Excuse Me for Living

by Ric Klass

  Dan reddens. By now the conspiracy against him has spread to his ally. “Helen, I thought we were friends.”

  “You’re like a son to me, Danny. That’s why we’re not friends and you’re not getting the keys. Your Porsche is in the lot when Dr. Bernstein says you can drive again.”

  Irritated and with an attitude, “OK. No problema, lady.”

  “Are you getting smart with me?” Helen’s eyes narrow.

  “No, no. I’ll just be taking a stroll then.” Helen is one of only a few people who have ever really scared him.

  “Wear your hat. You sunburn easily, honey,” returning just as suddenly to the lovable side of her vast personality divide. She can’t help it. She’s a mother – and Danny wishes she were his.

  “I will,” he lies. He learned early in life that the incontrovertible tactic with adults is to agree with them. What you do and what you say don’t require an intersection whatsoever. Maybe I should go into politics, he speculates, as he wanders off to the beach. He’s also thinking Bernstein’s lined up the whole staff behind him. Pretty efficient for that old fart.

  Pooling Thoughts

  The newly renovated, outdoor no-horizon pool next to the freshly combed Long Island Sound sands beckons even this most cynical of ivied know-it-alls. Dan idles amidst the perfume of densely planted rhododendrons surrounding the pool and a pungent odor wisping from further up the beach. There lies Georgica Pond wherein their summer mansions East Coast hedge fund moguls converge with West Coast Wilshire Boulevard studio production heads and cocktail each other into nightly oblivion.

  The fresh air and scents draw Dan to pause and reconnoiter. He puts his behind down on a green chaise lounge, waves to Roberto, the familiar, deeply tanned lifeguard – an ironic title at this joint, Dan reflects – and considers his next move.

  Perhaps it’s the fragrances, but a cheery thought occurs to him. The doting father of one of his prep school partners in crime, Bruce E. Langford II, has a Mafia-sized gated compound on the nearby pond where good old Brucie throws nonstop drug-friendly bashes starting about now in the season. I’ll check that out tonight, he considers. Don’t even need my car. I can just follow the shore.

  A voice from next to him, “Hey, do you have to sit on top of me!”

  “Well, I didn’t know. . . . ”

  A 13ish-year-old girl in the next chair, “My parents said not to talk to anybody but my doctor. Are you a doctor? Cause you sure look like shit if you are,” barks the 70-pound, aqua-marine-caftaned strawberry blonde.

  This youngster has a mouth on her, he thinks. Starts to get up and move away, “Sorry, didn’t mean to crowd you.”

  “You didn’t flash me like Suzie told me perverts do. She’s almost a sister cause she has the same mole on her elbow as me and we have tons of sleepovers so I guess you can stay,” she offers somewhat more mildly.

  “I’m not a doctor, but that’s OK. I’ll just move a few chairs over here to the. . . . ”

  “Are you deaf or something? I said you can sit down.”

  Where have I heard this kind of rude talk before? Danny wonders and turns crimson at the answer. He sits as ordered.

  “Sincerely, are you growing a beard? None of my friends likes them. I just love these magazines,” pointing to the piles of Girl’s Life, Seventeen, CosmoGirl!, Teen People, and on and on. “Some of my friends think they’re too juvenile for girls our age but those jerks aren’t cool at all. Besides, none of the girls but me and Suzie like to read hardly anything, so what do they know?”

  Rubs his chin. Thinking he does need a shave, “Well. . . ,” nearly getting a few words out.

  “Mommy says there’s perverts and criminals all over the place and not to trust anybody but you seem pretty much OK being an old guy. She’ll be back tonight to visit me after she gets out of work. She makes a ton of money renting out offices to people. Daddy makes loads, too, mom says, but I almost never see him anymore. He’s old like you. Even older.”

  “Old?”

  “Gee, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad, but you must thirty or something – nearly dead. But I guess I shouldn’t talk since I was almost dead the other day. Do you like to swim? The water must be freezing but the lifeguard – I guess mom won’t mind if I talk to him since he’s supposed to keep us safe – he said the pool is heated. But I don’t like it if the water’s too hot. It’s like being in the hot bathtub where I almost drowned on Tuesday if it wasn’t for our maid Elizabeth. She’s Polish and talks funny. What’s your name?”

  “Dan. What’s yours? What’s this about being almost dead?” Dead has been a recurring word with Danny and it resounds loudly.

  “Alicia, but you can call me Ally.”

  “Nice to meet you, Alice.” Habits die hard.

  “Is something the matter with you? I said my name was Alicia and you can call me Ally.”

  “Sorry, Ally. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  “Me, too. Elizabeth has me real worried, that’s not her real name but I can’t say her name the way Polish people do, Elzhbeatah or something like that, but anyway she really doesn’t like Finster and I’m scared she won’t take good care of him when I’m not there. Maybe I should’ve tried to drown him along with me since there’d be nobody left who loved him to take care of him like I do but he’s as big as all get out – just humongous – cause he’s a standard-sized poodle and all and won’t get in the tub cause he hates getting a bath. Mom wanted to give him one of those fancy do’s for doggies but I said no way. He’s a boy dog and I think he’d hate looking like some girl dog though he sure likes to sniff ’em. Anyhow, I sure hope Elizabeth is taking good care of him.”

  For some reason trying to follow her banter, “Finster is your dog?”

  Ally glares at Dan with contempt, “Are you here cause you’re a retard or somethin’? Poodles are dogs.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I get it.” Dan can’t figure out why he’s not changing chairs. She’s kind of funny. Dan feels relieved other guests have taken chairs near them. A man sitting alone with a very young girl could start to attract unwanted attention. But the seemingly self-assured bon vivant feels lonely and wants to keep talking. His former private school friends have never been much help to him. Quite the contrary. And talking to Ally takes his mind off craving more dope and then maybe again trying to permanently end the mental din clouding his every thought.

  “Why are you here if you’re not a doctor? Are you sick, too? All my friends say this place is for crazy people but I’m not crazy, are you? And anyway being crazy is not so terrible when you can have all the Coca-Colas you want by just shouting for them or crying a little. My doctor. . . . ”

  “Dr. Bernstein?”

  “No, not that one. He’s really old and never let me have Coke so I just cried and screamed my lungs out and told them I would try to kill myself again until I almost really did feel sick and then Mommy made them get me another doctor. But anyhow Mommy never gives me Coca-Cola at home. Bad for your skin she says and then boys won’t like you cause you’re already kinda fat. She also says I’ve already got loads of cavities and says the sugar makes kids hyper but I’m not that either. My new doctor, I call him the wolfman, he’s nice I like him, says I can have anything I want until I’m feeling better.” Now in a fake deep voice, “‘The body makes its own sugar, so it can’t, in fact, be bad for children,’ the new doctor, what’s his face, told Mommy right in front of me. She almost peed. I don’t think she really believes him. He’s old too but tons younger than Dr. Bernstein who must be a hundred, and huffs and puffs like he’ll die any second. You wouldn’t look so bad yourself if you didn’t have all that hair on your face but I guess lots of rock singers think they’re awesome like that but it’s not really my type or Suzie’s neither. Are you a rock star?”

  “No, I’m not a rock star. And you’re not fat at all. You look just fine, Ally.” She’s thin. What’s up with her mom saying she’s fat? he wonders. There’s no monopoly on misguided parents, sinks into Dan.
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  “You really think I look OK, Dan? You’re probably saying that just to make me feel good.”

  “Ally, let’s make a deal.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve never made this deal with anyone else so you can’t spread it around. Agreed?”

  Very excited to be sharing a secret pact with a new friend, “Oh no, Dan, I’ll never tell anybody,” whispers the girl. “I promise.”

  “No matter what we say to other people, we’ll only say what’s true to each other. Can you buy that? Deal?”

  “Deal!” says Alicia as they interlock their right hand pinky fingers.

  “All right then.” Waits two beats for her complete attention, “Ally, you’re fine. OK?” Daniel stares earnestly into her eyes.

  “OK,” she replies with visible relief.

  “Mr. Daniel Topler, please report to Nurse Linda Shea’s office. Repeat. Mr. Daniel Topler, please report to Nurse Linda Shea’s office now for your medication,” blasts over all the LFOD campus loudspeakers.

  “Catch you later, Ally,” says Dan, decidedly unhappy to hear his name trumpeted all over the Hamptons. What the hell is the privacy policy here anyhow, he wonders. As he heads for Nurse Linda, he turns to call back, “And remember. Don’t tell anybody our secret deal.”

  “OK, Daniel Topler,” Ally happily answers. She knows his whole name now – he won’t elude her again. When he’s safely out of sight she puts back on the tortoise-shell glasses she had removed when she had first spotted him. She lies on the poolside lounge chair for the next several hours magnifying the encounter and reenacting each word exchanged. “Pretty dreamy for an elderly person,” Ally sighs.

  Take Just One

  of each at bedtime, the sumo-sized Irish nurse tells him. Earlier, sweet-talking Dan convinced Dr. Bernstein that contrary to customary LFOD rules, taking control of his own life – i.e., dispensing the magic potions himself – would be essential for his rehabilitation.

  ‘I’m such a fabulous con man,’ The Dandy Man congratulates himself. He nearly forgets by court order he’ll still have to submit daily blood and urine tests to stay out of Bellevue. Danny repeats the instructions to Linda at her request. No driving and for God’s sake don’t take any alcohol or drugs. She wasn’t particularly concerned about his disobeying the warnings since Dr. Bernstein had grounded Daniel. Where could he get those awful things here at LFOD? she must have thought. But, good old Nurse Linda didn’t say when was bedtime or that he couldn’t walk out of this isolated Eden for loonies. If it’s noon here then it’s got to be midnight or thereabouts somewhere. And if she had made these two conditions clearer? What the fug do I care. Danny tears to his room, shutting the boltless door behind him. His mouth’s dry and he perspires from the lack of drugs he’s used to stuffing down his throat by this time of day. I’m going to put a lock on this gate of hell myself someday, he tells himself. Who ever heard of an unlockable suite?

  He puts his thumb in the motionless air to test the way the wind blows. Yes, North By Northwest it is and so time for beddy-bye, the film buff resolves. Now withdrawing one of two vials from the brown bag Linda gave him, he peeks in the translucent brown dispenser and takes out a tablet. Hip hooray! The green pill wins by a nose, mouth, tongue, esophagus, and eager stomach. He gulps it down. Dreamtime’s coming soon.

  Now for dessert. The other plastic bottle has teensy-weensy red pills. Despite the fact Daniel could qualify as a pharmacist by now, he can’t divine their purpose. Take one at bedtime is all it says. He does remember, however, Ronnie’s Rule of Remedies. Ronnie Schwartz was his other best friend besides Brucie and Chipster at the Bexley Academy for Boys in verdant Vermont. The simple tenet holds that the smaller the pill, the greater the kick. This theory almost never broke down – and if it did? Take another, Dr. Ronald advised. Second lozenge down the hatch and Danny lies down for the ride. It comes quickly.

  A Full Moon

  illuminates Danny’s face. The sound of tinkling glasses laid to rest and a gleeful shout, “Full house, you suckers!” drifts in the open window from late night poker-playing patients and stirs Dan Van Winkle.

  Jesus, I’m hungry, seizes the now fully rested boy. On with the lights. A quick dial to the maître d’ of the three-star Michelin-rated on-site restaurant confirms that it is closed and, no, not even for a regular customer like Danny Topler would François open the kitchen for room service at 11:30 PM. I’m really losing my touch, floats to mind. Then he remembers Brucie and the sumptuous buffet probably waiting for him. A glance in the mirror confirms Ally’s earlier merde assessment of his countenance. This sober appraisal leads to a shave, quick shower and other preparations needed for him to seem unconcerned by his appearance but elegant all the same. Despite his unreliable ego confirming a winning carriage in the cabaña’s full-length mirror and his evident undernourishment, he really does look dashing.

  Now remembering he’s horseless, Danny threads his way to the lunar-lighted beach and, Tod loafers in hand (easier walking on the beach), makes a beeline along the shore for dinner, drinks of course, and the venerating crowd certainly hungering for his charm and wit at the Langford summer manse.

  Unsweetened Coco

  describes her better than the 29-year-old admits. The epithet publicly aimed at the debutante years ago by her baby brother amid her lavishly catered coming out party hit the bull’s eye. It not only drew cackles but also continues to follow her as a stinging moniker used by the heiress circle that girdles her social life. Her MBA with honors from NYU four years ago didn’t elevate her in either of her parents’ esteem.

  Harriet Topler, her mother, a five-foot-six, still-fit and head-turning ashen blonde, came from a generation when women gave birth then turned the offspring over to nannies, and wore white gloves to luncheons in swank New York restaurants. She never bought into the whole “career thing” for girls. Harriet – not a little proud that her face remains youthful and maturely appealing without the help of a scalpel – considers herself a true Yankee.

  Unlike her husband’s common Eastern European roots, Harriet’s mother and father were born in Massachusetts, and her grandparents hailed from London and Salzburg. Her grandfather, Isaac Neustadt, an Austrian physicist himself, refused to Anglicize his name to Newton when he immigrated to America out of respect for the genius whose theorems he labored to master. Though Albert himself was born in Brooklyn – not a recommendation for the Social Register either, to Harriet’s mind – his parents and grandparents were Poloks – excuse the expression – for goodness sake. In all, she felt socially superior to Albert and under former circumstances would never have considered him as a suitor. But the former circumstances were over. The family money was being rapidly dissipated through poor investments by her father. And a girl’s got to eat. And eat well. Besides, Albert was handsome – at least ninety pounds ago – enterprising to beat the band, and frankly mad for her at first sight. Already well on his way to being a multimillionaire before thirty, Albert got Harriet to say yes to him on their third date. The rest is history in the accounting books of Saks Fifth Avenue, Harry Winston, and Mercedes-Benz of Manhattan.

  As for dad, when it comes to scholarship Albert only shams having pride in Coco. After she couldn’t get into Harvard Business School unless he “donated” the two million dollars ever so subtly suggested by the admissions office, she permanently lost face with him. Even for Albert, two big ones were a bit much when she had already been admitted to NYU – a safe school, i.e., where she was a shoo-in with a 3.85 average at Hunter College.

  Albert now only sees his wife – the former love of his life – in passing. They meet mostly at the dinner table when Harriet’s not on an “educational cruise” to say, India, with her new mentor, Dr. Florenz Castillia, a Distinguished Professor of Art History at Columbia University; or when Albert isn’t at Universal Recycling or having an “important meeting” with whom and where he can never remember when asked. Harriet keeps a P.I., Norman Butterworth, on retainer. For some re
ason, so far he has been unable to pinpoint the details so badly needed for a large settlement in a divorce. The larger retainer secretly being paid to Norman by Albert for keeping the dirt quiet perhaps provides the explanation. Still, Albert knows Harriet is nobody’s fool. The secrecy of his liaisons may have run its course.

  Coco’s starting to feel she’s running out of time, too. While her friends drop like flies, she remains single – not even a recent steady (a deadly fact constantly thrown in her face by her womanizing brother). A very disturbing white hair had to be yanked out of her temple just yesterday. And the ticking of her damned clock practically deafens her. Independently wealthy from childhood trusts set up by her folks, she can well afford to live how and where she chooses. But Coco hasn’t left the nest. She wants to set up her next digs with Prince Professional if she ever lands one. To boot, despite the overblown bribes for her attendance, she resents getting dragged to LFOD to raise the family flag for her substance-abusing and befuddled sibling.

  She first saw Danny in a Victorian wicker antique baby carriage post Harriet’s return home from Mt. Sinai’s maternity ward. Her first words reacting to little brat brother, “Oh, he’s sooooo cute. When are you taking him back, mommy?” Her sentiments have remained intrinsically unchanged ever since. To this day though it sounds silly, Coco’s convinced that her mother really did make such a promise. Her brother’s excellence throughout school together with her Cambridge, Mass., B-School rejection shadows her as a constant Ivy League nemesis. Consequently, as far as she’s concerned, they can take all Yale graduates and stick them where the sun don’t shine up Harvard Business School’s ass. If she hears her dad whistle the melody “Eli Eli Eli Yale” just one more time, she’ll hire an ex-Irgun assassin to finish off him and then after the favor she paid her mother wait patiently for dear old mom to cash in her chips, too.