by Steve Kluger
Your Buddy
Beer No. 1: We were sitting at an otherwise romantic table in a corner of the bar, with an assortment of pretzels and nuts that all tasted like drywall. Since there was nobody there at 5:30 except for us—and since it’s a lot easier to commit a homicide when there aren’t any witnesses—I stalled for time. That’s how we wound up discussing the cartoon characters who’d given us boners when we were eight.
“I had the hots for Aquaman,” admitted Clayton conspiratorially.
“Big deal,” I countered with a dismissive shrug, confident that I held the trump card. “I got a stiffy from Elroy Jetson.” Clayton was horrified.
“Lower your voice,” he growled. “That’s perverse.”
“I know,” I nodded. “Keep it to yourself.”
Beer No. 2: By now I was feeling a lot better (Clayton was still sober), so we moved on to Mouseketeer asses.
“Bobby’s was the one that was asking for it,” he insisted.
“Tim’s was,” I frowned in reply.
“Bobby’s!”
“Tim’s! You couldn’t even see Bobby’s crack!”
“No? Where the fuck were you looking?”
Beer No. 3: Halfway through our second pitcher, we were so knee-deep in the Hardy Boys, I didn’t even notice that the room had slanted 36 degrees.
“Tell me something,” whispered Clayton confidentially, checking over his shoulder to make sure nobody could hear us. “You ever wonder if Frank and Joe got it on with each other? I mean, the way F. W. Dixon was always cramming it up our butts about how good-looking they were and how many muscles they had, what the hell were we supposed to think?”
“Duh,” I shot back, steadying the table with both hands so it wouldn’t slide across the floor. “Remember The Mystery of Cabin Island? They were snowed in for three days. Just them and Tony and Phil and Biff and Chet. Trust me, the underpants came off after twenty minutes. I’ve given this a lot of thought.”
Beer No. 4: Clayton was still clear-headed, but all of my consonants were gone. I didn’t even realize he was talking about Craig until it was too late.
“Wanna hear a secret?” he sighed.
“Shoot.”
“I still have dreams about him.” Daring myself to do it, I raised my head from the table and gaped at him through varnished pupils.
“Wanna hear a bigger one?”
“What’s that?”
“So do I.”
Holy shit! I said it! With only vowels. Though I’d more or less prepared my body for the rain of ruin that was to follow, what ensued was the loudest silence I’d ever heard in my life. Then Clayton merely nodded thoughtfully as though he’d known it all along.
“I had a feeling something was up when I showed you his picture,” he mumbled. “You looked like I’d just stuck a rake up your ass, wide-end first. Was Craig the kid from high school?”
I nodded dumbly. When is he going to hit me?! What’s he waiting for? I don’t do suspense well!
“Yes,” I replied carefully. Stop staring at me like that! Take your shot! I’ve got it coming!
“Is that why you showed up here? The rest was bullshit?”
“Yes.” Hurt me! Please! Don’t make me turn you into a priest!
Clayton leaned across the table until our noses were practically touching. “Travis, level with me,” he said earnestly, his forehead creasing with genuine concern. “Do you think I’m a putz?” The question was so unexpected, I didn’t have time to sanitize the answer.
“Only if you leave him,” I blurted. Travis, shut up! What are you saying? Stop drinking! “Clay, there’s nobody else like Craig in the world. I know. I’ve looked. So he runs for State Assembly and maybe you only see each other on weekends for a while. Big wow. The rest of the world deserves him too—and if you just want to keep him locked up for yourself, then fuck you anyway.” Nice touch, Puckett. Have fun in the wood-chipper.
“Would you let him do it?” he challenged, snapping a pretzel as though it were my spine.
“In a heartbeat.”
“Why?”
“Because he wants to, you schmuck!”
“Yeah? And what if you lost him?” That’s when I finally slammed on the brakes and owned up to the truth I’d been avoiding ever since Robert Mitchum had found Saratoga Springs.
“I already did,” I confessed, tossing in the towel once and for all. “You’re the one he loves, Clay. Hold on to it. Because I don’t want to have to go through this again in another twenty years. And I’m warning you—if you fuck this up, you’re not getting him back. I’ll make sure of that myself.”
Our eyes stayed locked together for another couple of seconds, and suddenly I wasn’t afraid of him any more. Instead, I was so damned grateful that Craig had found somebody like Clayton, I could afford to play Susan Hayward for the evening. (“I’ll cry tomorrow, baby.”) He must have sensed it, because all of a sudden he reached for my head, mussed up my hair, and grinned.
“Know what?” he said simply. “I trust you. Now, come on. We got a game to bowl. A-frame or no A-frame.”
Right after that, I passed out.
G:
I told him the truth and he still thinks I’m his best friend. Except for Craig, nobody ever liked me that fast before. (Don’t challenge me on this one. It took you eight months. I counted.)
Clayton wins. I’m not even in the running. They’ve shared twelve years with each other—almost a third of their lives. Conservatively, that works out to 8,760 kisses (based on a median of two a day), 1,248 fights (two a week), and 4,380 nights they’ve fallen asleep together (not counting the last three, which he’s spent on a couch in his office). And what do I pop for? A two-week road trip and a trespassing fine—which, by the way, you fronted. Somebody ought to drop a cement truck on me.
We’re leaving in the morning without seeing Craig. I just couldn’t handle it. And neither could anybody else.
Sorry for putting you through all this.
T
FROM THE JOURNAL OF
Travis Puckett
THE PUCKETT/DUBOISE DEBATES
GORDO:
T, please tell me this is a joke.
TRAVIS:
Why? Doesn’t the screenplay have an ending yet?
GORDO:
Fuck the screenplay! Do you know who just left you a voicemail? Brandon Tracey. That guy with the Corvette who took you to St. Louis. He’s marrying Jennifer in October and he says it’s all because of you.
TRAVIS:
Bullshit. What did I do?
GORDO:
Travis, everybody you touch falls in love! Can’t you see that?! The only one who’s coming out of this whole deal empty-handed is you! It’s just not fair. At least call Craig before you leave. You never know.
TRAVIS:
And tell him what? Gordo, A.J. was right. It’s been twenty years! What kind of a dope hitchhikes three thousand miles after twenty years to chase after someone who’s probably forgotten him in the first place?
GORDO:
Your kind, Travis. And remember how I kept telling you to change?
TRAVIS:
So?
GORDO:
Don’t ever listen to me again.
Dear A.J.,
You’ve got to do something. This time he means it. And my bag of tricks is empty.
Here’s a guy who never gives up. I could tell you lots of stories, but the one I remember most is when we were 16 and he decided he wanted to meet Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gormé. I guess most kids would have settled for autographs, but not Trav. Somehow he wound up having dinner with them, and nobody could figure out how that happened—including Steve and Eydie.
His whole life has been a rehearsal for this. We can’t let him down.
I…love you.
Gordo
P.S. I’ve been a little afraid to ask, but what happens when this is over and you’re back in St. Louis? Will it turn out that we were just a summer romance? Was it only T’s leftover stardust
? Will we forget about the sparkles in our hearts? If the answers are yes, yes, or yes, bypass the questions. I don’t need the answers that badly.
Dear Gordo:
This is the first time I’ve ever seen a broken heart up close. He’s gone into the bathroom three times to brush his teeth—but when he comes out, his eyes are red and his breath still smells like Cheetos. Until today, I always thought that Toby Heller was the real thing, but I was wrong. Toby Heller didn’t even qualify for the preliminaries.
I do have a plan. But I’m not looking forward to it. In about an hour, I’m going to begin throwing a little attitude his way. (I’ll probably use phrases like “pain in the ass,” “spineless quitter,” and other spontaneous extracts from the Dictionary of Disparaging Invective.) That ought to create a frosty chill until morning. Then I’ll stop speaking to him entirely. By the time we check out of this dump at noon, the tension should be thick enough to strangle a medium-sized house pet with. But the lid won’t blow off until we turn left onto Congress Street, which is where I intend to pick the paterfamilias of all fights. At 12:35 on the nose. Right in front of the Sweet Shop. Once I’ve tossed him out of the car and suggested that he reacquaint himself with his thumb, he’ll probably go looking for a phone so he can call you. And the closest receiver is directly behind the booth in which Craig and Charleen will undoubtedly be ordering whatever virus passes for the Friday Special.
It’s the best I can do on short notice. And I hate myself for it already.
I…love you too.
A.J.
P.S. In spite of my venomous performance, I’ll be parked around the corner waiting to see what happens. (I might as well confess that I’m a closet pushover. You’re bound to find it out sooner or later anyway.)
P.S. 2. After we leave here, we’re stopping in St. Louis long enough to determine that my assistant manager hasn’t, in fact, turned my establishment into a crack house. Then I’m pumping twelve gallons of supreme unleaded into Robert Mitchum and he’s heading west. With me, with Beaver, and with Sweet Charity singing something called “I’m the Bravest Individual.” Hell, if it works for Beav, it can work for me.
Just remember one thing: Be careful what you wish for. You may get it.
FROM THE JOURNAL OF
Travis Puckett
What a sordid place for the glory that was once my life to have come to an end—a fetid booth in a squalid hashery with only a toxic baloney sandwich standing between me and eternal darkness. What a dismal epitaph to so much sparkling hope. Cast rootless to the winds by a faithless kindred spirit who withdrew her troth (“Here’s a quarter. Call Gordo. Have him bail you out.”) and the errant boonfellow who won’t get off the fucking phone (“That line is busy. For 75 cents, AT&T can leave a message for you.”). Oh, the perfidy.
This has been a day right out of David Copperfield. First the hangover, now this. If I weren’t so depressed, I’d kill myself. And what did I do to piss her off?! One minute she’s drying my tears, and the next thing I know my ass is on the street with a torn backpack hanging from my scapula. I look like a bag lady who owes seventeen hundred dollars to Neiman-Marcus.
Big deal. So I’ll hit the road. I’ll hit the road and head home where I belong. If I’m lucky, maybe a trucker’ll let me ride in his van long enough to die of carbon monoxide poisoning. Otherwise, I’ll have to crawl over broken glass and beg Andrea to give me back my grant—assuming she isn’t pointing a loaded .45 at my crotch. And if she is, let her shoot. Who needs a dick? I wouldn’t fall in love again if you ladled me Ethel Merman out of a Stoke-on-Trent soup tureen. How’s that for irony? Oh, what a desolate way to finish off what could have been a—
Holy shit.
Oh, no.
Look who’s on his way back from the salad bar.
This was a setup! Duh! Now what do I do? Keep your head down—that’s what. Maybe he won’t notice. Who’s that with him? Probably Charleen. She fits A.J.’s blotter profile. Oh God, they’re coming this way. Don’t sit in the next booth don’t sit in the next booth don’t sit in the next booth don’t sit in the next booth don’t sit in the—Shit! They’re sitting in the next booth! Craigy, please don’t look up. I couldn’t bear saying goodbye to you again. Just let me sneak out of here without rocking the boat and I promise I’ll never ever ever forget what we once—
He looked up.
Our eyes met.
His jaw dropped.
And for the first time in twenty years, the one-dimple grin wasn’t just a memory any more.
13
Craig
MCKENNA & WEBB
A LAW PARTNERSHIP
118 CONGRESS PARK, SUITE 407 SARATOGA SPRINGS, NEW YORK 12866
MEMORANDUM
TO: Craig
FROM: Charleen
DATE: June 11, 1998
SUBJECT: Wrapping Up
* * *
The Kessler petition’s been bluebacked and filed. Not that we need any more gratuitous karma, but it turns out that Larry Dysart is representing Noah’s mother. Remember Larry? The lush with the nose hairs who took me to a Swedish smorgasbord and attempted to order the server’s breasts?
Craig, stop brooding and go home. You’re behaving like one of those awful women in Valley of the Dolls.
MCKENNA & WEBB
A LAW PARTNERSHIP
118 CONGRESS PARK, SUITE 407
SARATOGA SPRINGS, NEW YORK 12866
MEMORANDUM
TO: Charleen
FROM: Craig
DATE: June 11, 1998
SUBJECT: Valley of the Dolls
* * *
I’ve watched it four times this week. “Ted Casablanca is no fag—and I’m the dame who can prove it.” Sigh. How could we survive without such heavenly dreck? I’m almost ready for Mommie Dearest again.
Home? What’s that? Oh! You mean that half-empty house on Loughberry Lake where you can roll around on the living room floor shrieking “I’m Neely O’Hara!” all you want, and nobody’s there to tell you to shut the hell up or take a shower with you or fuck your toes off?
I tried calling him at the hardware store to arrange a peaceful surrender at the Appomattox courthouse, but he’d already left to have drinks with a client and then go bowling with him. How did I get elected to do all the suffering? Is this a trade-off for not knowing how to cook?
Tell me the truth. Do I really have a reason to think that Travis is going to show up in Saratoga Springs? Or am I inventing another mirage because I need one?
Take care of my Ashley, Scarlett.
Love,
Melanie
P.S. How could I possibly remember which one Larry Dysart was? Let’s get real, sweetheart. If we had to limit our caseload to those attorneys who haven’t cross-complained against us just so they could sniff your nylons, we’d be practicing in another state by now.
P.S. 2. By the way, aren’t you proud of me? You’ve been sleeping with Jody for three days and I haven’t even asked you how big it is yet.
MCKENNA & WEBB
A LAW PARTNERSHIP
118 CONGRESS PARK, SUITE 407
SARATOGA SPRINGS, NEW YORK 12866
MEMORANDUM
TO: Melanie
FROM: Charleen
DATE: June 11, 1998
SUBJECT: How Big Is It?
* * *
Craig,
I realize that during the past two decades, I haven’t exactly been the soul of discretion—that my often-inexcusable lapses in tact and good taste have found me revealing intimate secrets about men who deserve a good deal better from me. But that’s over. I’ve reformed. You might as well get used to the idea.
However, in deference to the confidential chumminess we nurtured for lo, those many years, I’ll admit this much. When Ethel Mertz said, “I have sufficient,” she’d obviously never fucked Jody.
Since you asked, Travis is not on his way to Saratoga Springs. An enigmatic phone call to a gynecologist in St. Louis doesn’t necessarily point a finger at Colonel Must
ard with a candlestick in the library. There could be a number of other rational explanations—though, offhand, I can’t think of any either.
Don’t be too hard on yourself. First love is always the perfect one—but it never lasts. That’s what makes it perfect. If boyfriends actually bounced back after twenty years just because we still ached for them, we’d have to rewrite the book on romance. And even Elizabeth Barrett Browning wouldn’t believe it.
Try to get some sleep. We have an irascible judge we need to tame at 10:00 A.M. I’ll bring the whips.
By the way—I love you.
Ch
MCKENNA & WEBB
A LAW PARTNERSHIP
118 CONGRESS PARK, SUITE 407
SARATOGA SPRINGS, NEW YORK 12866
MEMORANDUM
TO: Charleen
FROM: Craig
DATE: June 11, 1998
SUBJECT: Rewriting the Book on Romance
* * *
Rent Brigadoon, then talk to me about miracles in the morning. Better yet, talk to Travis. He invented them.
By the way, I love you too.
Cr
Craig McKenna
Attorney Notes
The nearest jazz club is way down in Albany, but they serve rosé wine and the air is thick with lazy curls of cigarette smoke. So after a desolate dinner of lima beans and a Shake ’n Bake chicken breast that left the kitchen looking like Mrs. O’Leary’s cow had just paid a house call, I put on my dark glasses and hit the road. Lenny Bruce was back.