The Bob Watson

by Greg Bardsley

  Around the corner, footsteps.

  “He doesn’t like pillow talk,” Mama says. “But after a good fucking . . .”

  I twist Collin around by the shoulders. “Go see if Gloria left any cookies in the kitchen.”

  “. . . I really just want to talk as I wait for him to recharge—that is, if he’s not on Viagra. Well, anyways . . .”

  Collin scampers away, and I holler, “Don’t go too far.”

  “. . . he prefers to sit there in bed smoking his pipe, thinking, and I—Well, I guess I got to talking one afternoon. Because, we hump in the afternoon.”

  Ernie quick-steps back into the living room, and Mama says, “Was that him, honey?”

  Which is when he appears. An older guy—sixty, sixty-five—walking slowly toward us in flip-flops, a skin-colored Speedo, pukka shells, and an opened blue dress shirt. Lots of oil on his legs, stomach, and chest—and I’m hit with an oddly soothing waft of cocoa butter.

  “Larry,” Mama gushes. “Speak of the devil.”

  Larry has thinning, dirty-blond hair and a tightly manicured beard. He looks good—fit, spry, and handsome—and yet I can tell there’s something terribly wrong with him. Maybe it’s those deep brown eyes that seem to look right through you. Or maybe it’s the empty grin. Or the twitching fingers. Or the fact he has a buck knife strapped to the side of his Speedo—his skin-colored Speedo.

  Dick Rayborne squirms.

  Mama looks at Larry and beams. “Come over here and plant one on me.”

  Larry just stands there, so Mama shuffles over to him, wraps her arms around him. Larry doesn’t respond—just stares at Dick with that creepy look on his face. “He does this sometimes,” Mama says. “I think it’s just because he’s got so many big thoughts racing through that brain of his. I don’t push him—I just let him think.”

  Larry looks at Dick. “Is this him?” he says, his voice sharp and even. “The individual from Human Resources?”

  Mama runs an open hand down Larry’s stomach. “That’s him, honey.”

  Larry seems to vibrate as he stares at Dick.

  “You remember, right, honey?” Still stroking his stomach, watching his face. “My ex. The one who abandoned his family.”

  Larry says, “The individual who likes paperwork.”

  “That’s right, baby. The one who drove me to you.”

  “Paperwork.”

  Mama releases Larry, turns to me. “The paperwork thing really bothers Larry.”

  His voice is tight. “I don’t like HR.”

  Mama studies Larry. “I wanted you to confront Dick as my lover, baby. Tell him what you’ve been doing to me. Tell him what a jerk he is.”

  Larry seems to have gone stiff as he gazes at Dick Rayborne.

  “He gets—I don’t how you’d describe it.” She looks at Larry. “I’m afraid Larry gets—how shall I say?—activated.”

  Dick’s eyes are troubled. “Activated?”

  “Yeah, see? Look at him.” She turns to Dick. “He’s activated.”

  “Activated?”

  “He really didn’t like it when I told him about the paperwork.”

  Dick forces an uneasy grin. “It’s business.”

  “It’s people,” Mama says.

  “I do not like . . .” Larry’s voice is so light and thin. “. . . those who create unnecessary paperwork.”

  “So they can cheat people out of medical coverage,” Mama adds.

  Larry hums as he stares at Dick.

  “Oh yeah,” Mama says to me, nearly amused. “Larry’s activated.”

  Ernie and Cujo circle Larry as if he’s a curious ice sculpture. Finally, Cujo looks to Mama. “What do you mean, he’s activated?”

  Mama says, “Do you remember when you were just a little squirt and Daddy brought home that lizard?”

  Cujo looks at me and grins. “Sure.”

  “And do you remember how Gustav reacted?”

  “Gustav?”

  “Gustav,” Mama snaps. “The goddamn family cat.”

  “Oh yeah,” Cujo says, giving me the eye, smiling. “That’s right. Sorry, Mama. I can’t believe I forgot that rat Gustav.”

  “Cat,” Mama yells.

  “Yeah, right. Cat.”

  “You don’t remember?” Mama smiles at a memory, shaking her head and closing her eyes. “Your dad over there bringing that lizard home, and you kept it in that cage? And every time you’d let Gustav into your room, he’d just go sit on top of the cage and stare at the lizard—What you’d name him?”

  “Suzie?”

  “No, that wasn’t it. Anyways, any time we’d try to touch Gustav, he’d swipe us with the claws. And then he started spraying and hissing. And then finally we brought in that veterinary student from down the street, and she said the lizard—the reptile—had ‘activated’ the predator inside Gustav.”

  “So . . .” Cujo scratches his crotch. “. . . the reptile ‘activated’ the cat—I mean Gustav?”

  “For Gustav, seeing the reptile just flipped a switch.” Mama says this so empathically, it’s like she’s talking to a weeping toddler. “There was nothing—not a cotton-pickin’ thing—anyone could do to deactivate Gustav. He wanted that reptile so bad.”

  Cujo looks at me, grinning. “It’s okay, Mama. I understand.”

  “And yes, Gustav eventually did eat that lizard.”

  “That sucked,” Cujo declares with a smile. “I was bummed.”

  “Which is why it’s important to understand what’s happening here. Larry’s activated right now. Think of him as Gustav. And Dick here as the reptile.”

  Cujo gives Larry a long look. “What happens when he’s activated?”

  “There are some things,” Mama says, “that you don’t need to worry about, you hear? And there are some things regarding your father and me . . .” Mama rests a frail hand on Cujo’s shoulder. “. . . that you boys don’t need to know.” She gazes into space. “You boys should be enjoying your childhood. You should be focused on being kids.” She shuffles to Ernie, puts an arm around him, and squeezes. He produces a giant smile—fat folds everywhere. “It’s your job as healthy, rambunctious boys to challenge the rules—to push back. To test us and see where the limits are.”

  “We like pushing the limits, Mama.”

  “I know you do. And it’s your dad’s job—and my job—to deal with adult things.” She turns and twinkles at Larry, then at Dick. “Things about lovers and such.” She blinks and turns back to the boys. “So why don’t you go explore? I understand there’s a nice pool in—”

  “Pool?” Cujo bellows.

  Collin comes tearing around the corner, cookie in his mouth. “Pulllll?”

  “Yes, a pool.”

  The boys tear out of the house.

  I holler, “Just be safe.”

  Mama says to Dick, “The funny thing is—this carnality that Larry and I share? This passion? The lust? The animal nature of our relationship?” She zeros in on Dick, squinting. “It’s not like anything you and I had—ever.”

  Dick tries to reason with Larry. “I don’t know this woman.”

  Larry stares.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Mama says. “In a way, you really don’t know the new me. I’ve changed, honey. That’s what happens when you neglect a woman in her prime.”

  “I’m sorry, lady.” Dick seems to be getting really annoyed. “I’m really really sorry, okay?”

  “Do you remember my fantasies, Dickie? How sometimes I wanted to experiment a little? How at first I gently suggested but then begged you to try some new things, to have a little fun?”

  “Lady, come on.”

  “How I’d tell you I’d be okay if . . .” She whispers with a giggle. “. . . we brought someone else into our bedroom?”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “Yes you do. And how you’d always say there was something wrong with me? Well, listen.” She leans in, raises her voice. “There was nothing wrong with me. I just wanted to explore.�
��

  Dick gives me the please-help-me eyes. “Well, I was wrong, apparently. And I’m sorry.”

  “Good, because today . . .” She giggles. “. . . you make up for it.”

  “Lady—”

  “Because Larry here? He likes to watch.”

  “Watch?” Dick seems to freeze. “Who watch?”

  “Larry watch.”

  “Larry watch? Larry watch what?”

  Mama shuffles to Dick, takes his hand, and pulls. “You and me,” she says and tugs again. “Larry’s a watcher. And he’s gonna watch you and me do it one last time. Because, hell, you owe me that much.”

  “If you think I’m going to bed with you guys . . .”

  Larry pulls out his buck knife, approaches Dick Rayborne.

  “And yes,” Mama says. “I still get gassy when things get hot, when I get a little stretched out. But that doesn’t slow Larry down. He says it’s natural—means I’m really turned on. So I suppose you’re just gonna have to deal with it.”

  Dick looks to me. “Help me,” he snaps. “Or you’re fired.”

  But what the hell can I say? I’m in a tough spot, too.

  Collin wanders back in, tugs on my shirt. “Uncle Rick,” he says. “Cujo’s doing a number two in Dick’s rose garden.”

  Mama turns to Larry. “I’m gonna get myself started in the back bed.” She digs into her fanny pack, pulls out a small baggie of brown pills, and tosses it to Larry. “Make him swallow one of those, and bring him back there in ten minutes.”

  Okay, this is getting weeee-ird.

  Larry takes the bag and examines the pills. Slowly, he nods.

  “Uncle Rick?”

  Mama says to me, “Come.”

  I bark out a “ha” and fold my arms. “I’m not getting you started.”

  Collin says, “It’s good to care for your elders.”

  Mama gives me the eye. “I’m talking about the closet back there, you twerp. You need to familiarize yourself with his wardrobe.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “But once I do get going,” she says, “be sure to keep the boys out back in the pool. I don’t want any interruptions.”

  “You think I’m going to dress up as Dick Rayborne?”

  She stops and pokes me in the chest. “Not ‘think.’ I ‘know’ you will.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “Actually, Uncle Rick. I don’t think she’s nuts at all.” Collin peers up at me, zeros in with those eyes. “Did you hear everything she was saying during Good News/Bad News?”

  I just look at him.

  Collin adds, “Or in the bathroom? All those people he’s being mean to? He doesn’t play fair. Someone needs to step up.”

  Mama lowers her head, searches my eyes. “What do you think this has been about? You think we’re all just screwing around here?”

  Collin tugs on my sleeve again. “You didn’t realize this was about something much, much bigger than fun with Neanderthals?”

  “I . . . I just—”

  “I—I—I—I.” Mama crosses her eyes, mocking me. “Listen. You’re going to put on one of his suits, take his Robards badge, get his cordless telephone, grab his keys, and you’re going to drive yourself over to that dump, and you’re going to call a meeting with that subcommittee of the Robards International board of directors, and you’re going to confess everything—all the tricks, all the games, everything. You’re going to get their approval to dismantle Dick’s ‘paperwork’ system. And then you’re going to resign—as Dick.”

  “You’re crazy. I’m not—”

  Collin grabs my arm and squeezes. “Uncle Rick, don’t you understand?”

  I pause to take a breath and let it out. “Understand what, honey?”

  “That this is your moment.” He leans in. “In your life.”

  This hits me, and I stand there. What did he just say?

  “What do you mean, in my life?”

  Collin says, “In leadership, they call this a defining moment.”

  “In leadership?” I squint down at him. “Defining moment?”

  “My dad always talks about his defining moment. When he came in and told these bosses they should fire ten thousand people. He says that was his defining moment, because it boosted profits and they created new jobs in China, and they gave him more money. He says it was his opportunity of a lifetime. He’s very proud.” He stops and thinks about it. “But I’m not sure I’d be proud. And I know you wouldn’t be.”

  “Well . . .” I choose my words carefully. “Your dad and I are different folks, kiddo.”

  “Exactly.” He squeezes again. “Which is why I think this is your moment. This is your chance to doing something big. Something that will help lots and lots of people—people who need help. My dad helped the bosses, but I think you can help even more people.”

  I start to feel something. Deep inside me.

  Mama says, “The kid is one smart little shit, wouldn’t you say?”

  I’m kinda frozen, but I manage a slight nod. The kid is special.

  “And take it from an old gal with too many regrets. You have a choice. I mean it. And I’m telling you—you will always look back at this moment. You will go back and think about it. And it will come out of nowhere and hit you. This moment will become a part of you. Because you know you have this opportunity. And if you don’t do the right thing, you will be filled with regret.”

  My emotions are swelling. Holy shit, they’re right.

  “Do the right thing, Uncle Rick.”

  I look into Mama’s eyes, realizing, She’s the last thing from crazy. Has she been fooling me all day?

  “Seize the moment,” she says. “Do the right thing, and never regret this moment for as long as you live.”

  A bolt of electricity shoots through me, and I feel my chest rise.

  Collin pulls on my shirt again. “Uncle Rick?” He peers up at me, so earnest. “Can I do cannonballs in the pool?”

  * * *

  When I walk out of Dick Rayborne’s enormous closet, Mama is already under the covers. Her glasses are off, and her eyes are half closed. It sounds like she’s nearly purring, and I notice her clothes piled beside the bed, her fanny pack on the nightstand. “Listen, honey.” She’s nearly breathless. “Go tell Larry and Dick to get in here.”

  Despite it all, I take a look at myself in the mirror—and what I see shocks me. Dick’s dark blue Italian suit and light blue collar shirt look pretty good on me. And I realize, I look more like Dick Rayborne than ever before.

  “Hey,” she snaps. “Stop gazing at yourself and tell Larry I’m ready.” She lowers her head back onto the pillow, pulls her shoulders up, and closes her eyes, a grin forming. She allows a little moan, says, “Mama’s all—mmmmmm—warmed up.”

  What the hell am I doing?

  “And tell him to go to the kitchen and fetch some cooking oil.” Another moan. “We do the ancient Japanese art of body-to-body sliding massage.”

  “Mama, let me ask you something.”

  “That body? Maybe you noticed. Larry’s a juicer. A big juicer. I swear, that man juices five or six times a day. Gives him lots and lots of energy for all kinds of home projects.” She giggles and whispers. “It also gives him lots and lots of great big boners.”

  I turn to her. “How am I supposed to call an emergency meeting with the compensation subcommittee?”

  “You’re Dick Rayborne.” Mama twitches. “You have your badge, your cordless telephone.” A gasp. “You have everything you need. Figure it out, honey.” She quakes. “Now go fetch my fellas.”

  I head for the bedroom door, stop, and turn back one more time. “You’re not senile and confused. You’ve been mapping this out for months.”

  “Honey.” Another twitch. “I’m seizing the moment.”

  Whatever. I turn to leave.

  “No regrets for me, Rick.”

  “Okay, whatever.”

  “Because we’re never gonna survive—and I m
ean it—unless we get a little crazy.”

  I stop in my tracks.

  Was that Seal?

  “Mama’s ready,” she rasps. “And tell Larry to bring that mouth-gag thing.”

  Bob Watson Step No. 12:

  Fetch a Randy Grany Some Wesson Oil

  I find the keys to Dick’s car hanging off a wall in the kitchen. It’s also where I find Dick. And Larry, who’s shoving tomatoes and beets and watermelon and spinach into the hatch of a spotless stainless-steel Omega juicer.

  I hear myself announce, “Mama’s ready.”

  Larry stops, looks at me, and turns to the pantry. He opens the door, pokes around, and emerges with an enormous bottle of Wesson vegetable oil.

  “Oh, there you go. Sounds like you two’ve—”

  Larry turns and stares at me, those hollow brown eyes burrowing.

  “Anyways.” I turn to Dick. “Mr. Rayborne, I’m afraid Mama wants me to borrow your car for a bit.” I look down at myself. “And this suit. And I think I need your briefcase and all that. But I promise I’ll bring it back.”

  Larry flips on the juicer, puts a crystal glass under the spigot.

  “Dick?”

  Deep red juice drips into the glass. Larry stares at me.

  “Dick? You okay?”

  On closer inspection, Dicks seems a bit out of it. He offers a lazy sneer—his eyes slothful as he sways to and fro, holding an empty shot glass. His fine, thinning hair is pointed in different directions. Larry shows me his knife, says, “It’s important to be loose . . .” He looks at me, reaches over the counter island, and lifts a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle bourbon. “. . . when you’re about to share your lover with another man.” Larry lifts his glass. “I have juice. He needs medication.”

  I look at Dick. It’s like he doesn’t give a shit. Check that—it’s like he’s not capable of giving a shit. About anything. I look at the bottle again. Pappy Van Winkle? I’ve heard about that stuff—some of their bottles go for something like two thousand dollars a pop. Figures Dick would drink two-thousand-dollar bourbon. Then I notice the small Rx bottle placed beside the Pappy. “What’s this?” I say and swipe it up. “More pills?” I spin the bottle, so I can read the label. The prescription doesn’t list a name, but it does specify the drug—something called sildenafil. I look up at Larry for clues, and he says, “Tijuana.”