Flabbergasted: A Novel

by Ray Blackston

  I missed her, and I still wasn't sure what made her happier than everyone else.

  Mail moved slowly from Ecuador. Her reply to my letter took two weeks to reach South Carolina. I kept it on my dresser and read it often, mostly on weekends, if only to bring balance and perspective to my life.

  Jay,

  It's been nearly a month since I left Greenville. What a change. My Ecuadorian home is less than ideal, though I've learned to cope. My two-room wooden hut sits on stilts, little skinny stilts, not like the fat ones under the beach houses in Litchfield. I might move into the long hut with the kids next week. We'll see. Stringy vines wrap around the stilts and have now reached the roof. It must be a cousin of kudzu, which by the way was the only plant that really listened when God said to go forth and multiply.

  There's no hot water here, but being near the equator, I can leave buckets out to warm during the day and use them for baths in the evening.

  We have no phone, although there is a pay phone forty miles away in Coca. On Fridays I go into town in a pickup truck with the women. The roads are very bad. The women go to buy groceries and medicine, and the store owner keeps a computer in the back of his store and I think he has e-mail but he doesn't trust Americans and only grunted and waved me away when I asked him if I could use it.

  Look at a map sometime. I'm on the eastern edge of the country, at the outskirts of the Amazon Basin. It's very hot, and November starts our dry season.

  The children love my being here and are slowly learning some English. They are so different from American kids-I had one Lifesaver left in a roll, and three little kids shared it with each other, passing it from mouth to mouth until the candy melted and vanished. The adults are hospitable, if somewhat suspicious of me.

  We are taking the kids (or rather, they are taking me) on a canoe trip tomorrow, down a branch tributary thing from the big river. We also have a shabby ol'soccer field cut into the jungle. I feel so comfortable here (my corporate ladder is very short; scenic but short, and who needs a corporate ladder anyway when God is in control?).

  I was disappointed we didn't get to go drifting again-God will get those Bud guys for stealing our floats that night. Tell Ransom and Jamie congratulations on their pregnancy. I think it's hysterical that she got pregnant on a church singles retreat. And, yes, Darcy and Steve are just friends. She told me that months ago.

  Write me again.

  And read your Bible. Start with Romans (end of chapter 8 hangs over my bed).

  Blessings to you, Jay. I am so happy you are asking questions about God.

  Allie

  P.S. Could you send some of the little Hershey's dark chocolates in the gold wrappers? Most of it is for me, but I will share with the children and might even bribe that store owner for some computer time. His name is Miguel.

  Pray for him, because he is mean.

  The last time we'd talked was during ajuly Fourth picnic. A parade had begun that afternoon on Greenville's Main Street, the horns and drums and the confetti and the children all combining into one blaring celebration of freedom. She, Lydia, and myself joined in at the back of the parade, wearing Uncle Sam hats and marching like soldiers to the strains of "Anchors Aweigh."

  She left for South America the next morning.

  After the beach trip, Allie spent most of her time on the road, speaking at churches all over the Carolinas and Georgia while trying to raise support for a multi-year assignment. I spent my time in the office, trying to raise the price of the Nasdaq.

  Her efforts were somewhat more successful than my own.

  During the steamy month of July, I had used the evenings to complete the renovations to my home on the cul-de-sac. Installing hardwood floors, replacing bathroom fixtures, and painting the hideous hot-pink room of the former owner's young daughter gave me new appreciation for the intricacies of home repair. The spare bedroom had taken longer than I'd planned-it requires three coats of opal basil to cover hideous hot pink.

  As for opal basil, I'm certain that such names are brought to market by the same people who call their BMWs a "motorcar" and their homes an "estate."

  Opal basil is actually a soft green, although in the Deep South, descriptions of color are relative. I was at the paint counter on a Saturday morning, waiting for my gallon to be fully shook, when the Home Depot man reached in his orange apron and clarified opal basil for me. "Now remember," he said, handing me a free stir stick, "this here is a lighter green than John Deere tractors."

  No excuses; it's just a Southern thing.

  July slid indifferently into August, and I began sliding myself every other Sunday into pew number twenty-three-because twenty-four creaked too much and twenty-two was way too close to the front. Church had become my social circle; my new friends were at church, and the donuts were free.

  But mostly I was right there in my office, trying to enrich and pacify a roster of elderly clients-one particular client requiring extra doses of pacification.

  "Mr. Franklin Gruber on the phone again, sir."

  "Thank you, Glenda.... Yes, Mr. Gruber, the stock is up two whole cents from where you bought it thirty minutes ago. Let's just give it some time. No, sir, Mr. Gruber, I do not bowl."

  Mr. Gruber's account had dwindled, due mainly to his knack for letting emotions take control, the time-proven method for buying high and selling low.

  Twelve brokers bought and sold between the dark olive walls of E. B. Cowen Investments. We ranged in age from twenty-five to sixty. Four Jaguars and several other exotics occupied our private parking lot. Compared to them, my old Blazer looked pitiful. But in July, however, Mr. Brophy gave me the broker-of-the-month award, and my name shined across the engraved plaque, a symbol of status.

  Not as impressive as a Jaguar, but a status symbol just the same.

  Tate Brophy was our fifty-year-old broker-in-charge, the Big Dog. He'd made a suggestion to the younger brokers, saying that growing a beard would help us because it would show our maturity to the gray-haired clients, who owned the bulk of the money. Mr. Brophy drove a silver Porsche Carrera and lived in a five-bedroom stucco on a golf course with his thirty-three-year-old wife, so all four of the young guys in our office had stopped shaving.

  I wasn't growing a full beard-as if I could. Just the scruffy look, trimmed but scruffy. I wished it was darker, but the light brown scruff would just have to do.

  `Jay?" Mr. Brophy said, sticking his gray head and black Gucci shoes in my doorway.

  "Yessir?" I snuck another glance at my quote screen.

  "Good call on the oil stocks. They're soaring."

  "Learned it all from you, Mr. B."

  "You bought some for yourself?"

  "Three hundred shares."

  He rubbed his chin and said, "Six hundred bucks in one day. Not bad for a Texan."

  "It's a start," I replied, but then I was yet to own a pair of Gucci shoes.

  Mr. Brophy perused my wall, past the UT diploma and my colossal picture of the 17th at St. Andrews.

  "Bought any toys lately, Jay?" he asked, his back still to me. He was forever asking us about our toys, our latest spending sprees.

  "Might get me a surfboard, sir."

  "A surfboard? We're four hours from the beach, son."

  "Yeah, but I want one anyway. I wanna prop one against my livingroom wall, just to look cool."

  The markets were wacky that day, and I was glad he'd stopped by. But then my stylish bossman moved closer, gripping my desk and leaning down over my monitor to look me in the eye. "Okay, 'fess up, Jarvis. Just who did you meet on that beach trip?"

  I leaned back in my chair, reclaiming my personal space. "Some strange people, sir. But I did meet this one girl who-"

  He raised up, hands on hips, then cocked his head in the posture of the all-knowing. "Oh, lemme guess ... she's a lawyer who surfs?"

  "Nope."

  "A physical therapist?"

  "Negatory."

  "A CPA who hangs ten?"

  "Actually, sir, th
is is where it gets strange. The person who surfs is named Ransom, and he's married. But sometimes he hangs out with the singles, although he lusted for his wife from across the seafood restaurant, so now they're pregnant. And the girl I met doesn't have a real job; she lives in the rainforest. In rural Ecuador. She works for God, I think."

  Mr. Brophy backed away from my desk and shouldered up to my door. "Aww, son. Didn't everyone tell you to visit a Pentecostal church? Those Presbyterians will mess ya up every time."

  "They both start with a P, sir. And besides, don't the Pentecostals whoop, holler, and-"

  He reached for the doorknob. "I don't know what they do, son."

  Everyone thought Bossman Tate Brophy was some hotshot broker whose trading prowess and wealthy clients paid for his lifestyle. But I knew the truth. He was no better a trader than the rest of us. He just got lucky. He bought Microsoft the day of its initial public offering. Same with AOL. Then he sold 'em both-at the high.

  His wife told me this at a party while eating snails off a crystal plate.

  Winning broker-of-the-month meant I had to treat my fellow brokers, so the next day I ordered a catered lunch-croissants and lunch meats, plus a platter of baby carrots and celery, since Mr. Brophy was on a diet. Between all their buying and selling, the other brokers stopped by to say congrats, pass the mustard, and had I seen the new Audi coupe with the six-speed transmission.

  Trader Jay, they called me, the one who bought the panics and sold the euphoria.

  After shutting down my computer that Friday afternoon, I was craving a workout and a good meal when Line One glowed red. I flinched, figuring it was Gruber again, but then relaxed as Glenda told me differently. I plopped back down in my desk chair and slid the headset on.

  "Hello, Beatrice."

  "Well, hello, young man! I've been in the garden. And how was your day?"

  "Crazy day in the market, Beatrice. Way down, then way up."

  A brief pause. "Way up? Hmmm, sounds like my sprig of zebra grassit grew way up over my head. So high I had to get Trevor to cut it back for me. Do you know Trevor, dear?"

  "No, ma'am."

  "He's sixty-six. A bit young for me, I suppose. But a good handyman."

  "What can I do for you, Beatrice?"

  "Well, I thought I'd pay him in stock. Can we sell three shares of the ABC?"

  "You mean the AT&T?"

  "Of course, dear. Eight thousand shares, right?"

  "It's over nine thousand, Beatrice."

  "Glory be. That's nearly a bushel. You still think I should travel the world?"

  "Sure, Beatrice. Take some friends. Meet Italians, tour Greece."

  "The Italians pour grease? On who, dear?"

  "I meant to say that if you go, you should visit all of Europe."

  "You'll rush the money to me if I sell?"

  "Yes, ma'am. Would be happy to."

  "No, no, I changed my mind. You stay right there, Mr. Jarvis. I'm coming to get it."

  "The market's closed, Beatrice. We'll have to sell Monday."

  "Nonsense, dear. You tell them to open it back up for me. I'm calling Francine tonight to see if she'd like to go see the greasy Italians. She's eighty-three, you know. Might not can wait. And Trevor would like to go, too."

  "I'm sure a handyman would enjoy traveling with you and Francine."

  "Oh my, two old women and a younger man! What do folks call that a triangle?"

  "I think so, but you and Francine should probably talk that over."

  "Enough about me and Francine, dear. What about you? Any young thing in your life?"

  "Not at the moment. But I have a new friend down in Ecuador."

  "Well, then you just go down and knock on that aqua door. Pay her a visit."

  "It's a long walk. So will I see you Monday?"

  "Of course, Monday. No, no, I host gardening club that day ... but, dear?"

  "Yes, Beatrice?"

  "Aqua is a horrible color for a door. Tell her to go with Williamsburg red."

  When I arrived home that evening, the message light on my answering machine flashed red-bright red, not Williamsburg. I pressed the button, waited for the beep, and listened to yet another church-related invitation.

  I did not know it at the time, but God had me by the shirt collar and was about to take me on a tour of the Bible Belt's shiniest buckle.

  Steve Cole-Mr. Sneaky himself-actually hosted a weekly men's group.

  I found this disturbing, unsettling, like if Jack Nicholson were hosting Tupperware parties.

  Most of the guys from our beach house were in the group, including Stanley and two of his clean-cut theological buddies. As for Steve, he still had not confessed anything relational-and I had not pressed him, either.

  But I would.

  Steve lived in the fixer-upper section of Greenville's North Main area. He had a modest home-a brick one-story with a carport and four sickly azaleas. A bent basketball hoop leaned over his driveway. Inside, hardwood floors and a picture window anchored his decor, along with two potted plants begging for nourishment.

  A new rug, oval and brightly colored, graced the center of his living room. I had arrived early, and I asked Steve about the rug, since bold patterns of lime green seemed to dominate.

  "Yeah, Darcy helped pick it out," he admitted, barefooted as he blipped the evening news. Soft drinks and potato chip bags filled his coffee table. I poured myself a drink and began interrogating Brother Steve.

  "Oh, did she? And have you thought about asking her out again? Because didn't you mention, on the drive to the beach, that you two had been out once?"

  He looked at me as if he were doing calculus in his head. "Yeah, I might take her out again, just as a friend. Her birthday's coming up. Maybe then."

  I gave him a plastic cup. "You're quite the gentleman."

  One by one the crew arrived, and soon eight single men plus Ransomin a surfer T-shirt and sandals-had pulled chairs into a circle around Steve's new rug.

  Ransom had not cut his hair, Steve had not shaved, and the rest of them I had rarely seen since the beach. And I had no clue as to our topic.

  "Dudes," said Ransom, "we are the Circle of Nine. We were supposed to be a circle of ten, but Joe Caruzzi just got promoted to Triple A baseball in Richmond."

  "I bet Lydia hates that news," Steve mumbled.

  "Long-distance relationships never work," Stanley said, his Bible balanced on his knee.

  "Tell the truth," Steve said, speaking through a mouthful of chips and to no one in particular. "How many of you guys got dates from that beach trip?"

  "That wasn't our purpose," Stanley protested.

  "Of course, it was the purpose," said Ransom. "It's always the purpose. Tell 'em, jaybird."

  I sipped my Coke and tried to remain calm. "Me? I got no dates from that trip."

  "Oh, c'mon," said Stanley. "You spent the entire weekend with her."

  I glanced around the circle. Five strange men were staring at me. The pressure was intense, but there was no time for Seuss, so I just blurted it out. "Honest, guys. She said to close my eyes and drift and so I closed my eyes and drifted and then we washed up on some sandbar, her carving anticapitalistic poems in the sand and telling me I had no talent for verse. Then the current washed us halfway to Spain, she prayed on her plastic float, and whammo, there was Beach Patrol. All thanks to you, of course, Brother Stanley."

  I could tell he didn't like me calling him Brother Stanley. He frowned and said, "Someone never came home to his assigned house that night, did he, Jay?"

  His buddies glared at me, dumbfounded.

  With open palms, I pleaded my case. "Nothing sinful happened, guys. Honest. After eating a pound of shrimp, I dozed off between the dunes, then woke to talk of Jesus spinning Saturn on his finger like a basketball, which was right before the giddy newlyweds slow danced in the surf. Next thing I knew, Allie was kicking my shin while the sun rose over the Atlantic. We ended up in the front row of a little Baptist church, listening to a se
rmon on Jonah from a preacher who pets sharks on the head. His name is Asbury. That's all that happened. Honest. We sat in the front row."

  Now the entire group was staring at me, mouths open, eyebrows raised. Even Steve, who owed me big time for my discretion.

  Ransom pounded on the coffee table, diverting attention to himself. I praised God for diverted attention. "Men," he said, "regardless of Jay's adventures, we are supposed to at least try, for a few minutes, to discuss more serious issues."

  "Yes," said Stanley, interrupting my surfer friend, "we're here for mutual edification, to seek wisdom from our omnipotent God."

  Ransom rolled his eyes and addressed the group again. "Okay, dudes, who had impure thoughts this week?"

  Steve dropped the chips. No one else moved.

  Then one hand went up, and another and another, in half-second intervals, like pelicans taking flight. Our circle made a right-hand revolution as I grudgingly raised mine. Eight for eight. Then Ransom raised his own hand. Nine for nine. Even the married guy.

  But we were only hands. No talk.

  "Any discussion? C'mon guys," Ransom pleaded. "Gimme some comments."

  "I can't help it," said Stanley.

  "It's habitual, bro," said Steve.

  "Very habitual," I offered.

  "It lures us in ... every billboard, every commercial."

  "So what can we do about it?" asked Ransom.

  "Pray?" Stanley answered.

  "That'll help," said Ransom. "But we also need to realize that all dudes are in the same struggle, and we need to be consistent in encouraging one another, keeping each other out of tempting situations."

  One of Stanley's buddies raised his hand. "But what about five-foot, eleven-inch blondes who wear lime green bikinis?"

  "Can we move on to another subject?" asked Steve, tracing the rim of the rug with his toe.

  "Okay. Next subject is materialism," said Ransom, checking his notes. "How many of you guys, over this past week, compared your stuff with another guy's stuff?"

  I thought of the jaguars in my office lot. My hand, now two, three, four, five, and ... harmony. Honest little pelicans. Nine for nine again.