The Bob Watson

by Greg Bardsley

  “I’ve got a new game, Dickie. It’s called Good News/Bad News.”

  Dick bites his lip.

  “Can you guess what the good news is, Dickie?”

  “You’re not going to hurt me?”

  “That’s not it. The good news is . . .” Mama digs into her fanny pack and pulls it out. “. . . I brought my laser pointer.” At the mention of the laser pointer, the boys go wild—Cujo running tight circles around the furniture, Ernie jumping for joy on the main couch, his little arms outstretched as he bounces higher and higher. Collin decides it looks like fun, and he gallops around the room—his knees high, his shoulders hunched, his eyes crossed—slapping his butt, hollering, “Laser pointer, laser pointer, laser pointer.”

  Mama smiles to herself. “They still love this game.” She chuckles. “Here, Ernie. Take your prongs.” She adopts the baby voice. “Mama knows you like to have your prongs when we play Laser Pointer.”

  Dick Rayborne sinks into his chair, clutches his towel. “Good news?”

  “The boys love Laser Pointer because it involves . . .” She digs into her fanny pack, pulls out a wad of cash and two minis of Jack Daniel’s. “. . . prizes.”

  The boys hoot and holler.

  “So . . .” Mama pants and puffs as she struggles to put the cash and minis back into her fanny pack. “. . . the good news is, it’s time to play Laser Pointer.”

  Collin tugs on her shirt and peers up. “What’s the bad news?”

  “Well, for Dickie the bad news is . . .” Mama strokes the laser pointer and looks at Dick . “. . . we’re going to play it in his house.”

  Dick forces a smile. “We don’t need to play Good News/Bad News. Or the laser pointer game.”

  Eyes closed, shaking her head, Mama tells him, “I have a lot of questions about how things work.”

  “Work? Where work? What do you mean, work?”

  Mama looks at him, eyes twinkling. “Let’s play.”

  “Mama.” I approach, touch her arm, concerned. “Let’s not get too—”

  “Ready.” Mama thrusts the pointer into the air, stroking the button.

  Ernie and Cujo stare at the laser pointer. Collin spreads his legs and slaps his butt.

  “Set.”

  Ernie squeals. Cujo freezes.

  “Okay,” Mama squeaks. “Who wants to win a beverage?” The boys bark. “And a one-hundred-dollar bill?” More ruckus, and Mama scolds, “You boys better show your little brother how to play. You hear?” She sharpens. “Stay there, Dickie.”

  “Collin,” I holler. “Be careful.”

  “And . . . catch that light.”

  A bright red laser dot dances in front of us—across the rug and over the coffee table and right by Cujo’s feet before darting away and settling on an empty yellow armchair. Cujo and Ernie nearly knock each other over as they bolt for the chair—Ernie hurdling the coffee table, Cujo upending it. Collin follows far behind, giggling.

  Dick Rayborne sits up.

  Ernie dives for the red dot and crashes headfirst into the armchair, stabbing it first with the prongs and knocking it over, tumbling end over end, clearing out a stand of vases near the hearth. The dot avoids him and bounces to the nearby lampshade.

  “Dude,” I shout. “Watch it with the prongs. Stay back, Collin.”

  Mama laughs and sings, “Weee-eeeeeeee,” as the dot dances about.

  Cujo cuts through the room like a charging linebacker, swatting items out of his way as he closes in on the dot, his brows furrowed, his lips twisted in determination. Ernie approaches from the opposite end—that openmouthed grin widening, his enormous blues twinkling—and dives over a couch a second too late as the red dot bounces away and the lamp is knocked off the end table, shatters on the floor. Cujo tries to adjust but ends up spinning out of control and careens into a china cabinet, shattering the glass and collapsing shelves of crystal vases and antique china plates into a heap of shards. Collin runs after the dot as it dances over a series of French Impressionist oil paintings on the far wall.

  “Help your brother,” Mama shouts.

  Dick takes an acidic tone. “Okay,” he yells over the din, standing up, clutching his towel. “Come on.”

  “Oh yeah?” Mama directs the laser dot onto Dick’s forehead. It takes but a second for the boys to correct course and head for him. “You have a problem?”

  Dick sits down, Mama sends the laser dot back to the paintings, and the boys correct course yet again—but not before Cujo clears out a table of framed photos and sideswipes a vintage grandfather clock, the bells issuing a series of dongs as it crashes down.

  Mama seems so pleased. “I saw this on a TV show called Too Cute.” Cujo slams into a painting, and Ernie swats at another lamp. Collin giggles as the dot dances around his feet, avoiding his stomps. “Only . . .” The dot leads Cujo into a canary-yellow wall, and the floor vibrates with his impact. “. . . it was with kittens.”

  The carnage continues.

  Dick pleads.

  “Tell me,” Mama says. “Who’s Emma Flanduzi?”

  Dick pulls at his face and wails. “Who?”

  “Exactly.” Cujo slams into a hutch with porcelain piglets. “You nearly killed her with your goddamn paperwork, and you don’t even know who she is.”

  “Wave 42?” Dick rubs his temples with open hands. “Was she on Wave 42? The one we laid off the day after her husband died?”

  “Wrong.”

  The dot leads the boys into the adjoining dining room, where Cujo takes down a chandelier and crashes atop a long table, wrestling with the fixture like it must be subdued. Mama keeps the dot on the chandelier and reaches into her pack, produces a click. “You did it, Cujo. You captured the dot.”

  Cujo hoots, tosses the chandelier aside, and races to Mama. Collin and Ernie join, and all three slide to a stop, facing her—panting hard.

  “Lady.” Dick’s so red, it’s like he has a rash. “Come on. Let’s be reasonable here.”

  Mama’s digging into her fanny pack. “Cujo wins Round One,” she announces and hands him a mini and then a one-hundred-dollar bill. “But you two still have a chance. In fact . . .” She returns to her fanny pack, fingers moving slowly. “. . . Mama’s gonna give you each a five-dollar bill.” They jump up and down, and Cujo drains the mini. “For effort.”

  The boys back away, keeping their eyes on her pointer.

  “Okay,” Mama says. “Round Two.”

  The red dot zigzags across a far wall, teasing the boys.

  Dick says, “Let’s talk about this.”

  The boys crash and slam and launch.

  Mama suddenly doesn’t sound so senile anymore. “Tell me, Dickie. Why did have your computer whizzes cook up a software code that makes it so hard for employees to sign up for benefits that twenty-one percent of them now give up?”

  Dick snarls, “You’re crazy.”

  “Really?” Mama points the laser back to the oil paintings, and Dick yelps. “Is that why you recruited a select group of conployees to create your own ‘Special IT Projects Group’? Those young conployees—just boys, really—who’ve been planting glitches in your open-enrollment website for benefits. Little glitches that target one out of every fifteen employees who log on thinking they’ll enroll for medical, dental, and life insurance? Little glitches that follow said employees like herpes. It doesn’t matter if they switch out computers or file a ticket with IT, does it, Dickie? No matter what those poor souls do, where they go, or what kind of scan or scrub or vaccine—whatever you call it—their computers keep freezing over and over and over, every time they try to sign up for benefits, until most just give up.” Mama glowers at him. “And Robards International keeps the money.”

  I’m not sure Dick hears her. He slips his fingers into his mouth and pulls down on his jaw as Cujo, Ernie, and Collin swat at the paintings—one after the other—in hot pursuit. The dot glides under the Steinway to the left, and Cujo scurries under the piano and takes out the far leg when he emerges from
the other side, making the piano crash to the floor with an off-key slam.

  “Dickie.”

  “Okay, fine.” He shakes his face, balls his fists. “Fine. I hired a group. Yes. Fine. A couple of hackers. You happy?”

  “They call themselves conhackers,” Mama says and points the dot at the peach drapes—Ernie charges into the drapes, gets tangled up, and pulls the whole mess (including the rod) off the wall. “Okay, next question.”

  Dick Rayborne gets up, catches himself, and sits down. He snarls.

  Mama sends the dot back into the dining room.

  Dick pleads, “Just tell me what you want.”

  Mama jerks the dot around, and the boys crash into each other before plowing into a serving cabinet—I hear splintering. “An employee must complete eighteen steps in order to sign up for 401(k) matching from Robards International.” She sends the dot back to the living room and settles it on the white mantel, then leads the boys from one end to the other—silver flutes and framed photos and crystal candleholders are either crushed or sent flying. “The launch sequence of the space shuttle was easier than the process you created, Dickie. A mind-numbing amalgamation of phone calls, computer forms, and old-fashioned paperwork—not to mention the heavy volume of slight procedural infractions that allow you to reject half the people who actually do complete the process, who are then instructed to start all over.”

  Cujo plows into a giant bowl of potpourri, and Mama issues a click. “Boy, you are good at this game, aren’t you, Cujo? Come get your prize.” And then to me, she adds, “I found the laser is better than the bouncy ball. The laser keeps the action going.”

  * * *

  The boys are still panting.

  Dick Rayborne seems woozy.

  I still feel way too buzzed.

  Mama says, “You’re a modern-day robber baron, you know?”

  Dick surveys the damage and swallows hard—it looks like a pack of hyenas tore through the place. Hyenas on meth and NōDōz. Furniture in splinters. Broken glass. Ripped paintings. Shattered porcelain and china. At least a dozen cracks or indentations in the drywall. Stabbed or shredded fabric on the chairs and sofas.

  Dick opens his mouth, makes a weird noise. Mama shuffles to him and stands over him. “The bottom line is, each time you prevent a hardworking employee from claiming her benefits, your bonus gets a little fatter.” Mama waits. “Doesn’t it?”

  Dick shrugs.

  “Answer me.”

  Another shrug.

  Mama sighs, reaches into her fanny pack. “I didn’t think we’d need to play another round of Laser Pointer.”

  The boys stir, and Dick straightens. “Fine,” he snaps. “Fine. Yes, the bonus is higher. The less we spend on benefits, the higher my bonus.” He puffs out, chokes on his spit. “We live in America, you know.”

  I hear myself saying, “America isn’t about ripping off hardworking employees.”

  Dicks offers a mild sneer.

  Mama says to Dick, “And it all stops today.”

  He chuckles and reddens.

  “You think I’m crazy, Dickie Boy, but here’s the truth.” She lowers her head, waits for him to make eye contact. “You’re going to hold an emergency meeting of the Robards International board of directors.” She looks at him. “Today.”

  “Me?” Dick laughs and snarls. “You think I’m—”

  “You’re an officer of the company, which means you can call a meeting.”

  “Of the compensation subcommittee.” Dick is amused. “Not the entire board.”

  “You’ll start there,” Mama says. “You’ll call the HR subcommittee of the board.”

  “Compensation,” Dick corrects.

  “Whatever you call it.”

  Dick seems to brighten as it settles in. “I’ll need to come in to the office for that,” he says. “Solo.”

  Mama studies him a moment. “I think it’s time for another round of Good News/Bad News.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “But you don’t seem to understand, Dickie.”

  “I’m sure I can figure it out.”

  “Let me help you.” Mama closes her eyes. “The good news is, Dick Rayborne will indeed go to the headquarters of Robards International this afternoon. And I won’t be there.”

  Dick can’t suppress his grin.

  Collin looks up at Mama, his eyes wide. “And the bad news?”

  Mama turns to Collin. “Well, the bad news is for Old Dickie. That’s because we’re sending in a new and improved Dick Rayborne. That means Old Dickie—well, I’m afraid he’s not going anywhere for a while.”

  Dick whitens. Collin crinkles.

  “I don’t understand, Mama.”

  “You see, honey, we’re sending in your uncle. Dickie’s brother.” She bites her lip, shakes her head as she thinks about it. “I just don’t trust Old Dickie.”

  My stomach tightens. “I’m not impersonating this guy.”

  She turns to me and softens. “Now listen, honey. You want to make a true difference in your lifetime? A real difference? You know, change the lives of tens of thousands of people—and their families?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Oh, it is. It’s as easy as walking into his closet, putting on one of his suits. Taking his badge. And his car. Using his phone to call his secretary, or whatever you call ’em these days. And then just marching in there and convincing the subwhatever to take a new approach.” She pauses, cocks her head, and sticks out her chin. “Otherwise, the boys and I might be forced to cancel your six o’clock meeting with your sister. Or we might decide to join you. Or stay out really late with Collin.” She sighs in mock concern. “Really late.”

  “I can do it,” Dick says. “You don’t need him.”

  I think about losing the house-sitting gig. It makes me want to throw up. “Mama, you want me to do something that is very illegal.”

  “Listen,” she snaps. “What he’s doing is illegal—spiritually, in terms of what is right and wrong—regardless of what the lawyers say.”

  Collin approaches, takes my hand in both of his. Looks up at me. “She has a point, Uncle Rick. Those things Mama was describing? They’re just wrong. Nobody should be allowed to exploit Neanderthals this way.”

  Dick says to me, “You leave me here with them, you’re fired.”

  “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” Mama says.

  A deep chime echoes throughout the house, and I search for clues.

  “Doorbell,” Dick says with hope in his eyes.

  Shit. The police? Or maybe Dick’s security team didn’t go home after all?

  Mama says, “Ignore that for a moment.” She glances at Dick. “We’re still playing Good News/Bad News.”

  “That’s okay,” Dick says.

  “Why do you get so stressed out?” Mama says, irritated. “It’s like I’m torturing you or something. Jeez. What a baby. I mean, every round starts with good news, doesn’t it?”

  “She’s right.” Cujo finishes off his mini of Jack, shivers, and tosses the empty over his shoulder. “Stop the whining, dude. Mama, can we have a headlock party?”

  “No,” Mama says. “Okay, so the good news is—”

  “I think the good news would be if we get the hell out of here,” I say. “You know, before the police show up.”

  “I think the good news would be if you shut your hole.” Mama turns back to Dick. “So, the good news is, I’m not going to make you come back to me. I’m sure you’re happy about that, since I’m certainly not what you want now that you have all this robber baron money and probably have this place brimming with young tramps. Yeah, I give up. After all the lies. After all those years of taking care of the kids while you’re out sucking the world dry. After feeling alone and neglected for so long, I give up, Dickie. You happy? I’m sure you are, because that’s what you wanted all along, isn’t it?”

  Dick shrugs.

  “So that’s the good news, honey. You’ve finally got m
e off your tail. No more nagging. Aren’t you happy?”

  Dick looks at me, says, “Help me here.”

  I give him my I’m-powerless look.

  “Of course . . .” Mama raises a brow, slows down. “. . . the game is called Good News/Bad News. So . . . I do have a bit of bad news.”

  Dick clamps onto his bath towel with both hands.

  The doorbell rings again.

  “The bad news is, when you leave a vibrant woman alone like that, she begins to appreciate—how shall I put it?—previously unwanted male attention. If you know what I mean.”

  “Of course I do,” Dick says, “That’s fine with me, lady. Seriously. I haven’t been around, so you hooked up with a few fellas.”

  “I don’t think you fully understand.” There even seems to be a bit of compassion in her voice. “Yes, I have taken a lover. But that’s not the bad news.”

  The doorbell rings a third time, followed by three tight knocks. Mama looks to Ernie. “Will you get that for me, sweetie?” Ernie yanks his prongs out of the leather armchair and meanders around a corner toward the front door. “And let me tell you, he’s really kind of a dreamboat. Such a nice body for an older fella. Looks like he could be in a magazine advertisement for cologne or teeth brightener. And sharp as a tack, too.” She squinits at a thought, whistles to herself. “Crazy smart. And not conniving smart like you, but a-thousand-thoughts-a-second smart.”

  “That’s fine,” Dick offers. “I mean, it was inevitable. Yes, I’m hurt. But I’ll get over it.”

  We can hear Ernie open the front door.

  “Yes, good for me. And good for my body, too, because let’s face it. My lady bits have been hungry. I mean, really famished.” She looks at Collin, turns back to Dick with a sneer. “They’ve been malnourished for a long time.” She lowers her eyelids, looks at Dick with satisfaction. “And let me tell you, my new fella knows how to hump a lady.” She looks at Dick, waiting for a reaction. “He knows how to feed those ravenous lady bits.” She smiles, winks, and whispers, “How to make a tired old woman scream.”

  Dick seems happy. Relieved. “Well,” he says, quick and nearly jovial. “That is some bad news. I have to admit. I don’t like the idea of another man having you—whoever you are. Umm, what I mean is, it’s hard to let go.” He shoots me a look—This lady is crazy.