Flabbergasted: A Novel

by Ray Blackston

  A young guy named Barry looked especially convicted. He tugged his navy blue Nike cap low over his eyes, then cleared his throat. "Okay, what about if you're in college and you come to church and see everyone getting out of new cars and you know they go to the nicest steak houses right after church but you have to go home and eat ravioli out of a can? What about that?"

  "Chef Boyardee?" asked Steve. "I used to eat that."

  "I lived off of bologna casseroles for weeks at a time," said Stanley. "Still have the recipe."

  "I ate peanut butter'n honey sandwiches every day for a year," Ransom added.

  My turn. "I used to dump whatever I had into a blender and drink my poverty."

  "Thanks, guys," said Barry. "Splendid advice for the poor and needy."

  Impure thoughts and materialism-two topics with which I was familiar. Although I'd never been held accountable for it. Such vulnerability made me uncomfortable. I wasn't sure about that men's group-if I wanted to keep attending but at least they didn't make me look up obscure verses to the east or west of Psalms.

  To everyone's surprise, Ransom asked young Barry to remove his navy blue Nike cap. Barry took it off and bowed his head.

  "That wasn't what I had in mind," said Ransom. `Just hand me your lid."

  Barry grabbed the hat by the bill and handed it over. Ransom dropped two one-dollar bills in the cap, then passed it on to the next guy.

  "What's that for?" asked Barry, his curly hair all matted.

  "Dude, we're sending you to the nicest steak house in town. Aren't we, men?"

  Impromptu charity-it too took us by surprise. But everyone reached quickly for their wallets.

  Steve dropped three ones in the cap, and so did the next guy and the next. By the time the cap reached Stanley, it was spilling over with dollar bills. But Stanley let the cap rest in his lap a moment, right atop his Bible. He stared into his wallet, paused once more, then slowly dropped in a ten.

  I did not pause at all. I dropped in a twenty and was quite content to have outgiven Stanley, who moments earlier had tried to embarrass me over my Litchfield Beach adventures.

  His cap safely returned, Barry sat speechless. He just stared into it for a moment, then stuffed the cash into his wallet and shook his head.

  "Okay," said Ransom, reaching across the coffee table to refill his drink, "that covers this week's agenda. Next week we'll cover a new topic. Now who else among you single guys met a cool female at the beach? We wanna hear all about it."

  Again, no one moved, until Stanley picked up the bag of chips, ate one, and slowly raised his hand. Ransom sipped his drink and leaned forward in his chair, only a few feet from Stanley. "Well, tell us her name."

  "No."

  "C'mon," urged Ransom.

  "No!"

  "Where'd ya meet her?"

  Stanley looked at the floor, shuffled his feet, and mumbled, "Under our beach house."

  "What was she doing under there?"

  "Showering off sand."

  "Under the guys' house?"

  Stanley nodded in the affirmative.

  Ransom leaned back in his chair, cocked his head. "So tell us, dude, who is she?"

  "Her name is Rona. And she asked me out."

  Stanley and Number Eight-whodathunkit?

  Yep, God had me by the shirt collar, and the tour had just begun.

  There are only two things you need to know about the stock market: It's either gonna go up before it goes back down, or it's gonna go down before it goes back up.

  Just pick one.

  Right before the market opened, Lydia Hutto strolled into my office and chose "up." Short, hospitable, redheaded Lydia thought the market would definitely go up. Wearing a navy pantsuit burdened with a heavy dose of black pinstripes, she sat herself in my guest chair and offered a bite of her raspberry scone.

  "I want to buy some Ann Taylor stock," she said proudly.

  I began a frantic search of my database. "Does Ann have a stock?" I asked.

  She nibbled her scone and said, "Well, you should know, Jay. You're the broker here."

  In all honesty, I was not sure Miss Ann had a stock. I knew Miss Martha had a stock, but not Ann. I'd never traded it. But, yes, there it was-at $23 a share.

  "You're right, Lydia," I said, turning the monitor for her benefit. "Now how much would you like to buy?"

  "All I can with this." And she stood and pulled a wad of twenties from her pocket, arranging them in a neat green pile next to my keyboard.

  Lydia had walked over from the downtown branch of Carolina First Bank, where she held the position of chief window teller. I thought the job a nice fit for her hospitable nature, with all the smiling and handing out packets of money.

  "There's at least four hundred bucks here," I said, counting the bills into my palm.

  "Four hundred forty," said Lydia. She crossed her short navy legs and waited for me to confirm her total.

  Total confirmed, I marked the dough for deposit. "You wanna bet it all on Ann?"

  "I trust Ann," said Lydia. "Much more so than men."

  Until that comment, I was going to keep our visit strictly business. But she just had to bring up that topic again. "Does that mean things aren't going so well with you and Slugger Joe?"

  She tossed the balance of her scone in my trash basket and recrossed her short navy legs. "I'm still deciding ... but he may have potential."

  "Does Joe open doors?"

  "Mostly."

  `Does buys you front-row seats to his games?"

  `Joe gets free tickets."

  "And you can order steak instead of meatloaf?"

  "We had meatloaf once. I cooked."

  "Burned it?"

  "Yep."

  "Ordered takeout?"

  "Twice in one hour."

  "Chinese?"

  `Joe ate six egg rolls."

  Lydia squirmed in her seat, which I took as girl-speak for "Let's change the subject." I turned the monitor back toward me, then called up her account. "Okay, Lydia, you never did say why you left me and Allie asleep on the beach that night at Litchfield."

  "I had to go potty."

  "And you never came back?"

  She paused for the memory. "It was a long walk back to the beach. Plus, you two looked so peaceful there on the sand-your backs to each other, one facing north, one south. Y'all looked like kids at a slumber party who'd had a disagreement and were trying to sleep it off. Say, are you going to buy me my stock or not?"

  I entered the order and said, "Consider it bought. So why are you so bullish on Ann Taylor stock?"

  She sat up straight and played with her hair. "Because last Saturday me and Darcy bought three dresses each in a whirlwind of shopping. And no, Jay, you do not even have to ask. Two of Darcy's dresses matched her car."

  Lydia and Darcy-they were bullish on America.

  An hour after Lydia left with her nineteen shares of fashionable stock, Mr. Brophy summoned me to his office. Smiling over red suspenders, he even held the mahogany door for me.

  My guess was that he had either a request or an opportunity.

  "I have an opportunity for you, Jay," he said, closing the door behind us.

  A chrome-shafted putter and four orange golf balls sat next to his desk, a Slim Fast next to his monitor. Outside his window, spidery streams of water arched from a fountain, morning sunlight reflecting yellow-gold through the droplets.

  I didn't know if Mr. Brophy had good news or if he simply was reminding himself that he was married to a thirty-three-year-old woman. But either way, his smile relaxed me. Maybe he'd compliment my scruff.

  "Jay, we've had another good quarter."

  "Yessir, we have," I said, gripping the back of his guest chair.

  "We've had our clients, and ourselves, on the right side of the market."

  "Yessir, we have."

  "And twice now you've led the young guys in contributing to our fine performance."

  `Just following your lead, Mr. B."

  He
held his silver-rimmed glasses by the frame and gestured with them as he spoke, just like the financial guys on television. That killed me.

  "What's so funny?" he asked, inspecting a lens.

  "Nothing, sir."

  Mr. Brophy cleared his throat. "I realize, Jay, that you moved here only five months ago ... but you have six solid years of experience and seem to have a real knack for spotting winners. Although you'll have stiff competition, I'd like to recommend you for a position on our institutional trading desk."

  "Sir?" The one syllable was all I could utter. A shot at the institutional trading desk was rare; the money outstanding.

  After resting his silver rims on the journal, Mr. Brophy stood, sipped the Slim Fast, then took his putter and stroked one against the base of a potted plant.

  For a fifty-year-old broker bossman in Greenville, S.C., this was the epitome of cool, this S lim-Fasting-see- I- gotta- corner-wind ow- an d- canhit- the- p otte d- plant-with-a-golf-ball routine. He looked up from his putting position. "It'll require an interview in New York, and of course, if selected, you'd have to relocate there."

  "New York City, sir?" I could still only manage the briefest of sound bites.

  "That's right," he said, reloading. "Can you interview next week, say ... Thursday?"

  "Yessir, sure thing." I was shell-shocked, unaware of what I was saying.

  He checked his golf grip. "Great. Ask Glenda to arrange the flight. And pay no attention to the street bums. And lemme know how it goes. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to call the little wife."

  I rubbed the leather backing of his guest chair before backpedaling toward the exit. "Appreciate your confidence in me, boss."

  As I turned to leave, an orange golf ball rolled past my feet and thudded against his mahogany door.

  "Nice scruff," he said.

  "Nice putt, sir."

  Moonlight flickered off my chrome spatula as I fired up the grill, adjusted the flame, and tried to contemplate New York City. My salmon fillet sat patiently on tinfoil.

  I'd always planned on getting there-Manhattan. The City is, after all, the Holy Grail for everyone in the financial industry. It's just that the news had come so soon, so unexpectedly. I felt the same way I had back in third grade when Mrs. Wormby had given me an A in geography, even though, in my head, I was sure Lake Erie bordered Utah.

  I was thinking of all that concrete, of all those people, not to mention all that cost of living, when my cordless phone rang. The voice on the other end was following up about church membership. Beneath the dull yellow glow of a deck light, I backhanded a fly into never-never land, then propped one foot on my picnic bench.

  Elder Kyle seemed like a nice man, soft-spoken and pleasant; I wondered if he knew his missionary daughter threw food. "Yessir," I continued, "I've been a regular visitor."

  He said there'd be a question-and-answer session coming up for potential members. I hoped I got to ask all the questions, because none of my answers seemed to impress anyone around Greenville.

  That night, however, the questions were all Elder Kyle's. `Jay, your background is ... ?"

  "You mean as to denomination?"

  "Yes."

  I reached out with the spatula and flipped the salmon. "As I told someone at the beach, sir, my parents raised me to be a devout workaholic. And while I've tried to live a more balanced life than they did, church has never been a factor."

  "So ... you're not anything?"

  "I'm a stockbroker, sir."

  "I see. Well, perhaps we can get together to talk.... You say you're a stockbroker?"

  "Yes. My sixth year."

  A brief pause. "You wouldn't be the one my daughter met on that beach trip?"

  "Yessir, I am. We sorta hung out for the weekend."

  `Jay, I don't mean to pry, but did you really sleep in a black inner tube?"

  "Just myself, sir. Circumstances were a bit complicated. And your daughter was safe in her own bed."

  "You mean safe in the backseat of Darcy's Cadillac?"

  "Allie told you that?"

  "She tells me everything."

  "Oh."

  Another pause. "And you're the one who let her talk you into drifting blind in the ocean?"

  "Yessir, I did ... but never again."

  He chuckled into the phone. "She's been doing that for years. Tries to get me to do it every family vacation."

  I thought this odd, especially for a Bible Belt family. "Did you know, Elder Kyle, that your daughter likes to take splinters of driftwood and carve long verses in-"

  "You mean her antimaterialistic poetry?"

  "Yessir, that."

  "I have all ten stanzas on my refrigerator."

  "I thought it was only five stanzas."

  "She said the sandbar was too small."

  "Oh."

  His voice became serious and settled. `Jay, she also asked me to recruit you to join our church. If you have any interest, that is."

  "But, sir, she said I'd never make it as a Presbyterian."

  "First we'll need to make sure you're gonna make it to heaven."

  What, were they going to keep score? A record of attendance? Besides, I was being held accountable by a men's group and had read one Proverb per night for three straight weeks, so I was in good with the Almighty. "Got that covered, sir."

  "Good. Say, I spoke with Allie two nights ago. She called me from a pay phone in Coca. Said if I ever saw you to tell you hello."

  "Her letter sounded like she'll be away a long time."

  "A very long time," he said. "Her little house across town just sold. I'm wiring the money to her mission agency after the closing, although it's not very much."

  "You must be proud of your daughter."

  "I am. She does seem at peace with life. Doesn't mind the conditions, either. Well, except for her foot. She cut it pulling a canoe to the bank of a river. Only five stitches, though. She'll be fine. Her only issue seems to be figuring out what to do about Thomas."

  "Thomas, sir?"

  "He's the missionary to Peru she met last month. She didn't mention him to you?"

  I watched my salmon char, then scorch, then burn into inconsequence. "No."

  "Well, anyway, our class for potential members meets next Sunday. We'd love to talk with you."

  Enthusiasm gone, I could barely mutter, "Thank you, Elder Kyle."

  "Grace and peace to you, Jay."

  Dinner was now black, ruined. And my appetite had retreated to wherever it is lost appetites tend to congregate.

  I leaned against the picnic table, deep into a bowl of cereal, and watched smoke seep from my grill, then rise in tiny gray puffs against the midAugust moon.

  When flustered, my go-to food is cereal. There may not be wisdom in those flakes, but there is certainly comfort. Each crunch brings new angles and fresh perspective, although perspective, once again, was interrupted by a ring of the phone.

  "Yeah?" I said, watching my flakes go soggy.

  "Duuude!" was the reply.

  I sat down on the bench again, spoon in one hand, phone in the other. "Ransom, I thought you married folk went to bed early."

  "Nah. Jamie left for a teacher's retreat till Friday. But guess who I ran into today?"

  `Jacques Cousteau?"

  "Wrong, Jaybird. The one with the pierced eyebrow. You know, from the beach ... the raven-haired one."

  Raven hair, pierced eyebrow. "Oh, yeah, Number Two."

  "Someone's parents named them Number Two? Dude, that is so slack. A second child should be given a proper name."

  "I meant she was the second member of the Numericals."

  "What're you talking about?"

  "Never mind. What'd she say?"

  "She walked into our store and started browsing around my section, checking out the kayaks and all the water-sport stuff. We talked about the beach trip, and then she asked about you, man. Her name is Alexis, she's twenty-five, and she just broke up with some motorcycle repair guy."

  I dr
opped my spoon in the bowl. "C'mon Ransom, another Presbyterian girl whose name starts with A?"

  "Don't know if she's a member or not, but they broke up last week. He wanted her to help him keep the nursery at his church.... He's Lutheran, I think. She doesn't like keeping nursery, so she broke up with him."

  "So now I'm supposed to-"

  "You know my policy, dude."

  "What policy? That you're not hanging up until I agree to call her?"

  "And I want all the details."

  Something was amiss. I did not believe that matchmaking efforts from surfer dudes, especially married ones, meshed with my long-term agenda. But Number Two had looked quite intriguing at the beach, with her raven hair and Tolstoy novel-and I didn't mind a little brow piercing. As long as it was little.

  Inside my head, possibilities clashed and clanged. Mostly clashed. Was this opportunity seeking me out, or mere distraction? Would there be chemistry? This felt like Plan B, but at least she didn't live in some remote foreign country.

  Maybe I'll call her. Maybe I won't.

  Okay, I'll call her.

  But not till after I throw out my burnt fish.

  Shoo fly, don't bother me.

  On Wednesday morning, Mr. Gruber decided to buy more stock in Toys `R' Us. It was my only sale of the day. I loved Mr. Gruber. My other big chance came when I took a call from the church secretary.

  She did not want to buy stock.

  Apparently an umbrella had left itself in the hall rack, and she'd found my name on the handle. I'm good at labeling my things, very bad at maintaining possession.

  After the market closed, I drove to the church, my tie draped across the passenger seat, my thoughts still on Manhattan. The church property sat empty except for the elderly janitor, to whom the church had given the title of sexton, which does not roll off the tongue quite like janitor and even sounds a bit risque. But I supposed he merely filled the position; someone else had named it.

  In a baggy beige jumpsuit, he was sweeping the walk and did not see me approach-I take pride in quiet approaches.

  "Afternoon, sir. I left my umbrella."