“I see,” said the female voice, but of course she didn’t. I wondered if worldStar operators were prohibited from participating in Sex Olympic events through the medium of cell phone sex.
“Are you injured?” asked the female voice.
“No, we’re not,” I said. “I think we had a tire blow out. We’re on the Merritt Parkway near…”
“I know where you are.”
“You do?” I was amazed. How did she know where we were?
“Tony,” Mister Forsyth cut in, a little annoyed at my ignorance. “That’s what GPS is. Global positioning, get it? There are satellites that can pinpoint your exact position to within a few feet.” He waved his hand in frustration. “Just have them send a truck right away, so we can get out of here.”
I found it hard to believe this new technology. Progress was so rapid, wasn’t it? There is a biography of Douglas MacArthur which tells of his childhood in the Southwest when Indians still used bows and arrows and carries him through the end of World War II when the atom bombs were dropped. And this was all in one man’s lifetime.
“Can you send a service truck right away?” I said. “We have a couple of athletes in the back of the limousine.” I didn’t indicate in which event they specialized.
Mister Forsyth leaned forward and whispered fiercely in my ear. “Why did you say that?”
“We’ll get better treatment this way,” I whispered back. “They’ll think you’re famous.”
The worldStar operator said, “A service truck will be on its way shortly. Just remain where you are and we’ll have you on your way in no time.”
So we sat in the limo as the rain came down and the windshield wipers whacked back and forth. No one spoke. What was there to say? That it was a magnificent performance? The cocaine high had worn off. Dolly and Mister Forsyth weren’t talking to each other. They certainly had nothing to say to me, a lowly observer We couldn’t talk about the evils of colonialism. That would have been pretentious. We couldn’t talk about business and the economy. That would have been crass. We couldn’t talk about the current loves of movie stars. That would have been shallow.
So we just sat in the limousine without looking at each other. There was a thick heavy feeling in the air. It was uncomfortable, to say the least. We had witnessed each other in our most personal moments and now we simply wanted to extricate ourselves from each other and from this situation with a minimum of fuss.
Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer. “I’m going to take a look at the tire,” I said.
“Good idea,” Mister Forsyth said. Better you than me is what he meant.
I got out of the car and crouched down to get a closer look because it was dark. The tire was flat, no doubt about it. The rain was heavy and it soaked my suit within a few seconds. I reached under the tire to feel it. The rim was right on the ground. There was no air at all in the tire. I could have replaced it with the spare, but I didn’t want to go through the whole routine in the rain. So I climbed back into the car and slammed the door.
I was wet, angry and ashamed. Why had I let myself be seduced by the promise of easy money into taking part in an intimate spectacle that I had no business watching? Had I no scruples left? No common decency? Was two hundred dollars what my self-respect was worth? It was rare that a man could put an exact dollar amount on his moral value.
“How does it look, Tony?” Mister Forsyth asked.
I felt like telling him to shut up. Instead, I said, “It’s completely flat. No hope for it.”
He grunted in reply.
We sat in silence. A half-hour had gone by. I pushed the worldStar button again.
“This is worldStar,” the operator said. “How may we help you?”
“You can help us by getting a goddam truck out here,” I said. “We’ve been waiting a half-hour. What’s the problem?”
“There’s no problem,” the operator said reassuringly. “The truck will be there shortly.”
“That’s what you said a half-hour ago, and the truck still isn’t here.”
“It’s on its way,” the operator said with just the slightest trace of annoyance. “You’re not the only disabled car on the road, you know.”
I know, I thought, but we are probably the only disabled car on the road with a pair of exhausted sex athletes who can’t wait to get home and shower off the by-now-dried bodily fluids. “I’m sure we would appreciate it if you could hurry up that truck,” I said.
“I’ll do what I can,” the operator said and clicked off.
And so we sat wordlessly for another half-hour until I sensed we were ready to enter into a three-way murder-suicide pact. It was unclear who would commit murder and who would commit suicide, but I knew that if Satan appeared with parchment and a quill pen, he would have three willing signatories. Or maybe it would be possible to electrocute the worldStar operator by sending a lightning bolt directly into her headpiece and frying her brain.
I jabbed the worldStar button several times.
“This is worldStar. How may we help you?”
“Listen, bitch,” I said. “We’ve been waiting an hour for that truck. Where the hell is it?”
“The truck is on the way,” the operator said coolly. “There’s no need for profanity.”
“If you think that’s profanity, just stay tuned if that truck doesn’t get here within five minutes.”
The operator hung up. It was probably a mistake to antagonize her. Now I could see her canceling the order and leaving us to ferment in our own bile.
“Do you think that was wise?” Mr. Forsyth said.
“Probably not,” I admitted. “It’s just that I feel frustrated.”
“That’s nothing, Tony. If you feel frustrated, imagine how we feel. We’re the passengers.”
It was a magnificent non sequitur. As if I had no place to go and they were on their way to a black tie royal gala coronation. I couldn’t think of a response as cockeyed as his statement so I just shut up.
We waited for another half-hour without any sign of the service truck. Mister Forsyth and Dolly had both fallen asleep. From time to time, Mister Forsyth would snore briefly and then stop abruptly. I stared ahead at the road and the red tail lights receding into the distance.
Finally, I sighed and got out of the car. There was nothing else to do. I had to change the tire.
It took twenty minutes. I was wet and shivering from the cold. All the while, I cursed global positioning systems, debris on the road and rich young snots. By the time I climbed back into the warm dry limo, I was ready to join the Islamic Jihad.
I pulled the limo back onto the highway. It gave me no small pleasure to wake the sleeping plutocrats. “Where to, Mister Forsyth?” I shouted.
They jerked awake. “Oh, did the worldStar finally show up?” Dolly asked, half asleep.
“No,” I said. “I changed the tire myself.”
“Good thinking, Tony,” Mister Forsyth said. “Let’s go back home. We’re all exhausted.”
Yes, I thought. You’re all exhausted from changing the tire in the rain.
I looked for the next exit to turn the limo around. Mister Forsyth reached over my shoulder and waved some money in front of my face. “Here’s two hundred and fifty bucks. I added an extra fifty bucks for changing the tire. Looks like you’ve got a case against worldStar, those incompetents.”
So that was the calculus of our transaction. Two hundred dollars for no-effort witnessing of private moments and fifty dollars for cursing-under-my-breath hard manual labor in the downpour that left me soaking wet, my hands grease-stained and my back aching. The odds were stacked four to one against honest work. Small wonder the unwashed masses would never get rich by the sweat of their brow.
CHAPTER XXXI
The following Tuesday evening Malkie and I arrived at Julian’s bookstore at eight o’clock. Tuesday was poetry reading night and I was scheduled to read some of my scribbles to the few people who sat in attendance. Ethan, my friend, the black exis
tentialist was there and he smiled and gave me a little wave when he saw me. I recognized some of the habitues whom I had seen rummaging through Julian’s dusty geographically-arranged piles of books, sometimes throwing up their hands in despair because they were unable to find the book they were looking for. The place was an exercise in frustration, it was true, but it was also a source of serendipity, as the regulars knew.
I’d picked Malkie up at her apartment and we’d strolled down to the bookstore in the warm spring night, holding hands. She, of course, wouldn’t be able to hear me reading and so I’d provided her with a copy of my poems so she could read along. It was the first time anyone had ever read my writings.
But wait a minute. I misinformed you. Many people have read my writings, albeit in the form of drug interactions and contraindications. Many people have followed my instructions concerning dosage. However, that’s not the same thing, I suppose.
I was nervous, but it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. It was sort of exhilarating and frightening at the same time. To risk exposing yourself before a roomful of people who would judge you on your choice and placement of words. On your ability to transport them or convince them.
Julian greeted Malkie and me as we entered the store. He gave me a soft handshake and withdrew his hand quickly. His face had a warm Duchenne smile.
“Tony,” he said in his sibilant voice. “How sweet of you to offer yourself up in sacrifice. But, rest assured, this is a very gentle crowd. We won’t throw you to the lions, at least not just yet.”
“Very kind, Julian,” I said. “But I didn’t come in a sacrificial mode.” I turned to Malkie. “This is my friend, Malkie,” I said to Julian.
He bowed to her in an old-fashioned way that brought a smile to her lips. But, as he lowered his head, he said, “I’m delighted to meet you. Tony’s never mentioned you. He never told me what a beautiful friend he has.”
Malkie didn’t respond. I jumped in. “Malkie is deaf, so she has to read your lips. She can’t hear you. She didn’t get what you just said.”
Julian took her hand and held it between his hands. He looked directly into her face. “I’m so sorry,” he said slowly. It was obvious he meant it. His face had a pained expression, as if he’d just stepped on a helpless sparrow. “Please excuse my lack of sensitivity. You’re very welcome in my store.”
Malkie was superb. She didn’t hesitate or make Julian feel awkward. She simply drew him to her and gave him a long kiss on his cheek. “Julian,” she whispered into his ear. “I’m glad to be here with Tony and to meet his friends. He’s told me about your unusual bookstore. He loves to come here.”
Julian fairly beamed. I marveled. Here was a girl who could have written Dale Carnegie’s book for him. She could enchant anyone, I thought.
Ethan got up from his seat and made his way over to us. “Got to congratulate the poet,” he said in his deep booming voice. “Proud o’ my man.” He slung his beefy arm over my shoulder. “This existential poetry, or what?”
“Free verse,” I said.
“As opposed to free will?” he guffawed, pleased with his own joke.
Malkie stood by, uncertain as to what Ethan had said. I repeated Ethan’s words for her. Then Ethan saw what he had done and turned to face Malkie and repeated the conversation for the third time.
She laughed. “If we keep on repeating the conversation this is going to be a very slow evening,” Malkie said. “Don’t worry about me. I can pick up enough of what you say to make sense of it.”
I felt the urge to put my arm around Malkie’s waist at the same moment she put her hand on Ethan’s arm. We held onto each other for a short minute before Julian said, “Why don’t we take our seats so Tony can begin his reading?” He indicated some empty chairs in the front row.
Malkie, Ethan and Julian walked to the front of the room. Malkie and Ethan seated themselves while Julian stood and faced the fifteen or so people in the chairs before him. He beckoned to me to join him. As I stood beside him, he said, “This is Tony. He’s come here to share some of his poetry with us. Please be kind to him.”
Everyone applauded politely.
I felt like I was in a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous. “My name is Tony and I’m addicted to reading. Any form of reading. Books, pamphlets, periodicals. I’ll read anything I can get my hands on. Tickets, brochures, instruction sheets. Please help me. I can’t stop reading.”
“Good evening,” I said. “I’m a newly-fledged poet. I write for fun, so please excuse me for any obvious errors or misplaced or misused words. I hope you enjoy my writing.”
A few listeners nodded in sympathy with a man who would choose to eviscerate himself like this in public. I scanned the faces of the people. Most of them were encouraging. So I dove in.
Cracked, withered, shriveled, blasted
at last.
Shrieked for release, silently.
Finally, the infinite has crested
and equivocation cannot be bartered.
The ultimate ergs are expended-
the sum of an existence is capitalized.
Ganglia, synapses…the ohms no longer flow.
And he who has warmed us has
deprived us of his life.
No one snickered. No one hooted. No one got up and started to leave. So it wasn’t so bad after all. The applause was a little warmer than before. Some people smiled as they applauded. The response heartened me.
I read three more poems. The applause was more animated after each poem. When I had finished, I thanked the audience and rushed to an empty seat next to Malkie and exhaled in relief. Malkie took my hand and grabbed it tightly. Then she leaned over and kissed my neck.
Julian walked over and congratulated me. “That was a triumph. A veritable triumph,” he said. “You must come back and read some more of your poetry. If you have enough poems, I may even be able to get them published in a little book.”
Ethan stood and gave me a giant bear hug. “My man, the poet laureate of Greenwich Village. I’m proud o’ you. Camus and Sartre would be proud o’ you.”
I grinned like a fool. This was the first small success I’d had in so many years. The first joy I’d felt in God knows how long. It was an evening of cheap jug wine and paper cups and stale cheese and crackers, but this was the reason why I’d made my escape. I was with people who appreciated what I had created out of nothing. Out of a blank sheet of paper. I was finally happy in the bosom of my friends.
I took Malkie home to her apartment and we proceeded to have sex, in spite of the AT&T Relay operator lady.
CHAPTER XXXII
The limousine was parked at the curb on a side street under the approaches to the Fifty-ninth Street bridge, its engine running, wasting gasoline and polluting the air. It was the first warm night of spring. I was waiting for Max’s call, dispatching me to my assignment. As I sat in the car in the darkness, I was reading The Confessions of Rousseau by flashlight. That sly philosopher had just confessed in an oblique manner that he enjoyed being spanked. What was a reader to make of this indiscreet piece of information? Now I would have to reread The Social Contract to see how a desire for spanking might have a bearing on mankind’s public affairs and its willingness to be governed. All sorts of new insights might present themselves.
With that thought, I put down the book, switched off the flashlight and sighed.
Did I often think of my wife and son? I suppose I did, but even more frequently in the last month or two. Their faces would appear to me in the hour before dawn when I was not yet fully awake and my defenses hadn’t been erected. It was too late to go back, I knew, but I wondered if they still thought of me. And what they thought of me. Where did they imagine I had gone?
I pictured my wife’s face, pale and smooth. Loveless and detached. Where once there had been affection, nothing remained. An empty cistern devoid of emotion.
And my son with a face too cruel for someone so young. What had he experienced to make him so bitter? His dreams hadn’t
been shattered as mine had been. I couldn’t imagine what failures had fueled his resentment.
Did I want to return? I shook my head in the dark. There was no reward in that. It would have been as pointless as before. One must always go forward. One can never return.
As I pondered this useless reverie, I failed to notice the car pull up slowly behind me. I glanced in the rear view mirror but didn’t pay it much attention. The car sat quietly for several minutes, idling in the night. I couldn’t see the occupants. They might have been up to some mischief, but I doubted it. It was only when they turned on the colored roof lights that I realized it was a police car.
My first impulse was to panic. But I took several deep breaths and let them out slowly. They would have no way of knowing who I was. They were obviously not after me, I told myself. Calm down, relax and think pleasant thoughts. Think of palm trees swaying on a desert island.
The policeman got out of his patrol car and swaggered over to me. He stood next to the limo without moving or saying anything. I just stared straight ahead, trying to look nonchalant.
Palm trees swaying on a desert island.
The cop shone his flashlight in my face. I didn’t move.
“Get out of the car,” he said.
Palm trees swaying.
“But, officer. I didn’t do anything. I was just…”
“Get out of the car.”
I knew I had to comply. There were few things more dangerous than an angry cop. I shielded my eyes from the glare of the flashlight and got out. I faced him. He turned off the flashlight. His youth surprised me. I thought cops were supposed to be older. By the glare of the halogen streetlight, I judged he couldn’t have been more than twenty-one or twenty-two.
I tried to explain. “I was just waiting for my dispatcher…”
He scowled at me. “Next time you make me say it twice you’re gonna be one sorry asshole.”
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