Excuse Me for Living

by Ric Klass

  Until She’s Gone,

  Dan resolves, and lingers in the temple library. But not long enough. Outside, Bernstein signals to Dan that he needs to talk to him in a minute. He’s standing next to Sam’s car and leaning in the window talking to him when Danny exits the building. Giving Sam some extra propping up, Dan thinks, and walks over to Bernstein’s car.

  Up go the windows on the driver’s side, shutting out the possibility of apology. I had to leave her earlier in the day. If she knew how Lars dogs Ally, she’d understand. Won’t turn in my direction. Pretending to read a weathered, torn magazine that lay on the back seat moments ago. Now both Dan’s heart and his Porsche engine race. Convertible top down – pedal to the floor and speeding away before speaking to Bernstein. But thoughts of Laura travel faster than he can rev the motor. They refuse to be left behind.

  “I’m Sorry You

  Can’t See Her,”

  a prim, fifty-something, prematurely gray nurse tells Dan. She examines the filed nails on her outstretched right hand with approval. It’s way past visiting hours and this rude, agitated man isn’t family, anyway, she says to herself.

  “Dr. Bernstein already saw her and left a little while ago and I don’t care if you are one of his medical school students. She’s been screaming to see her father, can’t be contacted it seems – but you’re certainly not him, young man. And no, Ms. Alicia Sobel isn’t in room 203, Mr. Smart Mouth, she’s in 307.”

  Oops – no matter. He’s not getting by this gal and we’ve got plenty of hall monitors. The night nurse follows the obstinate fellow down the corridor and out the exit and with satisfaction watches him head back to his car. The Stony Brook University Medical Center doesn’t let its guard down, she congratulates herself as she returns to the emergency room station and settles back into her swivel chair.

  Helen had stayed up to tell Danny the news when he returned to LFOD from the temple – what Bernstein wanted to tell him in the parking lot. “Ally tried to kill herself again. Breathed in what must have been a quart of water. Overflow from the tub spilled out the cabaña alerting a CA walking by.” Dan didn’t need to hear more. He headed immediately for the hospital, but not before some preparation first. He’s no stranger to hospitals and knew he wouldn’t be allowed to see his distressed friend. A burglar in the night, the thief made off with the prize. Thank God the lunatic’s asleep and the doors aren’t locked in this asylum. Or else putting my hands on Lars’ M.D. white coat might not have been so easy, he thought.

  Dan watches Our Lady Saint of No-Way-You-Can-See-Ally leave the hospital entrance to return to her desk. He slips on the white coat. Dr. Topler will have no problem making his way to Ms. Sobel’s room. Ms. Sobel? It hits him. As in – reserved and intellectual Glen Sobel who hasn’t seen his little girl in months? The bon vivant dating tons of women? The gambler playing high stakes Texas Hold ’Em and lagging for the break shot on his club’s billiards table? The father who can’t find time to visit his suicidal daughter?

  By 6 AM the next morning, Ally had been watching Daniel sleep in the visitor’s chair for an hour. Exhausted after the sedative they gave her, she’s still hurt and plenty mad at him. Nevertheless, she loves her man and he’s back. An eye opens. “Nipper got soaked, too,” she laughs. “Did he make it?”

  “It’s a Trap,

  honey, don’t fall for it,” Elaine desperately tries to keep her composure. Albert and her mortal enemy talking calmly and quietly together ranks with him dropping dead right now on their Marriott queen-sized bed. What if wifey tells him how she knew to ambush him at home? Rubbing the inside of his elephantine leg squeezed next to her, “Mediation just means that the money-grubbing law firm can legally collect fees from both sides, sweetheart. Don’t you get it?”

  Albert sits up, nearly pushing the activities director onto the hotel chain’s typically bland but adequate-for-business-travel carpet. At the end of the day, he’s going to end up paying for Harriet’s legal fees no matter what the settlement is, that’s for sure. Maybe those mouthpieces just found a way to skin both cats instead of one. “It’s all been very sudden.” Catching himself – unaware Elaine knows there’s no filed divorce – “I mean, we’ve been working through the proceedings all along, and now there’s a new wrinkle. You should’ve met this gal, Lainey. Very intense. I couldn’t say no to her.” It’s a crying shame she’s not in the junkyard game where she could make a fortune, occurs to him.

  While Elaine, heated-up-but-not-from-love, reckons, Saying no to me is what will get you in trouble, you idiot.

  “Then get a load of this, Lainey. They call me on my cell after I leave their artsy-fartsy office. And let me tell you, doll face, you know the Toplers aren’t cheap. I could spend the same dough on my office. I can afford it as well as. . . .

  “Al, will you just get on with the story, for crying out loud?!” Now’s not the time to digress for this tigress.

  “Yeah, sure. What’s eating you? Anyways, Mr. Divorce Attorney, Raoul Bleeder himself, calls on my cell and says Harriet’s on board with this. Due to a mix-up she also met with this Charlotte Davison today. You know, Lainey, the young legal eagle who’s trying to sell me on this mediation idea?. . . .”

  “Mix-up, my ass. Yes, yes, go on, dear,” regaining self-control she gently strokes the back of his flabby neck.

  “Your ass? You know how I love it, sweet thing,” as he grabs both of her lower cheeks. At least he’s up for it tonight, she consoles herself. Elaine changed the velocity vector of the conversation and there’s no going back – for now.

  “Why Couldn’t

  We Say No?”

  Raoul asks his partner Evan Roth after Charlotte leaves the conference room at the end of the day. The plan was supposed to be a dressing down where they’d tell Charlotte under no certain terms was she ever to suggest new strategies without consulting management. “I thought the idea was for us to give her a good talking to.”

  “She has some nerve recommending mediation to new clients. . . .”

  “Without the founder’s blessing. Me. Or you, of course, Evan.”

  “. . . and man, were we lucky that the Toplers didn’t get bent out of shape with both of them here.”

  “And just like that – off the top of her head. Instead, she convinces us that non-adversarial divorces are the new wave and we get both sides of the proceedings. Then why the hell not get our permission in advance? We’re the senior partners here, right?” Raoul’s voice begins to rise in anger.

  “I have to tell you, Raoul, when this woman’s eyes bored into mine, there wasn’t any way I could say no to her. And don’t kid me. You couldn’t either.”

  Conceding nothing, as is his habit, Raoul ends the postmortem, “As long as she makes us money, we’ll let the sorceress have her way.”

  “Not There – Over Here,

  Ronnie.” Men need so much training. Just like mom always said, considers the soon-to-be-bride. I’ve got to ask mom how long it took to house-train dad. “Yes, that’s right, dear,” Coco says condescendingly. “Put the coffee table in front of the couch – not next to the front door.” Romances can be like this one – sudden and definitive. When the electricity’s there and each of the lovey-doveys meet all the numerous specifications on the other’s what-I-want-in-a-spouse list, then it’s wham bang and I do. The two of them can just swing the deal on the two point three mil lovebird starter co-op on Manhattan’s Upper West Side.

  They got lucky. A prior deal fell through on the unit just before closing and the owners had already moved out. Two of the board members – both attorneys – know Ronald’s father, clearing the social admissibility hurdle. Her trust fund and last year’s Universal Recycling W-2 form sealed an expedited approval on the mortgage despite the fact that Ronnie’s just started his position at Viacom. It’s early Thursday morning and there’s some time before Ron has to get to work.

  “Like this, honey pie?” Ronnie gazes adoringly at her. She’s everything a man could want. Cute and efficie
nt. I can consult with her about my work – she even has suggestions on the marketing plans I’m developing for some new programming. Not like other girls I’ve dated. She’ll run the home and bring some bacon to it, too – maybe lots. “When do you think we can tell our parents, honeybunch? We can’t keep this a secret very long without hurting their feelings, you know. Where should I put these linens?”

  Nature created mothers with an excellent plan in mind. In this case, the plan provides for daughters to learn from their mothers. Consequently, the answer to where to store the long-nap bath-sized Bloomingdale’s chocolate-dyed towels, “In your bathroom.” . . . . where I can’t see them, silently completes the thought. Coco wisely permits Ronnie to decorate his bathroom any way he chooses, ensuring his commitment to their home and blocking future gripes. Ronnie’s home of origin prepared her for the worst – a brown room. But the damage has been contained.

  “Well, how are we going to set a wedding date if the old folks don’t know about us?”

  “I told you. We’ll tell them soon.”

  “What if I tell my mom and make her promise to keep it secret?” His backbone’s not nearly as stiff as his beloved’s. Coco gives him the female’s how-dumb-can-you-be look until he comes to the same conclusion as his fiancée, “OK. All right. That’s a stupid idea.”

  He’s come to his senses, she thinks. Coco’s certain that her parents’ divorce could come at any time. She wants to avoid the backlash of taking sides that could hinder purchasing a spacious and more upscale nest in the next few years. Echoing a similar plaint she saw recently in a Fiddler On The Roof DVD, If they get divorced why should I suffer?, seems more than reasonable to the logical woman. The tightwad swallowed hard when she used her own trust money for the down payment and doesn’t want to have to go through that agony again.

  “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Ronnie. Take that carton and put it in our bedroom, you big strong man,” followed by her alluring invitation. “Worwhile,” says she while blowing a kiss. Coco and Ronald’s own private lexicon begins to take shape. It’s their code for young couples’ universal magic words, “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “He’s All Yours,”

  spoils the fun and doesn’t make good reading, but Laura feels relieved just the same.

  Trying to sound sporting and casual but nervous her friend might change her mind. “What happened, Charlie? Dan’s not up to your level of competition?”

  The light- and dark-haired women grab a quick lunch at the Grand Central Terminal lower dining concourse this Thursday afternoon so Charlotte can buy some groceries at the market upstairs when they’re finished. Laura’s always impressed that Charlie manages to look so down-to-earth while indifferently toting the latest Balenciaga motorcycle bag.

  “I meant for now. I may not be through with him yet. And you? Are you still the chaste, albeit smutty writer after you dragged The Dandy Man from me?”

  “No,” followed by her confidante’s delighted squeal. For now doesn’t escape Laura.

  “Start the shovel. I’m all ears for the dirt.” Time spent with Laura fills a void keenly needed and felt more than ever since Charlotte’s dad died.

  “Well, it’s kind of embarrassing. You know Dan as well as I do.”

  Laughing, “‘Embarrassing’ sounds strange coming from a nice Jewish girl who strips in front of druggies and drags a half-naked man out the door.”

  “We went to his . . . place,” keeping the confidence of her father and Dan but not wanting to lie to her best friend either.

  Unable to resist trying to shock her buddy, “Yes. Go on. Did he fuck you?”

  “Charlie! How can you talk that way?”

  “I talk the way you write, which is how I talk? Right?”

  “If I can translate what you said, the answer is yes. But from now on I’m determined to compose stories with material from my own life – not yours anymore. Bruce called and invited me to keep coming to his pond extravaganzas as often as I like and I intend to do just that.”

  “Laura, I don’t think that’s a good idea. That crowd’s into hard drugs, not just drinking.”

  “You party with them.”

  “Yes, but I can protect myself, and for some reason alcohol and dope don’t bother me. They never have. Some of the lowlifes that show up there wouldn’t think twice about screwing you if you were drunk or stoned. Or maybe line up to do it. Bruce invites them for atmosphere. It amuses him to keep guys like Pirot around, but they can be dangerous. The Dandy Man’s just a harmless preppie by comparison.”

  “What makes you such an expert on Danny?” Laura blurts out, miffed at the unintentional slight of a man she craves. Laura can no longer restrain venting her envy at Charlie’s success with men.

  Charlotte’s eyes flash briefly, then dim again. As a child her father read her the Norse tales of the bloodshed between the progenies of fire and ice that she overheard Professor Blackmun murmur about. Her essence from birth has been to battle every day – almost every hour. But the incarnated goddess of war doesn’t want to be drawn into a fray with her college amiga. “I’m not an expert on him, Laura.”

  But Laura’s own competitive instinct hasn’t subsided, “You can’t stand it that a man would prefer me over you. This time, you lost big time and it’s eating you up. You’re jealous because he wanted me and not you,” and storms off.

  Laura challenged the wrong woman. Charlotte’s bellicose streak overpowers her better nature. Flouting her logical mind and warm feelings for her friend, the specter deep within her must prove itself invincible to Laura and that handsome but weak frat boy, The Dandy Man.

  What a Lame Excuse

  to invite him over so soon, Charlie frets as she dresses in front of her mirror. “I just want to thank you for the wonderful lunch yesterday,” couldn’t have sounded more like a high-school crush. He must think I’m an overgrown teenager.

  At the same time, a disheartened Barry primps in front of his own oversized antique looking glass dissecting his earlier words, “I would be delighted, my dear. I look forward to dining with you at nine this evening.” I sounded so formal and old-fashioned. I’m such an ass, Barry says to a marble bust of Sophocles on the cabinet adjacent to his worn and furrowed desk. The temple men’s meeting last night did nothing to take his mind off her. Just the opposite. The conversation dwelling on the mortality of his hometown friends only etched with more definition his diminishing time on earth contrasted with the infinite lives of the fictional immortal gods he’s made his life study. I’m only too mortal and too alone, occupies his thoughts.

  Barry glances down at the sealed university contract still sitting on his desk. Unusual for the efficient man. He had almost opened the envelope and signed his commitment to yet another year teaching classics at Columbia. It had arrived this morning in his office – only the day after his close friend Ganymede was buried. But it’s not his friend he’s thinking about. Maybe my life will change. Start anew. He had spent a sleepless night envisioning the straight-from-Olympus beauty and their lunch in the park. I’m some sort of elderly charity case for Zoë. An academic oddity, perfect for ridicule. If she even caught a whiff that I see her as a woman and not just the daughter of an old friend, I’ll never see her again. I’m such a fool to become infatuated.

  He surveys his small campus office where he’s spent the last fifteen years. Dog-eared books in Latin, Greek, and ancient Norse lie tucked haphazardly in the large bookcase; on the wall hang framed Hubble Telescope images of galaxies and exploding stars; and on his desk sits a yellowing solitary picture. While at MIT as a joint astrophysics and classics literature major, he fell in love with a co-ed -- a geology major and near genius. She felt the same way about him, but their immature egos and powerful intellects never allowed them to speak of any subject deemed emotional. Naturally, since then he dated over the years and became “involved” a few times. And yes, Thomas guessed correctly, many years ago he even became briefly entangled with one of h
is students. But he sits now an ashamed bachelor fantasizing over a girl young enough to be his daughter.

  When G.F. Davison died, Charlie decided to move into her father’s penthouse co-op at the Hampshire House overlooking Central Park. It is there where she has invited the professor to a homemade dinner. After Laura abruptly left her at Grand Central, she bought truffles, caviar, and other delicacies in the marketplace upstairs to prepare for tonight and has for the time being forgotten the spat. Charlotte loves to cook but never finds the time. Always the wild parties. Doing drugs doesn’t seem to bemuse her as it does the others. In her earlier phone call with Barry, she wasn’t surprised to hear that he had been at the luxurious apartment many times to visit dad.

  “Is William the doorman on tonight?” he wanted to know. “I wonder if his daughter got into NYU?. . . . You don’t know him? A shame. Very delightful man who enjoys opera. He lent me a rare recording of Caruso. I’ll find out about Sheila . . . Sheila, his daughter, my dear.” William of course would let him pass and he’d come right up.

  What planet is this man from?

  A soft knock at the door. She first peeks through the peephole for a preview and then opens wide the door. “And who might this be?” Charlotte asks the transformed classics don. “I don’t know, professor, but I might like you better in your comfortable teaching duds than the stylish tailored suit you have on.”

  Cheeks on fire like a boy, “I’d gladly wear anything that would please you, dear Zoë. This bottle is for you. But the first order of business is, are you old enough? Plato said, ‘Shall we not pass a law that, in the first place, no children under eighteen may touch wine at all?’”

  “I’m not a child,” she laughs.

  “Excellent news. I’ve been saving the wine for a special occasion. It’s from a vineyard on Santorini Island in the Aegean Sea about 60 miles north of Crete. But the island’s ancient name of Kalliste suits you better,” he elaborates as he steps onto the terrace overlooking Central Park South and the park. It’s getting dark, and despite the bright lights of the city one can see the stars.