The Bob Watson

by Greg Bardsley

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Tijuana Viagra.”

  Oh. I look down at the bottle, put it on the counter, and wipe my hands. “Did you give him this?”

  Larry inhales me with the eyes. Allows the slightest of nods.

  Dick gazes into space, swaying even more.

  “Dude,” I say. “You have to be careful.”

  Larry puts away his knife and picks up the Wesson oil. “I’m preparing him.”

  “Yeah, but—” I stop myself. “Who are you?”

  He turns and faces me, devours me with those eyes.

  I look away and mutter, “Okay, never mind. But those other pills Mama gave you. What were those?”

  “Juárez.”

  “The city?”

  “Discount sedatives.” Larry says it so delicately. “From Juárez.” He picks up the Wesson oil and takes Dick by the hand, leading him out of the kitchen—he reminds me of a zoo trainer on a talk show, leading a chimpanzee offstage. I stand there and watch them, adding a final comment.

  “No more Juárez, Larry.”

  Larry stops and looks at me.

  “Or Tijuana,” I say. “Okay?”

  Larry says, “Leave us.”

  I ask Dick, “Where’s the briefcase and badge?”

  Dick gazes into space.

  Larry says, “Think.”

  * * *

  Think. Think, Rick. Think.

  Finally, it hits me. His briefcase and badge are probably going to be where he works: that basement office of his. I make the journey down there, creeping myself out all over again. The place just oozes dark, cold energy. I snoop around Dick’s desk area and find a black leather briefcase leaning against the side. I pull it up to the desk, where the light is, and start fingering through the inner pockets and pouches, and eventually find his white clip-on badge, which I might need in order to get through security at Robards International.

  Am I really going to do this? No, I’m not really going to do this. No way. But let Mama think I will? Keep her away from my sister? Preserve the house-sitting gig so I can quit Robards and have the kid visit for a few months of normal childhood? See how I might be able to sabotage Dick’s paperwork machinery? Yeah, sure. I can play along a bit more.

  A soft white light flashes on his desk, and I realize it’s a cell phone. I lean over to read the screen—the caller is “Shelley—Office,” and the accompanying photo reveals a face I’ve seen for decades. Round cheeks with dimples and a nice smile. Short silver hair. She’s an executive admin; I know that much. And suddenly, my heart begins to pound. What if Dick has sent out an SOS and Shelley is calling to do a welfare check or something? Now my heart is racing. I stare at the flashing phone. If I don’t answer it, maybe she’ll call the police or Robards security. Hell, maybe she tried to reach Dick’s home security team, and no one answered.

  I snatch the phone off the desk and answer it, trying to sound rushed. “Yes?”

  Shelley says, “Sorry to bother you, sir.”

  I try to channel my inner Dick, forcing an irritated sigh. “What is it?”

  Shelley sounds a little weak. “I wanted to see if you’re still coming in today? I can clear all your meetings if you’d like.”

  I think about it.

  “Dick?”

  Am I really going to do this?

  “Dick?”

  “Cancel all my meetings,” I bark.

  “You sound—”

  “But I think I am going to come in.”

  “Absolutely,” she says. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I snap. “Just a sore throat.”

  “Oh, Dick.” She sounds like a very bad actor, pouring it on thick, trying too hard. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’m ordering you a bouquet of balloons. Right now. I know that always makes things better for you.”

  I’m about to stop her, but then I realize that would only raise more suspicion. “Thank you,” I say. “I’d appreciate that.”

  “Of course,” she soothes. “Would you like the vibrant colors, or the ones that look like flowers?”

  “I don’t care,” I mutter, cringing—I hate being a dick, even when I’m pretending to be one. “Listen, how hard would it be if I wanted to convene a meeting with the compensation subcommittee?”

  Did that really just come out of my mouth?

  Long pause. “Today?”

  “Yes.”

  Longer pause. “It’s later in the day, of course. And half of the subcommittee lives outside of California, as you know. But we could try to get everyone on the phone, and depending on schedules for Robert, Joyce, and Murray, we might be able to get them in the office. Is it okay if people call in?”

  I have no idea. “Let’s just see what’s possible,” I say, “and we can decide.”

  “When would you like to have this meeting?”

  “Let’s try for five o’clock.”

  “Absolutely,” she says. “I’ll get those balloons to you ASAP.”

  “Good.”

  “And I’ll start making calls about this meeting.”

  I let a little bit of me slip out. “I appreciate all the help.”

  Shelley’s voice brightens, and she sounds surprised. Maybe even shocked. “You’re very welcome,” she says, nearly emotional. “Very welcome.”

  We hang up, and I think, There’s no way I’m ever meeting with that subcommittee. Then I have a disturbing vision, and I shudder and jerk at its very possibility—Mama and the boys paying a little visit to my sister and brother-in-law. Then I think of Bobby Flanduzi and the 75,000 other employees of Robards International who’ve been jerked around by the Dick Rayborne approach to comp and benefits. Then I think of getting arrested, and jailed. Then I think of disappointing Mama and losing my Years of Rick house-sitting gig. I think of not being able to instill some sanity into my nephew’s life. Then I think of Larry getting his hands on me.

  Crap.

  I swallow hard and gather Dick’s things, including the laptop computer on his desk. Whatever I end up doing, it won’t be down here.

  * * *

  In the kitchen, I gather my things—whoa, I mean Dick’s things—and try to decide what to do. One thing I know is, I sure as hell don’t want to be inside this house. Who’s to say Mama and Larry won’t grow bored of Dick after the ancient Japanese body-to-body massage? Or what if the Tijuana Viagra doesn’t kick in and Dick is useless? What would stop Larry from coming to look for me?

  Oh, yeah. I need to get out of here.

  My hand vibrates, and I realize I’m holding Dick’s phone. I squint at the screen; it’s Shelley again. I force a gruff voice, try to take on an annoyed tone. “Ye-es?”

  “Dick, I have been able to secure Murray and Robert for the five o’clock. I have a call in to Joyce’s assistant. I’m still waiting to hear back from the others. Oh, and the balloons are on their way.”

  The top of the house shakes.

  I mumble, “Fine.”

  “You can use Alcatraz.”

  It sounds like something very large has landed on the roof. I’m taken by the sound of splintering wood and creaking joints and crossbeams. I squint up at the ceiling and cock my head, listening.

  “Sir?”

  It sounds like the Jolly Green Giant is on Dick’s roof.

  “Yes,” I snap.

  “I got you Alcatraz.”

  Above, thunderous footsteps pounding across the roof.

  “Sir?”

  I squint and listen.

  “Sir?”

  The pounding is gone. I shake my head. “Excuse me,” I say. “Alcatraz?”

  “The conference room,” she says. “I reserved you the Alcatraz conference room. San Quentin and Rikers Island weren’t available.” She weakens. “Sorry, sir. I know how much you prefer the other two.” She pauses. “I can look into the availability of Sing Sing or Tower of London.”

  I decide to mutter. “No,
that’s fine.”

  “Anything else for the moment, sir?”

  I listen for roof noises. Nothing.

  “Sir?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  At the far end of the house, on the roof, a heavy thump.

  “Those guys,” I say. “Those IT guys who are doing those skunkworks projects for me? The conhackers?”

  “Sir?”

  “Those guys we’re using to freeze up the computers of random employees who try to sign up for benefits?”

  “Oh,” she says. “The Benefits-Control Tiger Team led by Peter Randell?”

  “Yes,” I bluff. “Exactly. Have Peter plan to attend the meeting as well.”

  “Sir?”

  “Peter,” I snap. “I want him at this meeting with the subcommittee.”

  Long pause. “Sir—I mean . . . Sir, I know you don’t usually have ‘jumpsuits’ present to—Sir, I guess what I am asking is, do you want him to change out of his jumpsuit for the meeting with the board members?”

  On the roof, something lighter scampers from one end to the other.

  “No,” I say. “Have him come in the jumpsuit.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Thanks, Shelley.”

  There’s silence. And then, “Sir, I did want to discuss something with you.”

  I listen for roof noises—nothing.

  “Sure.”

  “Sir, this is difficult for me to say.” A new series of thumps. I go to the kitchen window and look out, craning my neck for a view of the roof. Nothing. “But I need to say it. I need to let you know that I can no longer lend you cash from my purse.”

  “What?”

  “Sir, I’m sorry. And I know you’ve said you’ll reimburse me. But I’m sorry. I can’t afford to lend you any more money. I know you’re very busy and can’t get to the ATM, or you forget your wallet and whatnot. It’s just that, after two years, I’ve lent you nearly eight thousand dollars, and I just can’t afford to keep—” Her voice weakens, and she gasps. “I’m sorry to get emotional, sir. It’s just that as a single mom, I just can’t—”

  “Shelley, don’t worry about this. He’s going to repay you every cent, with interest.”

  “I’m sorry.” She sniffles. “But who’s ‘he’?”

  I shake my face. “Did I say ‘he’?”

  Sniffle. “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry, I meant, ‘I.’ . . . I will pay you back. . . . Today. With interest.”

  She cries. “I’m sorry to bug you about this, sir. It just means a lot to me. I’m behind on payments, and—” She stops, takes a few big breaths. “Just, I really appreciate it, sir.”

  I’m so mad, my vision narrows and the thumps on the roof seem distant. “Tell me, Shelley. What’s your salary?”

  She sniffles. “Sixty-one.”

  In the Bay Area, this not enough for a single mother.

  “I can’t believe—I mean, I’m sorry about this, Shelley.”

  “Sir, I just . . . I mean . . . Are you okay?”

  * * *

  Outside, there are howls of laughter.

  I meander around the house and head for the backyard.

  “Guys?”

  It sounds like someone’s dumped a refrigerator into the pool.

  Collin shrieks.

  I turn the corner to find Dick Rayborne’s backyard pool. It’s long and inviting, with simple, classic lines and crystal-clear water sloshing everywhere, spilling over the lips and cascading across a slick deck of vintage red brick. I come a little closer and see Collin in his underwear wading in the shallow end of the pool, splashing and hopping and laughing. Bouncing beside him is Ernie, wearing fogged-up goggles and a faded orange life vest, a long strand of pool drool swinging off his chin.

  “You guys,” I say. “What the hell are you—”

  “Freeze,” Collin hollers.

  I do. The thumps grow louder, coming up and above me, and then I freeze like a startled rodent. Collin smiles as a large dark object sails over me, and I jolt back, only to see massive, hairy legs and arms and buns flying through the air and over the deck, and then crashing into the water so violently—so authoritatively—a shock wave seems to percuss through the air. The subsequent watercourse shoots across the pool like a horizontal geyser, missing Collin and Ernie but drenching the deck, nearby chairs, and shrubs. The swells in the pool hit a good two or three feet, soaking the boys.

  And I’m thinking, I can’t get my—er, I mean Dick’s—suit wet.

  * * *

  Collin and Ernie can’t stop laughing, and I rub my temples, trying to soothe my postbuzz headache. Cujo darts around the deck in a brown banana sling thong, launching himself into the pool—over and over. The water is choppy and rough. Ernie and Collin ride the swells until something ascends from the depths, ensnares Collin, and launches him high into the air. Collin screams with delight as he sails across the pool and lands in the deep end, cannonball style.

  “Dude,” I say to Cujo, but he’s already resubmerged. In the shallow end, Ernie hops about, giggling, looking beneath him. But his goggles are so fogged, he’s practically blind.

  I say into the phone, “The boys are completely out of control.”

  “Boys?” Audrey asks. “Did you arrange a playdate?”

  Ernie explodes out of the water, a toothy grin on his face as he sails through the air—his arms doing the chugga-chugga choo-choo, his white boxers riding far too low—as he comes down for a splash landing at the center of the pool, arms flopping.

  “Long story,” I say. “Listen, I think I’m about to do something really crazy.”

  “Rick, I’m totally cool about going to see the Beat with you. Just us.”

  Ernie executes a belly-flop swan dive, and Collin follows.

  “No, it’s not about that.” I hope it sounds like our screwed-up date means nothing to me. “I just have to make a big decision, and I’m not sure who else I can ask.”

  And that’s true.

  Cujo pulls himself out of the pool, and enough water drains off him to fill a kiddie pool. My lord, he’s hairy. The water beads and glistens, giving his fur an odd sheen. He backs up to the edge of the pool, reaches down, and executes an impressive backflip into the water. Collin shrieks in amazement.

  Audrey says, “Try me.”

  So I do. I tell her everything—about Mama, about the break-in at Bobby Flanduzi’s house, about the forty-five K, about Dick Rayborne and his paperwork schemes, about the tens of thousands of people who are getting screwed over. I tell her how much I’d like to house-sit my sister’s place for two years so I could quit Robards, write that book, and maybe give my nephew a few tastes of a normal childhood. I tell her that no matter what I decide to do—go into Robards as Dick Rayborne or walk away now—my feeble career there is over. I tell her that I’m confident Mama is willing to ruin—and capable of ruining—my house-sitting gig with my sister.

  “So what do you think?”

  “This probably sounds nuts,” Audrey says, “but maybe you just do what she says. I mean really, all things considered—seriously, Rick—does your job really matter at this point?”

  It doesn’t. Hell, I’m hoping I can quit.

  “Does it matter if they realize you’re not the real dude, and they call the police or something?”

  “Yes, that part does matter.” I laugh. “I don’t think Ana will—”

  “Ana doesn’t have to know if you get arrested. I’d come up with an explanation for your no-show tonight, and you could have that house-sitting talk with her on the phone next week. It’s not like she has a ton of other house-sitting options right now. Maybe it’s better to keep this Mama lady happy.”

  “I suppose.”

  “And keep the Larry guy and the ex-cons away from your sister.”

  As silly as it sounds, she has a point.

  “Or . . .” Cujo takes Ernie and Collin for a ride on his back, cutting effortlessly through the pool. “I gues
s the other option is, you could just take Collin—like, right now—and get the hell out of there. Take your chances with Mama, hope she doesn’t call your sister or show up at their house. I mean, it sounds like Mama is a bit distracted at the moment.”

  I scan the area. “I could easily take Collin and leave.” I look down, feeling kind of crappy for even considering it. Call me foolish, but the idea of leaving this benefits crap unfinished? The thought of escaping before Shelley gets her money back? The possibility of letting things resettle so Robards can continue to rip off tens of thousands of hardworking employees? The idea of going through all of this—all this insanity—for nothing of any lasting value? It just sits heavy in my gut. Too heavy.

  I mean, will I ever do anything special in my life? Ever?

  Audrey says, “Maybe this is what you’re supposed to do. So maybe you just go for it.”

  “Go for it?”

  “Maybe you just go for it. Channel you inner Dick what’s-his-name. Make a few calls. Have that meeting. Screw with people a little.” She laughs. “You know it probably won’t work. But hell, have you ever had a day like this?”

  “No.”

  “Will you ever again?”

  “No.”

  “So maybe, you know, just go for it.”

  There’s a pause, and I say, “That had been my plan for tonight at the Greek—just go for it.”

  We laugh.

  “You thought this was about getting to the Greek with me,” Audrey says. “And I thought this was about getting you to pay attention to Collin. But maybe we were both wrong.”

  I can’t help saying, “I know I was certainly wrong.”

  “Maybe this is what it’s really all about. Maybe the universe is saying, This is Rick Blanco’s chance to make the world better, to make a real difference. Maybe it’s about going a little crazy.”

  Crazy?

  Why can’t this woman like me back?

  Crazy?

  A bedroom window opens, and Mama announces, “We need more oil.”

  Yes, crazy.

  * * *

  Mama says from the window, “I’m gonna send Larry out there. I need some alone time with Dick.” Her voice goes raspy, lingers on the words. “One last romp—just the two of us. Things are starting to kick in for Dick here. Just keep the boys busy, will you? And keep them off the roof.”