Excuse Me for Living

by Ric Klass

  “May I help you?” the doctor asks him.

  “I’m looking for . . . uh . . . he’s a young man. His name is Daniel.”

  “Oh yes. You must mean Daniel Topler.”

  “That’s him.”

  “Sad case, poor boy.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I may be talking out of turn. Are you a relative?”

  “No. Just an acquaintance, kinda. We’re in the same men’s club.”

  “I see. I see. Well then perhaps you don’t need to know the details of his homicidal inclinations. I’m his physician here.”

  “You mean he wants to kill people?”

  “Sir. Please don’t be concerned. To our knowledge he’s never been successful – although we could be wrong. I have to watch my words. Litigation precaution, of course.”

  “Of course. You know, maybe I don’t need to see him today.”

  “I can see I’ve alarmed you, Mr. . . . . ”

  “Mavis. Morton Mavis. Morty.”

  “Morty, may I call you that?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah. Sure.”

  “Listen Morty, Why don’t we sit over there by the pool?”

  Morty follows him and sits down with some hesitation, “You know, I really can’t stay that long so. . . .”

  “I’d like to speak confidentially to you. May I, Morty?”

  “Sure, Doctor.”

  “Why are you really here? Look at your elegant clothes. Your oily salt-and-pepper hair carefully combed. I can smell the freshly applied aftershave lotion. You’re here to chase some woman, aren’t you, you reprobate? It can’t be one of the putrescent scags incarcerated in this hellhole so it must be some staff member.” The physician puts his palm to his forehead to ridicule Morty. “Now let me think who the lucky lady might be.”

  I’ve been caught! The doctor can tell I have an ulterior motive. They’re really sharp at this joint, Morty thinks. “Well it’s true that I also want to see. . . . ”

  “Why am I here?!” the doctor violently interrupts. “Can it be that we’re all here just to watch TV, play shuffleboard, and eat the crap they serve at this fucking joint?”

  “Doctor, I’m not sure that I follow.”

  “You do know Live Free or Die is a rehabilitation clinic for all sorts of ailments?”

  “Well, I’ve heard something to. . . . ”

  “We’re required to sugarcoat it here. The staff that is,” doc whispers in Morty’s ear.

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is a nuthouse. Now I know I shouldn’t call it that. Well, then, but there it is. And that Daniel Topler. . . . ” now the doctor stands with his arms lifted as if in a priest’s blessing. He looks out over Long Island Sound, “ . . . Oh, Lord, he’s the biggest nut here.” The physician places his nose almost touching Morty’s as he grasps the terrorized man’s shoulders, “Is that the kind of friends you have, Morton Mavis?”

  “I must be going.” Morty starts to rise from his seat.

  “Just stay where you are, Mr. Looney Tunes Friend of Daniel Topler’s,” the doctor commands. Morty plunks himself down again.

  The man in white rises with arms uplifted to heaven. “See? Do you see what I mean, Jehovah?” Lars shouts at the top of his lungs. “The pernicious Topler conspirators like this pathetic sinner are off their rockers. And here am I, Dr. Jacob Q. Bernstein. . . .”

  “By coincidence I know a Dr. Jacob Q. Bernstein. . . .”

  “Will you please shut your yap! I’m the senior nutcracker here and have to put up with insane patients and their whacko visitors too.” He pours a heaping bowl of cashews and almonds on Morty’s head – luckily the kind of nuts he likes best. It’s only now when Morty notices the bunny slippers on the doctor’s feet that he flings himself from his chair, trips, then scrambles away at a breakneck speed that can only be deemed amazing for a veteran AARP member.

  Recently, at this time of day, Elaine would be on her way to the Marriott to meet Albert and keep the amiable soon-to-be-bachelor on ice with her body heat. But today she’s depressed and lingers at LFOD chatting with Helen at the front desk – alone for the weekend.

  “Albert’s taking the advice of some female attorney. He won’t see his tootsie in person until the divorce papers have been signed. And I couldn’t talk him out of mediation either. Evidently this gal at Al’s law firm has some kind of magical hold over him,” she confides to Helen – not a gossiper for some crazy reason. Maybe Helen’s a Scientologist or Christian Scientist or something? Elaine always confuses the two.

  Elaine’s correct. Helen’s not one to gossip. But giving the scoop to her dear Danny on what’s happening to his parents’ marriage doesn’t count. Just now she sees a man fleeing into the lobby.

  “May I help you, Sir?” Helen asks the nicely dressed, goateed man tearing up to her desk. He seems upset. Poor, stuffed Nipper staring at him adds to his dismay.

  “Who the hell is that guy by the pool?” Morty puffs.

  “The one sucking on the giant binky?”

  “Yeah. That mumser.”

  “Lars. One of the guests here. He’s harmless.”

  “Uh, huh, harmless.” Not wholly convinced he’s out of danger but unwilling to give up on his former quest. “Well, I’m trying to find Dr. Bernstein’s medical student who I understand helps out here,” Morty continues to pant. Then he takes a gander at the shapely redhead dressed in a white halter top and short shorts, twirling a tennis racket. It doesn’t take more than a glimpse for him to guess she’s the able-bodied recreation head of this high-priced, human dry cleaning center. He has just the spoon to lick the cream off this yummy creature.

  Elaine and Helen eyeball each other quizzically. Medical student? Lars, the self-degreed physician, comes to Elaine’s mind. Helen catches on first, “I think you must want Daniel Topler.”

  “Yeah, that’s the boy.” Gaining courage, “Dan told me I might get tennis lessons from the athletic cheerleader here. He says she resembles a movie star – Kim Novak. Someone who probably resembles you, Mrs. . . . . ”

  Helen sees him nearly salivating while taking in Elaine, then notices his blue blazer and freshly pressed dress trousers. She puts it all together. A counterattack, she surmises.

  “Miss Bushkin,” Elaine announces demurely but without any chance of being misunderstood. “I’m the one Danny probably meant, the activities director here at Live Free Or Die. I have been told I resemble the star of Vertigo. . . .” she purrs. And now for the punch line, “but that was years ago,” begging for compliments as a sexy, unmarried woman of her age might.

  Morty comes through on cue, “It couldn’t have been that long ago, Miss Bushkin. It’s only been a few years since you were in grade school,” he gallantly gurgles.

  Hashing through the customary preliminaries, “Would your wife like lessons, too?” hoping for the best answer from this affluent-looking charmer. Elaine’s no dummy – she gets the picture. Danny’s trying to run interference in her fling with Albert. But she’s also starting to feel she’s being taken for granted by her boyfriend. Maybe a little competition would perk Al up a bit.

  “Sadly, I’ve been divorced for years. My wife, whom I loved, ran off with my best friend,” parroting a movie plot he’d seen not long ago – Little Miss Sunshine maybe, he can’t remember. Not a complete fabrication. The wife did run off after all. What wife wouldn’t when her clothes were thrown out the second-story window? And it always pays to tell a woman you’re capable of love. They eat up sensitive men. A little sympathy doesn’t hurt either. On balance, getting dumped by another woman works for a plus impression despite the possible inference, “if she didn’t think much of him, why should I?”

  “Poor man,” Elaine says.

  But Morty hasn’t finished his sales pitch, “I live alone in my mansion – giant Sub-Zero fridge with icemaker I might add, Olympic-sized swimming pool, and grass tennis courts.”

  “Grass, huh? Expensive maintenance.” Elaine’s analysis: At least Danny didn’t s
end some lame schlepper my way. “When would you like your lessons? I’m only free nights and weekends.” Elaine can hint with the best of them.

  Morty scores again with, “How about this weekend? Would you like to talk about it over a drink or dinner tonight? I can always get a table at The Palm nearby. Know the management well. Used to do some consulting for them,” wishing for the best of all possible lessons from this knockout.

  Helen decides to have some fun too, “I’ll go ahead and call Dan for you now, Mr. . . . ”

  “Who? Nah, don’t bother. Don’t need the kid now. I’ve found what I wanted.” His and Elaine’s eyes light up like double-whammy pinball bonus bulbs. “Tennis lessons, that is. I’m Morton Mavis. But please, ladies, call me Morty.”

  The deal’s signed, sealed and delivered for the evening as far as Elaine’s concerned. He passed the last test with flying colors by suggesting a very expensive restaurant. I hate cheap men, which, judging from the shiny new gray Lexus convertible I’m sliding into now, Morton Mavis (is that what he said his name is?) isn’t.

  “You Can’t Have the Keys, Honey,

  until I have permission from Dr. Heine,” Helen somberly tells her favorite “guest.”

  “Who the hell is he?” Dan wants to know.

  “I know how you must feel, Danny. You want to see Dr. Bernstein, your doctor and I hope by now your friend – and Laura’s father.”

  “I don’t know who this Heine is, but tell him I want the keys to my car now or I’ll put his lights out.”

  “Dr. Wolfgang Heine is your new therapist until Dr. Bernstein returns. Maybe a little sugar will work better than vinegar, dear. He’s in his office.”

  “And Helen. That fruitcake Lars claims he’s a real shrink.”

  “Former chief psychiatrist at Bellevue.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was picked up one day sitting stark naked in Bergdorf’s window with a sign on his neck that said:

  SHMUCK! YOU CAN LOSE TWO DRESS SIZES LIKE ME

  “Yeah?” Dan leaves trying to sort out the new info and catches a glimpse of Morty and Elaine driving off. One job well done, anyway. On the way to Wolfgang Heine. Oh. Ally’s wolfman – something of a pushover. A knock on the door and please enter. Sitting down and sure of himself, “A very good afternoon to you, Dr. Heine. I’m. . . . ”

  Cool and stroking his beard, “I know who you are, young man.”

  Maybe not such a pushover. “Before you left for the weekend, I just wanted to get briefly acquainted and let you know the routine Dr. Bernstein and I formulated.”

  “Sad to hear of his illness. Probably von’t make it, I imagchin.”

  Ally didn’t mention the heavy German accent. Some gall, burying Jack so quickly. “Well, naturally, I’d like to pay him a visit and thought while I’m here to say hello I’d pick up the keys to my car.”

  “Out of the kvestchin. Zank you for coming, Daniel. Ve’ll be seeing a great deal of each other. But you must leef now. Gut bye,” and returns to paperwork on his desk. The furious Dan has almost slammed shut the door behind him when he hears, “I don’t think this Jewish group you attend can help you. So you von’t need the keys for zat, eizer. Haf a pleasant veekend.”

  While Dan’s passing back through the lobby, Helen catches him by his sleeve. She sees blood in his eye. “Don’t do anything foolish, Danny. You’re not a voluntary guest here.” Helen pulls a blue form out of a drawer. “Until this release is signed by a staff psychiatrist, by court order you’re a prisoner here. Dr. Heine has control over your life now that Dr. Bernstein’s ill. He can make it comfortable. He can make it hell.”

  “He can go to hell. That Nazi’s not telling me what to do.”

  “He’s a concentration camp survivor – Orthodox. He has to get to Shabbat services before sundown.”

  A somewhat disappointed, “Oh,” follows the sudden deflation of that self-righteous train of thought.

  “I know what you’re thinking now, sweetie. Don’t do it.”

  “From now on, Helen, I’ll only do what will make you proud of me. I promise.” Seeing the skepticism etched over her wrinkles, “Sooner or later you will be anyhow,” and he saunters off toward the pool.

  To his back, “I’ll hold you to it, honey. Don’t forget you made a pledge to me. Not just anyone.” She knows no strings bind him more tightly than those of her apron.

  Even if I get lucky, hitch a ride from the road to the East Hampton train station and catch the 6:03, I won’t get to Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital for hours. I’ve got to see Ally at Stony Brook Hospital, too.

  Eating Crow’s the Only Way,

  Dan concludes.

  Thirty minutes later, “My oh my. See what bird the cat dragged in from the funny farm next door! Still feeling huffy, Dandy Man, or are you coming to the bash early?”

  Dan’s caught the infamous Georgica Pond host in the midst of making preparations for Monday night’s infamous Devils-Take-All costume ball.

  “Look Brucie. . . .”

  “So it’s Brucie again, is it? Are you going to throw me out the window, too? Toss Bertrand instead. He does that kind of errand for me. Any more of those shenanigans, old man, and I’ll be forced to cross you off my invitation list.”

  Speaking frankly and ignoring Pirot standing a few feet away from them in the ballroom, “I’m sorry for the other night. What happens to me is my fault, not yours.”

  “Exactement, mon ami.”

  “Give my apology to The Chipster. The poor guy couldn’t force a life-sized plastic doll to have sex with him.”

  “And he’s tried, I assure you,” Langford the second jests. “Enough of that. We’ve know each other forever. Everyone but me flies off the handle sometimes. So. You’re here to carouse nicely this time?”

  “Brucie, do you ever sniff the pixie dust you serve at the parties?”

  “Me? I never touch that junk. Never have.”

  “Never have? Don’t you remember the very first time the four of us bought snow together at Times Square during Christmas vacation? We all got ripped.”

  “How can I not remember? Have you forgotten? That’s where we met Pirot. He sold it to us. You got so stoned we had to carry you to the parking garage. You begged us not to tell anybody, otherwise you might not get the award for head student again. You were the school star. It was funny to see you so spaced out.”

  “But you took some, too. We all did.”

  “No, Dandy Man. Only you. Ronnie, Chipster, and I faked it. We were too scared to try the stuff. None of the four of us has ever dusted our noses with coke but you.”

  Dan stares at his smirking friend for a few moments. “I need a favor. But first - ”

  He knocks Bruce to the floor with a hard punch to the jaw. Pirot draws out a switchblade and advances toward Dan.

  “That won’t be necessary, Pirot.” Rubbing his chin. “What the hell was that for?”

  “The drugs I’ve taken have always come from you. You know I’m an addict. You could have been a better friend to me, Brucie.”

  “You were always the brilliant, successful one in school, Dan. Everything always came so easily to you. I never thought it, I swear, but maybe it was to level the playing field. Was this slug to my chin the favor you wanted?”

  “No.”

  From the French doors to the patio, the junior Langford thoughtfully watches Danny pull out the gates of the driveway in his green Aston Martin. He’ll have to drive his stepmother’s Silver Cloud Rolls – ordinarily a bit ostentatious even for Brucie. Uh oh. I forgot to get back that certain item. Dad will be livid if he finds it missing when he gets back from Holland with his new wife next week. Still rubbing the sore spot on his cheek, “That reminds me, Pirot. Invite those twins again from Amsterdam. They were a big hit. And can we find a sequined mask for that rubber, life-sized Barbie Doll?”

  We Have Unfinished

  Business, Danny,

  an irresistible voice tells him.

  Dozens of image
s and thoughts whirl through his mind as he enters the Midtown Tunnel to Manhattan this Friday evening from Long Island. When he hears his cell phone ringing, he thinks it must be Laura. “Come to the Hampshire House. 150 Central Park South. Charlotte’s waiting for you here. Now.”

  “Yes, now,” he says and hangs up. Maybe it’s because she referred to herself in the third person like a queen, or the imperial “now,” but it doesn’t occur to him to say no to her though he urgently wants to see if Dr. Bernstein’s all right. And then on to Ally. I’ll stop and just say hello to Charlie. This is a good thing. I need to make amends anyhow for ruining her dress. I’ll say, “Can I pay for the dry cleaning? Or buy you a new outfit if that would make you happy?” The Toplers aren’t cheap. Just shake hands, tell her that Laura’s my girl now and be on my way. No hard feelings. Very sophisticated. She’ll understand.

  The doorman waves him to the elevator as though he’s expected. On the way up Dan’s not so sure of the outcome.

  Inside her penthouse haunt, though unsuitably dressed for it, an incensed Charlotte practices deadly karate kicks and punches on a male dummy in the master bedroom. When Charlotte succumbed to Barry as would an ordinary woman, her emotions began to nag at her with a fury. Her emotional vocabulary can’t yet handle the challenge of having a true lover and not just a sex partner. Now the flesh-and-blood reincarnation of a warrior goddess finds herself unable to quiet the combative Athena within her. Laura challenged her in winning Danny. The sting of the conquest lost to Laura hasn’t subsided.

  Dan raps at the door. It opens to a divinely transparent, black lace negligee and the white-skinned deity underneath. Her piercing violet eyes blind him for an instant. Giving her the once-over.

  “You didn’t tell me we were going to the park to play baseball, Charlie. I would’ve brought my mitt,” he creaks, doing his best to keep his resolutions intact. “Nice digs. Love the view,” he says, trying to make a getaway to the terrace overlooking the park.

  But the fuming Charlotte takes his hand and silently leads the mesmerized boy to the Indonesian-style, sparely decorated bedroom that was her father’s. She slowly undoes his belt, unbuttons his shirt, sits him on the four-poster wicker-aproned bed, then pulls off his chinos. A Ravi Shankar album plays in the background. In a slow undulating motion to the sound of the musicians’ sitar and tabla, she slips off the translucent fabric. Reversing roles, she’s a snake charming the shaman. The warrior wraith inside her must prove itself invincible. It’s only later, when with surprising strength Charlotte pushes him out her front door – tossing his clothes out in the hallway after him – that Danny feels the extent to which he’s been devoured and then regurgitated. The episode somehow feels like déjà vu.