The Bob Watson

by Greg Bardsley

  Her face softened, as if she knew what I meant. “Fair enough. Keep reading.”

  There were so many nuggets in these stories. Like how the pocketless jumpsuits worn by conployees not only prevented workplace theft but also soothed nerves and made the ex-cons feel at home. Like how seafoam green had been proven to reduce violent anxiety better than any other color. Like how Dick branded his consourcing project the “Invitation to Cooperate Program at Robards International,” which had landed him a stack of public-service awards.

  “Had enough, Dickie?”

  I flipped the pages and scanned quickly. There were details about typical conployee jobs—everything from customer service to the always-empty Robards International day-care facility, which Rayborne kept open for the sake of PR. There was even talk of forming a conployee strategic advisory council. “Our conployees have a vitality—a passion—for getting ahead, for finding new ways to make money,” Dick told Headcount. “They’re creative, and they’re eager to meet new people, make new connections. We want to capture and funnel that energy.”

  Mama spooned soup into her shaky mouth, swallowed. “It’s funny, though. They didn’t mention the spike in ‘incidents,’ did they? You know, the repeated cases of ‘unwanted touching’ across the street at Peet’s Coffee and Tea. Or the rash of car battery thefts in your parking lot. Or the employee stalking cases. Or the string of lunchtime home burglaries in the neighborhood. Or that nut who got loose on the roof with a crossbow.”

  I peeked at the second Headcount story. It was about Dick “attacking” U.S. salaries with “the predatory zeal of a wolf.” I didn’t need to read any more; I had the idea.

  Anyways, it’s taken a while, but Mama has accepted that I am not Dick Rayborne—even though she still calls me Dick. That’s okay with me. I really think Mama’s just bored and feisty, and definitely a little lonely. So every few weeks I meet her for lunch at Cafe Borrone, and we’ll hang out. And we’ll chat about the news—stories of trapped miners and rogue congressmen and rich people who “screw the little guy.” Sometimes she tells me how her sons never call or visit, that her house is “too empty and dead.” And she cries. I’ll put an arm around her and ask, “So tell me about this CEO who was taped kicking a dog.” And she’ll stop, sniffle, and say, “Oh, this guy’s a class-A puss bucket. Listen to this.”

  Today, on the phone with Mama, I ask for a favor.

  “I’m an old lady, Dickie. Old ladies don’t do favors; they receive favors.”

  “It’s about Audrey—the one I’ve told you about.”

  “That little tramp you’ve been chasing right under my nose?”

  “Exactly. Well, she finally said yes.”

  “To a date? Or a fuck session?” She says it so sweetly. “I knew she was a tramp.”

  “So here’s the thing, Mama. I need to do something special for my nephew—and I need to do it today—or the date with Audrey is off.”

  Mama pauses. “She’s a kinky little game player, isn’t she?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You like that, Dickie? Kinky mind games with sweet-looking tramps? You filthy animal.”

  I look away and think about it. “Maybe. But that’s not why I’m telling you this.”

  “How could I help you with a game-playing home wrecker?” She adopts this syrupy old-lady voice. “I’m just a sweet little grandma.”

  I tell Mama about Audrey’s challenge, and my idea to take Collin on a Neanderthal adventure.

  “What the fuck is a Neanderthal adventure?” Mama says. “God, you’re an odd bird.”

  “It’s this thing we do. The kid is eight, Mama. Enormous imagination.”

  “I don’t know anything about Neanderthals,” Mama says.

  “But you can introduce me to someone who does.”

  Long pause. “My friend at Stanford?”

  “I think you said he’s in the anthropology department.”

  “Paleoanthropology,” she snaps. “And it’s a ‘she.’ You’re not one for details, are you, Dickie?”

  “The one who studies prehistoric humans. The one you met on jury duty?”

  “Sabine?” she says. “Sabine Rorgstardt?” She laughs. “One of the world’s top experts on cavemen? You think I’m going to introduce you to Sabine Rorgstardt so she can help you dry hump some home wrecker behind my back?”

  “It’s not like that, Mama. You know I like this girl.” I stop myself, decide to take another tack. “Plus, you know we had our run. You know it wouldn’t be good for the kids if we lived under the same roof again. Acrimony. Instability. Projectiles. You and me? The passions run too deep, the emotions are too raw.”

  She chuckles, enjoying the role playing.

  “And let’s face it, Mama. You deserve more than anything I could ever give you.”

  Now she’s laughing. “Okay, okay.”

  “You’re gonna help me?”

  “You want me to introduce you to Sabine Rorgstardt?”

  “Please, Mama.”

  “You want her to meet your runt nephew?”

  “Exactly, Mama. That’s it. But it needs to happen today. You have her phone number?”

  “Of course I have her phone number. She takes me food shopping.”

  “And you can introduce us today?”

  “Yes, yes.” She sighs. “God, you’re needy.”

  I’m gushing. “Thank you, Mama. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

  “Of course, of course.” Mama adopts this breezy tone. “And are you ready to fight the system?”

  “Okay, time’s of the essence here, Mama. How do we do this?”

  There’s a long pause. “We do this by you doing what I say.”

  “Whatever you say, baby.”

  “And that starts with you meeting me in the bushes located between—now, listen to me—the north and south parking lots. You understand me?”

  I feel my brows crinkle. “Bushes?”

  “Do you understand English? I want you to meet me inside the large stand of bushes that separates the north and south parking lots of Robards International.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Dickie, do you want this girl?”

  “Audrey?” I stammer. “Yes, I want her.”

  “How bad do you want her?”

  I think of cuddling with Audrey. “Really very badly.”

  “Do you want to impress her with a caveman adventure for the ages?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “So you can take her out and be a . . .” Her voice slips to a geriatric purr. “. . . filthy animal with her?”

  I like the way Audrey makes me feel, and I want her in a big, meaningful relationship way. But now that Mama mentions it, yes, I also would like to be a filthy animal with Audrey. Without thinking, my throat releases a telling moan of want.

  “Is she gonna let you take her, Dickie? Tonight? Finally?”

  “I don’t—”

  “You want that?”

  “Yes,” I yell. “Yes.” I gather myself, take a deep breath. “I want her so bad.”

  “Then meet me in those bushes in thirty minutes.”

  Bob Watson Step No. 6:

  Go on an Adventure

  As I’ve said, the trick to a good meeting ditch is to let people think you’re coming back. Those pencils, those pads of paper, and even that “body double” cell phone left behind with no battery or SIM card? Used judiciously, these props create an important sense of security, a false belief—an assumption—that I actually plan to return to that godforsaken conference room. Likewise, when it comes to ditching the entire workplace—the building, the campus . . . hell, the city—the same principle applies. In fact, it’s more critical than ever.

  And so, at my desk, I click through my Bob Watson props . . .

  Disable screen saver on my PC? Check. . . . Flip on my brass reading lamp? Check. . . . Under said lamp, place large stack of reports and sketched-out diagrams featuring the
latest Robards acronyms? Check. . . . Atop said stack of papers, place my dime-store reading glasses? Check. . . . Throw in a writing pen? Check. . . . Remove keys and wallet from the briefcase that is placed prominently atop my desk, and pocket said items? Check. . . . Grab a notebook and stride through the office like I’m late for a meeting while I think about my imminent breakout? Oh, yeah, baby.

  * * *

  I’m so excited, I nearly fly down the stairwell.

  The plan is clicking into place. I’ll meet Mama in the bushes, get the introduction to the Stanford expert, go pull the kid out of school via the Bob Watston methodology, take the kid to Stanford, and geek out on Neanderthals for a bit. Maybe do some Neanderthal searches. Hang out. Drop the kid off at my sister’s. Do some goodbye hugs. Leave with Audrey for the Greek Theatre and the English Beat. Hang out at the Beat show with a supercool chick. Possibly snake my tongue down her throat, if allowed.

  The only problem? Traffic to the concert will be a nightmare.

  I burst through the stairwell door and onto the south-end parking lot, the white sun washing over me in its instant warmth, a light breeze blowing through my hair. I stop a second, take in a deep breath. Hell, yes. Freedom. I gaze at the expanse of enormous, tall bushes over there, that dense stretch of wilderness separating the north and south lots. Why in the hell does Mama want to meet me inside those bushes? From this distance, a white mist seems to swirl above the foliage, reminding me of a jungle in the morning sun. I find myself imagining that I’m an explorer preparing to enter its swampy innards, not sure what I’ll encounter, not sure if I’ll ever return.

  I look for spies and head for the bushes, cutting through the parked cars. Halfway through, I decide to call my sister and let her know I’d like to pull Collin out of school.

  She sounds annoyed. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know,” I say, “just some hooky on his last day in the country.”

  “He’s on a field trip this morning. He’s not even there.”

  Oh no. I can practically see Audrey giving me a sad finger-wave goodbye.

  “Well, what about the afternoon?”

  “The afternoon?” She releases an annoyed sigh. “He has Mandarin in the afternoon.”

  I think of Sabine Rorgstardt. “Sure, but it’s his last—”

  “It’s stepping-stones, Rick. Stepping-stones to getting into a good school. I know you may not fully appreciate this, but a good school is so important in today’s world.”

  I wish I could reply, What about helping your brother land a date with a good woman? But I don’t want Ana to know about me and Audrey—wouldn’t be cool to Audrey. So instead, I say, “I thought you said you got Collin into a great school in Buenos Aires.”

  She laughs, then raises her voice. “I’m talking about college, Rick. The road to a good college starts now.”

  “Aren’t there like tons of good schools out there?”

  “A private institution. You know, Stanford. Harvard. Princeton.”

  My sister and I. What happened to us? What happened to the brother and sister who, as kids, wasted long summer afternoons crank-calling local businesses, watching TV, reading novels, and wandering the neighborhood looking for things to do? What happened to the teenage siblings who worked hard, who talked about right and wrong and family, the things that really mattered? What became of the kids who were proud to get into college, who worked hard and fought tooth and nail for internships and first jobs with no daddies or uncles pulling strings? What happened to the brother and sister who, as young adults, would share a few quiet laughs about the self-important snobs we’d see running around town with their kids? What happened to the sister and brother who’d look at each other and wonder, Are these children getting what they need?

  What happened was, the brother took a job at Robards International and the sister got into a grad school, at a good private school Back East. What happened was, the brother got lost in bottom-tier data collection projects, and the sister married Samson James Barnard IV (Stanford MBA, class of ’01), and Ana Theresa Blanco became Ana Barnard, and gave birth to a kid they named Collin James Barnard. What happened was, the sister was steadily converted into a subculture that insists all aspects of one’s life must be spectacular, at all times. A subculture that somehow thinks that out of the 2,700 universities in the country, only about 20 are good. What happened was, the sister he loves so dearly calls only when she wants something.

  I miss Ana Theresa Blanco.

  Ana Barnard says, “After Mandarin, he has SAT Prep.”

  I’m still standing beside the wall of bushes, keeping an eye out for spies. “What if I took him after the Mandarin and the SAT Prep?”

  She offers a defeated sigh. “I guess.”

  “From what I understand, he doesn’t take his SAT for another nine or ten years. I’m sure he can afford to miss a prep session.”

  Silence again, and then, “Okay. Take him, and have a blast, okay? Just make sure he says goodbye to all the teachers and the principal’s office. And you need to find out when he returns from the field trip—I think it’s noon. Just call the school.

  “He’s got his body-language training today, but that’s fast. You’ll be in and out. So if you want to bring him home after dinner, I think that will be fine. Just let me know.”

  “Of course.”

  Sympathy in her voice. “Because I want to be able to fully trust you, okay?”

  “Of course.”

  She pauses again and sighs that way I’ve known all my life—a brief trace of my real sister. “Samson and I want to feel we can truly trust you.”

  “Yeah, cool. No worries. I should run.”

  “Because, Samson and I want to tell you something.”

  “Oh yeah?” I prepare for incoming yuppie insanity. “News?”

  “We’ve been thinking . . .”

  From behind, a door clicks. I spin around, see a cluster of employees leaving the building. Shit, I can’t be seen standing here like this. I decide to push into the wall of bushes and begin my trek through the wilds of Robards, in search of Mama. In an instant, it feels like I’ve been transported to another dimension—indeed, in the wilds of Robards, with a thick canopy blocking the sun and a dense undergrowth requiring a slow, difficult passage. I smile to myself, shaking my head at the realization that I am stumbling through a mess of bushes, leaves, and twigs—in my office clothes—following the peculiar instructions of an oddball granny, all so I might have a chance with a woman.

  It’s moments like this when you understand the hole in your heart.

  “Yeah?” I push forward, crunching dead leaves and cracking fallen branches. “You guys’ve been thinking?”

  “Well, first, I just want to let you know that we know how much Collin cares about you. So Samson and I—we’ve been talking.”

  Incoming . . . Incoming . . . Yuppie insanity incoming.

  “And we’ve got an idea.”

  Where in the hell is Mama?

  “And we would like to make an offer. It’s kind of coming out of left field, I acknowledge, but we have a problem with Kaarlo.”

  “Kaarlo?”

  “You know,” Ana snaps. “The house sitter?”

  Oh, that’s right. Kaarlo the high-end Swedish house sitter. Samson James Barnard IV and my sister don’t want (or need) to sell their gorgeous, custom-made Woodside mansion, and they certainly don’t want (or need) to rent it out to anyone. Not after all the refinements they’ve made to the house—the “spiritually cleansed” Tibetan tile flooring, the granite kitchen sink carved by Vikings circa a.d. 780, the cabinets made from ancient wood soaked in llama bile for thirty days and sanded to perfection by happy, minimalist elders in Bolivia. So they’d found Kaarlo the high-end Swedish house sitter, who’s lived in the homes of some of the most powerful Silicon Valley titans.

  “Kaarlo’s backed out,” Ana says. “He’s going to house-sit for Owen Wilson on the North Shore. It’s a wonderful opportunity for Kaarlo, an
d I can’t say I blame him.”

  “North Shore?”

  “Maui.” She waits for me to be impressed. “So, we’re in a pickle.”

  “Okay.”

  “We essentially need a house sitter. You know, someone who can live here, take care of things, make sure the yard staff won’t slack off. Do a little cleaning and maintenance.”

  “Kaarlo doesn’t have any friends?”

  “No one we can trust.” She sighs. “So Samson and I were thinking maybe you’d be interested.”

  I stop in my tracks.

  “You could live there. You know, for the next two years.”

  My head is light. My eyelids flutter.

  After a long pause, Ana offers, “Did I mention we’d throw in a monthly stipend for food and living expenses? Samson just wants to be sure nothing happens to the house.”

  My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

  “So, depending on what you want to do, I was thinking you could rent out your condo. And between the free housing at our place, the stipend, and your rental income from the condo, you probably could quit your job, take a few years off.”

  I feel faint.

  “Didn’t you want to write that book on how to pull a Bob what’s-his-name?”

  My face goes numb as I think of quitting Robards International, of telling Janice from Finance I am done with her meetings. I can nearly see myself in my sister’s backyard, in the shade, hunting and pecking away on what will become the only how-to book on ditching useless meetings.

  “Rick?”

  I think of hanging out with Audrey in that house, of hosting poker with the guys in that house, of lazing on the sofa during a six-hour Judd Apatow movie marathon in that house, of throwing margarita parties in that house. Of making dinner naked in that house—for days and days.

  “Rick?”

  I snap out of it, shake my face. “I’ll do it.”

  A hint of glee in her voice. “And there’s just one other thing. A small thing, really.”

  My head’s in the stars. “Okay.”

  “Samson and I are planning a trip this summer.”