”
“Who is?”
She shrugs again. “I don’t know. I didn’t get it all.” She smiles at me, and I smile back.
We get a pretty good table by a window, which only costs me a five-dollar tip, and we all order martinis.
The booze has the desired effect of loosening us up, rather than of unleashing old resident hostilities. Tony is loud, and Morrie, attempting to be suave, is only mildly unctuous, the gleam in both of their eyes wary like two Sumo wrestlers. My role in all of this is to act as a sort of referee, or to be more accurate, interlocutor. That is, they are doing all the talking, back and forth, but all comments are directed at me. As, for example:
TONY: “D’jew see that Jets game Sunday, Brock?”
MORRIE: “They sacked O’Brien, what, five times?”
TONY: “Six!”
MORRIE: “He needs protection.”
TONY: “Defense is good. That new kid—. Whatsis name? You know who I mean, Brock?”
MORRIE: “Madison.”
TONY: “That’s the guy. Dwayne.”
It goes on like this, the two of them discussing personnel, strategy, scoring odds, locker room gossip, every conceivable aspect of the game, all comments and questions directed at me, who knows nothing of any of it, and have nothing to contribute as they go on and on about it. I can only conclude it is a way for them to discourse without actually saying anything.
As we go for a second martini and order shrimp cocktails, we move on to golf, Morrie knowing enough about the game to carry on an exchange with Tony, at the same time wisely deferring to Tony’s superior knowledge and prowess.
All three of us claim to be trying to lose weight, so after the martinis and the shrimp cocktails are taken away, we limit ourselves to one bottle between us of chilled Meurseault (which Tony and I both insist that Morrie order), and three Veal Piccate’s with a salad rather than a pasta side dish. Whether or not we will have dessert hangs in the balance, but the pastries here are very good.
There is no mention or even hint of the altercation at Caesar’s Palace three days before. The object of this luncheon, it is clear to everyone, is not to discuss deep-seated hostilities. Possibly such a discussion between these two could end in tables being overturned. Rather, the reconciliation is to be in the form of pretending that nothing ever happened, thereby proving to themselves, and to the world, that it is possible to get through a luncheon together without actually strangling one another.
After the main course is cleared away and the dessert tray is wheeled around, we all three of us decide to abandon our dieting for the day, Morrie choosing the strawberry cheesecake, Tony deciding on the Black Forest chocolate torte, and I ordering the Paris-Brest. Three expressos, Morrie saying, “Make mine a double.”
By this time we have exhausted pretty much our reserve of conversational subjects—football, baseball, golf, and the upcoming basketball season. Tennis, the only game I know anything about, there isn’t much to comment on, except for Tony to volunteer that “McEnroe doesn’t take shit from nobody.”
And so, there comes a moment, as we await delivery of the coffee, when there is a longer than usual silence among us, occasioning Morrie and me to follow Tony’s example by facing out through the expanse of window and surveying the view of downtown Stamford and Long Island Sound. Which, to my mind, is something you can only do for so long a period of time without beginning to feel a little self-conscious, so I venture to ask what they think about the hostage situation.
“Fuck,” says Tony.
“Yeah,” Morrie says.
“Fuckers gonna get it this time,” Tony adds.
“They’re talking about sending in F-111’s,” I say.
“Yeah, fuck ’em up the ass,” Tony says. It occurs to me that Tony rates international politics on the same level as one of his raffles.
“You should be Secretary of State,” I say to him.
“You got it, babe,” he says. “My first act in office. Drop two on Havana.”
“That’s a laugh riot,” I say. “You know what they say the best thing to do is in case of a nuclear attack?”
“What’s that?” says Morrie.
“Put your head down between your legs. Then kiss your ass goodbye.”
Tony roars. Morrie looks puzzled for a moment, then smiles thinly. After which, he says, “Be serious, you guys. We gotta go in, right?”
“They’re talking about negotiating,” I say. “According to the hostess.”
“Fuck negotiating,” Tony says.
“Tony, Mr. Secretary, if you don’t mind,” I say, “I’m not ready yet to cash in my chips. I’d like to see Paris again before I die.”
“Why? You worried they gonna bomb us back, or something?” Tony nudges Morrie. “Brock’s afraid they’ll come up with a fuckin’ Piper Cub, and drop a stick of dynamite on the capitol.”
“We keep messing around down there,” I say. “What the hell are we doing there?”
“Well, we have to be there,” Morrie says with gravity. He looks around circumspectly over his shoulders. “It’s probably not nice to say this, but it’s the truth, the people down there, they’re not really quality, do you know what I mean? I mean, if we weren’t watching over them, there’s no telling what it would be like down there.” He is patient in explaining it to me. “The question is, fundamentally, do we stand for anything, or don’t we? There’s a question of human dignity involved, too. Do we stand for that, or don’t we?”
I find myself quickly turning away from Morrie’s gaze. I am, of course, the wrong person for him to be asking. I have no idea in the world what we stand for. I mean, I agree, I think, I believe in the same things, but do I even know what dignity calls for in this situation?
“I just question whether we have to blow up everybody, every time there’s a problem,” I say, sounding weak, no doubt. “I mean, if we don’t have to.”
To which Tony Passanante replies, cocking his head at me and grinning broadly, “Fuckin’ honor is at stake, man.”
I don’t know. Suddenly, sadly, for no reason that I can explain, I am put in mind of my son, wondering what he would have to say about all this. If I could get him to say anything to me at all about it. I only know that having eaten too much, or drunk too much, probably both, I feel slightly nauseous. I am also vaguely angry with, or sick of, myself. What I really want to do is to get out of there. I’ve accomplished what I was supposed to accomplish. The two guys are talking to one another again.
“I’ll pay the check,” I say, and signal to the waitress, who is serving coffee two tables away. She gives me a dirty look that lets me know she’ll be over when she has nothing better to do. I stand abruptly, accidentally bumping the table and causing the plateware to clatter. I have out my American Express card, and wave it at the hostess at the front table. She sees me, and comes over in a hurry.
“Everything all right?” she asks.
“Wonderful,” I say, “but we’re running a little late.”
“I’ll take it,” she says.
“We’ll follow you,” I say to the woman.
Tony laughs. “Brock doesn’t trust her with his gold card,” he says to Morrie.
At the front register, Morrie fills his fist with peppermint candies, and Tony lifts a wrapped toothpick, which a moment later he inserts over his lower lip.
“Thanks for the lunch, Brock,” Tony says.
“Yeah, thanks, Bill,” Morrie says. They both know I will stick Frank with the lunch as a business expense.
“You’re welcome,” I say, feeling increasingly uncomfortable as we wait for the elevator to arrive at the tenth floor.
As the light goes on, and the door opens, Tony lets escape an enormous belch.
“Leave that outside,” Morrie says, and we enter, the two of them laughing, and the doors close behind us.
CHAPTER XII
My father’s birthday occurs just four days after my own, each of us having been born under the sign of Virgo, a coincidental bit of trivia to which I attach absolutely no signifigance whatsoever.
My father is 78 today, and we all, including Number One recreant grandson, are on our way to visit him in Massachusetts, where he lives in a comfortable four-room apartment in a four-apartment building that he owns. My father bought the building, and moved into the apartment after my mother died ten years ago. It is understood that we always visit my father on his birthday.
In many ways my father is a remarkable man. He not only manages to take care of himself, cooking his own meals and keeping his apartment neat as a pin, he performs the additional duties of superintending the premises for his tenants. He arranges to have the lawn mowed in summer and the paths shoveled in winter, and if no one shows up to do either job, he does the work himself. He keeps the building in immaculate shape, contracting to have it painted, inside and out, every few years, and recently he had new asphalt shingles put on the roof. He shops for groceries at a nearby supermarket, negotiating his way there and back somewhat precariously in a silver and blue Buick LeSabre.
Nor does he lack for companionship. He is enviably gregarious, with everyone, much more so than I am. A number of regulars drop by to visit my father several times a week, and it says something about him that they are all about twenty years younger than he is (those of his own generation either having died or been shunted away somewhere into nursing home oblivion), and this younger group seems to enjoy the visits with my father as much as he does. His pals (for that is what they are) drop by usually after working hours, the routine being for him to pour them and himself a couple of stiff highballs, and they sit around and chew the fat, as my father says. As often as not on the occasion of these visits, my father will shuffle out to the kitchen and cook up something for them all to eat, everyone seating themselves around the kitchen table. On Saturdays, they sometimes go trout fishing together on a stream that runs through property owned by a private limited member hunting and fishing club that my father has been a charter member of for 50 years. My father’s concession to old age is that if they plan to get back after dark, he rides with one of the other members, as the lights of oncoming cars at night interfere with his vision.
My father has a lady friend, Tillie, and although the relationship is exclusively companionable, rather than sexual (a point of insistence he makes to me privately), the feeling between the two is nonetheless close. Merely to hear the name Tillie is to be transported back in memory to childhood Sunday mornings on the floor with the funny papers and the weekly exploits of Tillie the Toiler and her boyfriend, Mac. (Later there were crude booklets circulated among us adolescent boys that had glamorous Tillie copulating next to the filing cabinets with little Mac, his penis the size of a Kosher salami.) I feel certain that if Tillie the Toiler were alive and well, she would look, in her advanced years, exactly the way Tillie Kavanaugh, my father’s lady friend, looks today. Tillie is 70, a widow, once pretty, now, perhaps in an attempt to compensate for her age, tending to apply too much rouge to her cheeks and crimson lipstick to her lips. She retired a few years ago from her job in the bookkeeping department of a local department store. She lives in one of the second-story apartments owned by my father, so they see each other every day, often eating supper together in his place (when the guys aren’t around), then watching a little TV together before Tillie retires to the privacy of her own place upstairs. She had a mild stroke a year ago that seems to have left no ill effects, but she takes pills to thin her blood, and she has cut back to one whiskey and ginger ale per day.
On the way up in the Pontiac to visit my father, the autumnal change to the north is more advanced, the trees along the highway providing a spectacular display of red, orange and yellow foliage. Beyond the sere meadows and harvested cornfields the distant Berkshire mountains are tinged pink and purple. Some years the foliage is more spectacular than in others, and it seems to me now that this is one of the more spectacular years.
“Look at that!” I call out, and point, as we approach and pass under a particularly brilliant burst of red and orange maple tree foliage. “It’s like fireworks!”
“Yeah, Dad, like fireworks,” my daughter says. Annie and she giggle, and I presume I am supposed to feel foolish.
“I don’t care, it is!”
“Like fireworks!” my daughter repeats, mimicking. And, again, she and my wife are filled with hilarity.
“I’m talking about the burst of colors, it almost splashes out and falls away from the center. You know, I don’t mean like fire crackers. I mean like skyrockets. No, those things that explode in the sky, and cascade down in showers.”
“Sure, Dad.”
Oh, they’re having fun. And, I must say, it tickles me to see them giggling and teasing. I am cruising along at about 65, my new fuzz buster installed and ready to give warning.
“You guys don’t see it, do you?” I go on, milking it further.
“Like fireworks!” my daughter repeats herself, exploding again with laughter, like a firecracker herself.
I look in the mirror to see if my son is getting some amusement out of this teasing at the old man’s expense. If he is, he is not letting on. He appears to be asleep in the back of the station wagon, and I don’t think he’s pretending. He was late getting up out of bed this morning, leading me to suspect he may have sneaked out of his room last night to party with his friends.
Actually, it occurred to me last night that possibly he might not be in his room, but I made the mistake of letting my suspicions be known to my wife.
“Of course he’s in his room,” Annie had insisted. “Your problem is you don’t trust him.”
“Excuse me,” I found myself replying. “Excuse me, but we have a little bit of a track record, I think, in which he has not been altogether trustworthy, wouldn’t you say?” This in my snotty British accent tone.
“Then, go out and look in on him,” she said.
“I don’t want him to think I’m spying.”
“Then, if you’re not going to do anything about it, stop worrying me about it.”
I could strangle her when she’s as logical as that. So I didn’t go out, but the more I think about it now, I am convinced that he did sneak out last night, and maybe to go off with the Grand Union gang, too.
What is as upsetting to me as anything else is that Annie, I don’t think, understands the seriousness of the situation. She wants to believe that there is nothing unusual about our son’s behavior. She insists on believing that he is still
the nice little kid he always was. Maybe he is. And maybe he isn’t. My wife doesn’t seem to be aware that the world has changed a lot since we were little kids (on the floor with the funny papers). She doesn’t seem to understand that there is some kind of new sickness abroad in the world today, particularly a sickness among the kids coming up. I am absolutely convinced that it is much more widespread, and more serious, than she is willing to acknowledge. And I think it’s spreading. How else to explain this sullen, irresponsible, possibly even outright disobedient behavior occurring in our son? It seems to be like an infection carried on the wind, even like a cancer, with a very lethal potential. This nice little kid, crapped out in the back, just happens to represent the future of civilization, in case anybody wants to know, and it doesn’t seem to me to be out of line to worry a little bit about the direction he is going in. Frankly, I don’t think my son was in his room most of the night, and nobody but myself seems to see the danger inherent in that.
But there is no point in having a row about it, especially about something you can’t prove, anyway. Next time I simply won’t listen so much to what my wife has to say, but rather, follow my own suspicions and inclinations.
But now, mulling these matters over, I am aware of a crimp in my chest, a form of discomfort I have been experiencing increasingly of late, and I slip into my mouth a couple of Tums from a small roll I have been trying to remember to carry with me in my pocket for just such times. Which, I think, right there says something, either about me, or about the world. Maybe about both. In any event, the trip that I was enjoying so much up to a few moments ago now, thinking about these things, is spoiled for me, the sense of the beauty of the day now dissipated, the fun of family teasing gone. I hunker grudgingly over the steering wheel, and in my dark mood, in an unworthy effort perhaps to shift over some of my distress onto my wife, I drive faster than I should.
Since Annie says nothing, possibly because she can’t imagine what suddenly has come over me, and since her being silent in the face of my irritability oppresses me more than if she were to confront me, I turn on the radio. The airwaves are filled with more news of the hostage situation in Central America. There seems to be no progress, and our government is now reported to be moving two aircraft carriers into the Carribbean.