Excuse Me for Living

by Ric Klass

  Frederick at the helm floors it out the gate. “Where to Ma’am?”

  “Home, Frederick,” she says to the surprised driver and takes off her mask. Frederick has the decency to raise the window separator, but not enough it seems to turn off the intercom. “Your home, I hope,” she says to the amazed Chipster as she takes off Frederick’s coat and climbs onto the lad’s lap. And The Chipster drives home as well.

  “You’ve Won Our Baseball

  Concession Lottery,

  Mr. Blotkin,” a woman with a dignified English-Indian accent, excitedly informs Sam Tuesday afternoon when he drowsily picks up the phone. He’s fallen asleep once more in front of General Hospital and can’t be sure if he heard the announcement on the phone or the TV. Since his retirement, he’s seen every rerun of the serial, broadcast since 1963.

  “What’s that?” the bare-chested, unshaven man dispiritedly asks the caller.

  “Goldman Sachs has conducted a lottery drawn from Long Island telephone books to determine the winner of a lifetime, non-transferable food concession stand at Yankee Stadium compliments of the Aramark Corporation. You’re the winner! All you have to do is. . . .”

  “Very funny,” Sam interrupts her. “Who put you up to this? Morty Mavis, that son-of-a-bitch? Tell him to go screw himself.” He’s depressed enough without that prankster making fun of his lifelong fantasy. Sam hangs up with a crashing bang that sends the wireless device flying under the plastic-covered living room couch – the wife Margaret takes off the polyethylene only for company.

  An impatient car horn honks outside.

  The phone rings again. “I’ll beat his brains out with my cane,” Sam cries out to no one in particular.

  The wife’s still sound asleep in the bedroom. His anger supplies the adrenaline required for the lame man to crawl on his knees to fetch the unrelenting noisemaker. Now rising and with his oak walking stick in his left hand to steady him, he stands to deliver a stern warning into the receiver. “If you call again, on my mother’s grave I swear I’ll torch Mavis’s house, Goddamn it.”

  Maniacal knocking at the front door. “Sam! For crissakes, I’ve been waiting for you to come outside for ten minutes,” Morty shouts from the front porch. “Did you forget we’re having lunch?” He loudly raps again.

  “Aren’t you funny, you bastard?” Sam roars back.

  “Hurry the hell up. I’m famished,” Morty yells.

  That’s when Sam’s boxer shorts fall down – the elastic has finally given out.

  “You made my underpants fall down. Are you satisfied?” he demands of the telephone caller.

  “What? Please, Mr. Blotkin. This call is real. Let me give you my number and you can call me back to confirm,” the alarmed woman says.

  Meanwhile, Morty pummels away at the portico, “What’re you doing in there? Putting on makeup? Open the damn door, putzface!”

  “Keep your pants on,” the naked man screams to Morty, although he hasn’t done the same.

  Sam calls Bhadra Raj back. “You really are from Goldman Sachs. Say again what you told me,” says Sam.

  She repeats her message. “Just come to my office at 85 Broadway to sign the papers, and please, please come right away,” she almost begs.

  Still more pounding at the door. “Hey in there! I said I’m dying from hunger. Let’s go, you lame, dumb Nazi!” bellows the convulsed consultant.

  Sam finally opens the door.

  Morty looks at the smiling nude man. “Happy now? I’ve lost my appetite.”

  “Hot Dogs Hot Dogs,

  get em’ while they’re hot!” the cheerful vendor shouts at Yankee Stadium. He stands with the traditional, insulated metal box slung around his neck in front of the dozen Sloane & Sobel Attorneys-At-Law box seats along the first base line. Though the firm has gone through numerous name changes since the park opened to a triple-run homer by the Babe himself in 1923, it’s always kept its catbird seats on one of the best views in sports anywhere. Glen Sobel managed to convince his law partners to let him have all the LLC’s tickets for this one game and takes pride in treating the men’s club to an evening on him. Jack’s here, too – his surgeon let him out of his recovery hospital bed to let him attend. Only Barry’s missing. He left the country for an indefinitely long sabbatical a few weeks before.

  It’s a tie score with the Cleveland Indians in a mid-July double header. Two strikes at the bottom of the ninth inning, and the bases are loaded. A hit’s a run and could bring an end to a sensational game. But all eyes in this section focus on the beaming foot-long salesman whose health has improved enough to walk without his cane.

  “I’ll have two more dogs and a Brooklyn Lager. And make it snappy, young man,” Morty kids the pitchman – Sam Blotkin.

  The men all look at Danny. “Now’s the time,” Rob tells Morty.

  Three Weeks Earlier,

  at the conclusion of the temple meeting, Sam gleefully unfolds his story. As he spins his wondrous tale, the other men notice that Dan, their interim leader, not only congratulates Sam but seems completely blown over by the news. After the congrats, Dan rushes first to his sweetheart Laura, waiting for him outside.

  But the other men stay behind.

  “You’re not in any of the Long Island telephone books. Your number’s unlisted, Sam,” David points out.

  “You’re right. I didn’t think about that,” the recipient of good tidings replies.

  “We’re all thrilled for you, but don’t you think Dan went a little overboard?” Morty asks.

  “Like it was an act or something,” Rob joins in.

  Now, these mostly-retired guys still consider themselves businessmen and religiously read The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal as avidly as kids watch rock music channels.

  “Didn’t Aramark recently sign a merger with the G.F. Davison Vending Machine Corporation?” Glen, the still active corporate attorney, remarks.

  “Yeah. Davison up and died not long ago and left the whole shebang to his gorgeous daughter, Charlotte, a divorce attorney with a society-page reputation for turning men into dead cockroaches.” says Rob.

  “Didn’t we hear a story about a gal like that?” Harry adds.

  The clues could lead to only one man. Before they leave, they all agree that when the time is right, Morty will baldly put the question to Dan in the straight-talking man’s own inimitable way.

  Back at the Baseball Game,

  Morty plows ahead as planned. “OK, Danny Boy. So tell us, oh wise seer, why did this Davison dame who was fucking your brains out arrange for Sam to get this concession?”

  Dan sees there’s no point in pretending he doesn’t know. “Well. . . . ”

  “Yeah, yeah, go on,” Morty urges. The men all eagerly lean forward to hear the gossip.

  “I told Laura Bernstein to tell her best friend Charlotte Davison. . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “. . . that it might help to arrange the concession as a sign of atonement and peace offering to Charlie’s real lover. You know, to make up for the fight she had with him.”

  “Who the hell is he?” Morty asks for all of the guys.

  “Barry Blackmun.”

  “Barry?!!” they all screech at once, knocking Sam’s steaming dogs and mustard all over Morty’s lap.

  “Put Him in a Straitjacket,”

  Dr. Heine says to two burly CA’s who take hold of Dan as he climbs out of Laura’s Chevrolet. The couple’s just arrived from the latest temple meeting a week later. Not enough caution tonight. “Zis iss enough of your nonsenz, Daniel. I told you not to leef here. You’re going straight to Bellevue zis time. And you, Laura. Your fazher vill findt out you helped him geht zhere.” Although the CAs have a firm grasp on him, Danny’s in the best shape of his life. He shakes the men loose and scrambles back into the car.

  “Head for the hospital, Laura.”

  “The police vill be waiting for you zhere, sonny boy,” Heine shouts to Dan as Laura pulls away.

  After a
n hour of driving in nervous stony silence, Laura fills the vacuum, “At least knowing you has gotten me published. The New Yorker’s bought my short story about a trust-funded, directionless cokehead from Long Island. They think it’s fiction,” she informs him with an ironic smile.

  “Congratulations, lover! I knew my self-abuse would do somebody good. Does he win the girl in the end?”

  “No. He’s too far gone. A complete loser. It’s called A Snowball’s Chance In Hell.”

  “You’re going to have to change the title when you find out why we’re seeing your father.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’m going to ask his permission to marry you.”

  “In a pig’s eye. I wouldn’t marry you in a million years. You’re a selfish, suicidal, ne’er-do-well addict without any possibility of a job.”

  “Flatterer,” he says and kisses her neck.

  “You might be some rich kid, but you’re impossible. And take your hand off my breast. We could crash.”

  “You love me.”

  “Your chances are zilch that my father will say yes to you.”

  “And if he does?”

  “You mean if you can make the Earth spin backwards like in Superman II?”

  “It was in Superman, not Superman II. 1978.”

  “OK, Mr. Know-It-All, then I’ll say yes – I’ll marry you. Fat chance you have.”

  “You can move your things to my place later tonight. You haven’t seen it yet.”

  “What a big head you’ve got.”

  “Yes, I do. And you’ll see that tonight, too.”

  When the two arrive at Columbia-Presbyterian, they discover Heine meant what he said. He called the police. An officer stands in front of Jacob’s hospital room. Dan shakes his hand.

  “Ben, thank God you’re here. Don’t let any policemen into this room,” Dan says.

  “I am a policeman, Mr. Daniel,” Officer Benjamin Franklin tells him. “You know we have better things to do than to chase your behind all over this island.”

  “Just give me five minutes, Ben. And then I’ll go peacefully.” Officer Franklin considers the offer and greenlights the two inside.

  Jacob’s propped up somewhat in the mechanized bed and looks reasonably comfortable despite the oxygen being pumped into his nostrils from two tiny tubes. “How’re the meetings going, Daniel?” First things first with Dr. Bernstein.

  “Great . . . Dr. Bernstein, I want to ask you for your daughter’s hand.”

  “Don’t say yes. Tell him how selfish and irresponsible he is, daddy.”

  “You’ve done a marvelous job with the men’s group, Dan. I’m very proud of you,” the doctor says slowly, trying to conserve his energy. “They’ve all been to visit me. David can’t say enough about how you helped his wife, and you found a girlfriend for Morty. Glen didn’t like your ambush at the coffee shop, but he’s finally seeing his daughter. And Sam? What can I say? Just brilliant. No, Laura. Dan’s not selfish or irresponsible. Quite the contrary.”

  “He’s a druggie.”

  “Except for the first night at LFOD, he’s been clean. Not a trace of any substance in his blood or urine in his lab reports.”

  “He’s an idler. No job and no prospects, even if he does have a trust fund.”

  “I’ve got something to say about that,” Dan interjects.

  “Have you sent in your acceptance for readmission to Cornell Medical School? I heard from a longtime friend of mine who’s the head of the admissions committee there. He noticed you’re from my neck of the woods and asked if I knew you.”

  The policeman pops his head into the room, “Time’s up, Mr. Topler. We need to go now.”

  “That won’t be necessary, officer,” Jacob says and asks Laura to hand him a blue form and a pen from the drawer next to his bed. “Dan’s no longer under the court’s jurisdiction.” He signs the physician release and hands it to Dan. “I’ve been waiting for this day. Congratulations.”

  “Jesus. Can’t I ever get a step ahead of you, Jack?” Dan asks.

  Jack smiles – Dan has never called him Jack before. “You will when it’s necessary, my boy. As Rabbi Meier said, ‘My life was blessed, because I never needed anything until I had it,’” he tells him.

  “Actually, it was Rabbi Michal, a Chasid in the 18th century,” Dan says. The father and daughter look at each other in surprise. “Sometimes during coffee breaks at the meetings I read the Meditations in the temple library prayer book.”

  “Well, then, Laura. Any other objections to marrying this nice young man?”

  Jacob asks.

  “No, father, I don’t. I never needed Dan until now that I have him.”

  “Please Give a Final

  Feces Specimen,

  Daniel Topler,” announces Nurse Linda over the LFOD loudspeakers. “Daniel Topler, report to the nurse and give a final specimen for our records.”

  “These people need to see the movie Network, because I’m mad as hell and I’m not gonna take it anymore!” Dan bellows for all to hear. Danny’s cleared out his belongings from his cabaña and shoved them helter-skelter into a duffel bag. Now, to the onlookers’ horror, he reaches into it pulls out a gun. Armed and dangerous, he starts to march into the speaker booth to scare the crap out of his tormentor.

  Lars stops him. “Look, Danny. Don’t do anything foolish. You’re getting out of here. Marrying a fabulous woman, I understand,” the real-life shrink prudently advises. “Don’t do anything to jeopardize your freedom.” The white-coated man gently requests, “Just give me the gun.” Dan stares at the sane-sounding man for a moment, then hands it over. “And if I’m not at the wedding, don’t forget to give that big-boobed blonde a kiss from me,” he screams at the top of his lungs as he sallies headlong into the booth himself.

  Two gunshots resound, echoing throughout the LFOD compound. Lars blows the smoke from the barrel of the 45-caliber revolver as Nurse Linda runs out screaming for help. The amplifying system smolders. The rounds of ammo have left gaping holes in the now dead loudspeaker system. Too bad, because minutes later Harriet Topler finally gets around to calling her son to see how he’s doing, and the receptionist can’t page him before he leaves LFOD for good. His failure to return her call confirms his egocentricity, in his mother’s opinion.

  As for Dan’s father, Albert Topler couldn’t have been happier when Dr. Bernstein calls him to say that his son’s cured. But dad’s not so sure about the recovery when he later gets the LFOD twenty-five-thousand-dollar-loudspeaker damages bill – twenty thou of it for Nurse Linda’s psychological stress and not reporting the gun to the cops.

  What a Beauty,

  Barry Blackmun marvels.

  Even from the distance across this wide expanse of the temple’s east façade he can spot his favorite telescope – a 16-inch Meade with all the latest gizmos. On this blindingly sunny day in July, the device is pointed at Athens below, from where the Parthenon still dominates the ancient city. Barry wanders aimlessly here on his beloved architectural site. He returned here only yesterday after a decade’s absence to do research on Alcaeus of Mytilene, a 6th-century BCE lyric poet; take up on an invitation from a fellow astronomer to visit The Institute of Astronomy and Astrophysics research center; and brush up on contemporary Greek jargon.

  Anything to forget her.

  He didn’t sign the university contract renewal. Instead, when he left Zoë behind in his loft to pack up her things, the long-tenured professor went directly to his office to type a request for an indefinite leave of absence. Not a man to lightly make a commitment, the Parthenon has been relegated to second-favorite place on his architectural triumph list. The New York Life Insurance Building retains its primary position because it reminds him of that special day in Madison Square Park.

  Her back to Barry, a woman in a wide-brimmed Panama hat aims the telescope up at an overhead view of the temple. He taps the observer on the shoulder. “Don’t miss a close-up of the friezes, Miss.”

  “
They’re ninety-two of them,” she says. “My favorites are the metopes on the west end. If you don’t know, metopes are the rectangular architectural elements between two triglyphs.”

  “I know.”

  “The west end has the Amazonomachy, the combat between the Amazons and the Athenians. That’s why it’s my favorite. It reminds me of you,” and she turns to face Barry.

  “Zoë. I. . . . ”

  “Please don’t interrupt me this time. I’m not finished.” Pointing at the temple as if to give instructions to a tour group, “The base of the Parthenon is 69.5 meters by 30.9 point meters.”

  “I’d forgotten.”

  “It was erected with marble carved from Mount Pentelicus starting in 447 of the Common Era and mostly completed by 432 – more than twenty-four centuries ago.”

  “It was so good of you to help Sam. I heard.”

  “The internal colonnades were constructed in two tiers, which were needed to support the roof.”

  “Forgive me, my love.”

  “Outside, the Doric columns are 10.4 meters high and 1.9 meters in diameter.”

  “I’m sorry. I was a fool to leave you.”

  “Yes . . . you were. Did you know that my father married my mother right where we’re standing?”

  “I was here, then. Ganymede looked proud and handsome. He married the most beautiful woman I had ever seen . . . until I met their daughter. I was the best man.”

  “You still are the best man. Who will be yours for our wedding? Laura will be my maid of honor. At this temple. Right where we’re standing.”

  Bluer Waters

  flow this time beneath the men.

  “Let the fuck go of me,” Dan says.

  “Can’t do that, sonny boy,” says Officer Franklin as he gives Danny a big kiss on the cheek before unbinding his thick arms from around Dan’s morning coat.