Manhattan Loverboy

by Arthur Nersesian

  “Can we help you?” one of the execs asked me in a ‘What-the-fuck?’ tone.

  “Is that you, Joey?” Whitlock asked before I could answer. He was still staring in the direction where great destroyers were once assembled, the Brooklyn Navy Yard, away from all.

  “Yes sir,” I sputtered through a mouthful of donut.

  “Everyone, this is Joey,” he introduced, “the efficiency man I warned you all about.”

  “Efficiency man?” I repeated.

  “What department do you plan to look at first?” one of them inquired nervously.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said, chewing down some herring in cream sauce.

  “Joey’s not doing a systematic; he does sporadics. Here and there. He’ll pop in, peruse, and vanish like sand, only reporting to me,” Whitlock said. Then, turning around dramatically, he added, “Joey might look like an odd combination of grunge and suit, but that’s because he’s an unincrementalized genius.”

  “Well…” I sputtered modestly as stuff fell out of my mouth.

  “Right now, though, me and Jojo have a plane to catch,” Whitlock said, and bouncing up, he trotted out the door. I moved quickly on his heels.

  Out the corridor to an awaiting elevator, the horse-eyed wonder accompanied us. In the elevator, without even asking me, she clipped a laminated ID to my suit pocket. On the ID was the face photo she had taken of me with her Polaroid.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Several stops,” he said. With that he took a tiny cellular phone out of his pocket and talked in whispers as we moved through that hi-tech cavern of a lobby, out the automated door, and into an awaiting limo. Still on the phone, we zoomed up the FDR to a heliport. Still on the phone, we hopped into an awaiting chopper. A little desk was set up. He was still absorbed in his hushed conversation. On the desk top: a Wall Street Journal, New York Times, a fax machine, a box of Havana cigars. In the cup that held sundry writing instruments, I spotted a platinum-topped, midnight blue, Montblanc pen that had to be worth at least twenty-five bucks. Up until then, I had devoted the time to wolfing down the food that I had stuffed in my pockets. But as the helicopter approached landing at JFK Airport, I polished off my snack and made my way to his end of that tight cabin, near the little efficiency desk.

  “So what say you, Jojo?”

  “Really something,” I said, awestruck. He gave me a powerful slap on the back and turned to his left just long enough for me to reach into that leather-wrapped pencil cup and snatch the Montblanc. Landing, we got out with the chopper blades still revolving and ran across a tarmac into a large, awaiting corporate jet. When we got into the plane, he turned to me and said, “So are we having fun yet?”

  “Sure,” I replied. I got in my seat, over the wing, and tried on the headphones. Yes, I wanted breakfast. Yes, I wanted the steak lunch with the artificial grill marks. Yes, I wanted to see the film, though I already knew it was a dud, and I had probably seen it.

  The plane soon took off. I looked down at that overpacked island, bordered between silver slivers of polluted rivers, a frail vein just waiting to burst like a cerebral hemorrhage, havoc in miniature. I had probably got out just in time. Several execs stood up at the tail of the plane and made presentations to Whitlock about various holdings and plans. He asked several questions; the secretary did several calculations. Once or twice, he got back on the cellular and confirmed some facts. Over the wing of the plane was a small bar, where I loaded up on a variety of courtesy drinks.

  “Do you want to ask them anything about this deal?” Whitlock turned from the band of execs and asked me as I was pouring a small bottle of rum into my coke.

  “I’m sorry, I really wasn’t listening. I better sit this one out.”

  “These guys are proposing a two hundred million dollar investment in a string of manufacturing plants in Eastern Europe. We would be with a consortium of other American businesses.”

  “I see.”

  “Any questions for them, Jojo?”

  “Well, if you buy all the cheap real estate in the area of the plants, you can open up diners and gas stations and stuff.”

  “Good point,” Whitlock said without a hint of sarcasm. That was the last time he asked me if I had any questions. I was looking forward to all those plane frills. But soon after we were in the air, I drifted into a deep and productive sleep. When I awoke, I feared I’d missed the fun and quickly pushed the button for the stewardess. I was taken aback by her response time.

  “Can I get my breakfast, lunch, and the film?”

  “I’m sorry, but the pilot just turned on the no-smoking sign.”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “We’re going to be in an angle of descent in a few minutes.”

  “Okay, just bring me a drink and some honeyed nuts.”

  “Sorry, sir, we’re in descent.” To avoid the issue, she then vanished down the aisle. With a bump and screech, we were in Washington.

  Outside the terminal, a limo was waiting, identical to the one we’d left in New York. We drove past the Beltway, past the Vietnam Wall and a variety of other monuments. We finally arrived at an old office building and strode into another large office, to another meeting—a swirl of people who looked like those we’d just left in New York.

  A series of presentations by counselors and consultants came and went, and soon, when my vanity—which compelled me to believe that I was all-knowing and all-powerful—finally faded, I wondered what the hell I was doing there. I ended up reading glossy, smelly women’s magazines filled with jackass articles about How to Land a Husband next to declarations on the New Breed of Feminism. Around sixteen hundred hours (4:00 p.m.), Whitlock raced out of his final office and called to me, “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “We’re returning to Gotham.” Limo to plane to New York to chopper to the city proper. During the entire journey, he divided his conversation between cellular phones, lackeys, and me, in that quantitative order. He let me loose at Times Square.

  “Can I go back to school now?” I boldly asked him.

  “Not quite, but here.” He handed me a five dollar bill and his business card, and said, “Come to my home tomorrow. We’ll have din-din.”

  “Can I at least get my transcripts and papers?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I explained that the school was holding my transcripts and other vital papers. I was unable to transfer to another graduate school, even if I could manage to finagle the money.

  “Okay, just come on time tomorrow,” he replied. Then, turning to Horse-eyes, he said, “Secure the boy’s papers. In the event I’m late, my man Wylie will look after you until I get in.”

  “Great.” I got out, looked at the tourists, and went home.

  (I could wax rhapsodic about the shades of sunlight creeping across symbolic objects of the figurative. I could produce metaphors and similes for the minute-stirring hours and the dissipation of the human spirit through sterile or rococo exercises in postmodernist prose style, but suffice it to say—) Time passed.

  The next day, I walked across town to his house. I was fairly tired and dizzy. As I approached, a beggar from a nearby street corner followed me like a hungry dog, telling me pathetic details of his fictitious life.

  “Hold it, now,” I said, trying to locate the address. I should have given him the courtesy of a quick refusal, but he seemed to feel good telling about his ills, so I let him follow and talk. The address on Whitlock’s business card brought me to an upper East Side town house with a beautiful row of steps out front. The beggar followed me up to the top step. I rang the bell and waited.

  “Hey,” my homeless companion said, “I have a life, too. You mind if I get on with it?” I gave the guy a dollar-fifty.

  “Fuck you!” he yelled, just as some long white guy wearing a tarboosh opened the front door.

  “Oh dear!”

  “Fuck you!” I said to the homeless guy.

  “Could you both ple
ase take your melee elsewhere,” the long, white tarboosh-wearer replied, slamming the door shut.

  “No, wait,” I banged on the door. When he reopened it, the tarboosh was gone. I introduced myself to the doorman, shaking his hand, man-style.

  “Who was that?”

  “A crazy, I don’t know. He followed me here,” I replied. Delicately hinting that I wanted to be fed, I added, “Boy, am I hungry!”

  “Oh, yes. I’m Wylie. Andrew informed me you’d be here around now. Come on upstairs, you chowhound, and let’s get you chowed down.”

  It was apparent that not all was well in this man’s state of Denmark. Wylie led me through a glorious brownstone: cherry wood paneling, furniture pieces that had been stolen from different periods, a rolled-up carpet from the Orient. The moldings were sculptured with haloed cherubs and demons with tongues twisted out. Banisters were dragons’ heads. The fretwork of the baseboards and detail of the artwork seemed to improve with every upward landing. When we finally reached the top flight, he led me into a beautiful dining room, and said, “Take a seat. Whitlock and the meal will be here shortly.”

  “Do we have to wait?” I asked.

  “I suppose not. Master Whitlock has already eaten.”

  I sat at the right side of a long dining table with two place settings. All I could think as he brought out a serving bowl was, I’ve spent twenty-four hours waiting for the feast in that bowl.

  “Pass your…”—I did. As he started filling my plate, tears came to my eyes. When he slid the plate over in front of me, I stared down into a bowl of macaroni and cheese. I looked up at him, and watched as he spooned clumps of noodles onto his own plate. Then, placing the bowl in the center of the table, he proceeded to fork the noodles into his mouth. I smiled and did likewise. They tasted gooey and powdery.

  “Jeepers, am I one hungry hound dog,” Wylie said, as he tunneled through his plate of crap. Then, to himself he replied, “‘Course you are.”

  When I discreetly spat my mouthful of macaroni into a napkin, I realized the cheese was made from a powder that wasn’t quite mixed. Pushing my fork through the bowl, I spotted unmelted chunks of margarine and unblended clots of cheese powder.

  “Say, what exactly is this?” I asked as politely as possible.

  “Macaroni and cheese—eleven cents a serving! Isn’t it wonderful?”

  As I resentfully chewed it down, I couldn’t help remembering that Whitlock—according to Fortune—was worth about $3,500,000 per year. Which means he must’ve made roughly $10,000 per day, seven days a week. Was spending $20 for a real dinner so exorbitant?

  Maybe it wasn’t Whitlock’s fault. This Wylie character, Whitlock’s manservant, was an obvious flake. He had incredibly white hair that looked like the belly feathers of a goose. His face was punctuated by spaces: gaping eye sockets, large red ears that resembled toilet plungers, a big cantaloupe-sized mouth with a stupid inbred grin. He bantered a strange preemptive conversation at me as I tried to eat.

  “So how was your trip, young man?” He.

  “Not…” Me.

  “It was awful of course, you boob…” He.

  “No, I didn…” Me.

  “Don’t ask me such dumb questions you say…” He.

  “No, it’s oka…” Me.

  “Tell me what you can do for me, Wylie, and stop being such an old nuisance!” He.

  “You weren’t being…” He might have been insane but he wasn’t dangerous, so I just listened to him talking to himself with a fictitious character representing an irate me.

  “Why in heaven’s name don’t you go to the Walter Raleigh and play the Charles and Diana? Who’s the Walter Raleigh, you say? Aren’t Charles and Diana royal monarchs, you nincompoop? Indeed they are, my boy. Indeed they are. But, you see, I give inanimate things animated names. Inanimate names, you say? Yes I bloody do in fact….” He continued rambling as I snuck into the kitchen. It was new and clean, and held the promise of other foods. But when I opened the refrigerator, all I saw was a tub of margarine, a rotting onion bulb, and individually wrapped American cheese slices.

  Suddenly, an electronic doorbell emitted the sound of birds chirping. It didn’t have any effect on Wylie’s external monologue which eternally continued, questioning and answering itself in strange, dialectical senility. Then Whitlock appeared in the doorway.

  “Ahh, Mister Whitlock,” Wylie muttered, “She’s waiting for you downstairs.”

  “I’m a he, and I’m here,” I corrected.

  “Not you,” Wylie replied.

  “How are you?” I asked Whitlock, as I moved from the barren fridge to a sofa in the living room.

  “Ahhh, cestui que vie.” He sighed, flopped down next to me, and pressed my hand.

  “Mr. Whitlock, I don’t know what that Dean said about me, but…” I began nervously.

  “Res ipsa loquitur.”

  “I just want to say that none of this was my idea.”

  “Molliter manus imposuit.”

  “I didn’t do nothing wrong.”

  “Mallum prohibitum?”

  “At least nothing I knew about.”

  “Ignorantia legis non excusat.”

  “I mean, I didn’t mean to do what I did to you and, well, when I think about it, it makes me want to…” I caught myself.

  “Exturpia causa non oritur actio.”

  “Yeah, well, it still makes me feel angry.”

  “Facinus quos inquinat aequat.”

  “Master Whitlock,” Wylie spoke up, “the boy was in the middle of his noodle.”

  “This should take no more than a moment.”

  “What?”

  “Your future.” He murmured this as he vanished out the door. I pursued. He kept vanishing behind landings and doorways just as I got to them. All the while, he was talking confidentially about something I couldn’t follow. Finally, at the ground floor, I entered a room to find him standing in a closet holding clothes, assessing them like a tailor.

  “So, Wylie was making you dinner, was he?”

  “Macaroni and cheese—eleven cents a serving.”

  “Apologies. If you wish to excuse yourself, the vomitorium is down the corridor to your left.”

  “It stayed down.”

  “Put this on, if you would. Bring your clothes and come with me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Ours is not to question why…”

  As he marched out of the room, he called back, “I’ll be waiting outside.” A pressed-yet-loose suit, a brand-new white shirt complete with pins in the collars, and a formal blue tie sat on an old Arts and Crafts armchair. Whitlock started walking again westward, back into the hall of the building with endless rooms. We marched through corridors and stairways. Finally, outside a large, old door, he stopped and waited for me.

  “Here,” he handed me a roll of breath mints. I slipped one into my mouth and took four for later.

  “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I want you to agree with everything I say.”

  “God gave me a mind,” I cowered courageously.

  “No, no,” he responded. “I just mean when we go into this room. We’re visiting Mama and her society.”

  “Oh, I thought you meant in general, like about gun control and national health care. Sure, I’ll go along.”

  He opened the door and we skipped in. An attendant was on duty. Inside were four ancient and sexless humanoids who all looked equally close to death laying side by side, yo-yo-ing between consciousness and all points north. Whitlock steered me toward the ghostly skeletal form by the window.

  “How are we today, Mama? You look to be in top form…” Eight tubes were anchored to various parts of her drifting body, making her look like a sun-dried octopus.

  “I dieeeee…” she muttered, or something like that. As far as I could figure, she was very, very tired, or paralyzed.

  “Nonsense, you’ll be dancing on my grave.”

  “Ahhhhh…” She should have taken better care of hers
elf.

  “Mama, do you know who I am?”

  “Yahhh…”

  “Mama, allow me to introduce my heir and protégé, Joseph Aeiou. Come here, Joey, and shake Mama’s hand. He reached under a sheet and handed me a hand. It was weightless, cold, hard, and dark, like a wooden walking stick. I wondered for a moment if it was connected to anything.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” I said cheerfully. What kept her alive? What kept all these people alive?

  “Ahhhhhh…”

  “Twenty-three. And how old are you?” I asked. She hadn’t asked my age, but I had to know hers. She had an extraordinary translucence. I wanted to know how long one had to live in order to get that.

  “Mama is 103 years old.”

  “Wow! You know, that weatherman on NBC’s Today Show will announce your birthday on the air if you tell him.”

  “Mama was suspended in the air by Queen Victoria.”

  “No fooling!”

  She smiled faintly.

  “The Queen, in the last year of her life, held mama, who, at the time, was in the first year of hers.”

  “No kidding.”

  The silver lady nodded yes. Suddenly, some elderly guy in a clerical collar was standing at the door.

  “Ah, I see you have another visitor. We shan’t keep you. Ta-ta, Mother.” And we were out of there. He led me back through the corridors to the room with the closet.

  “Change back into your clothes, and let’s figure out a racket for you.”

  “I don’t want to sound uppity,” I explained, “but I always wanted to do a little more with my life. And I’m not really a scholar.”

  “I see what you’re saying.”

  After I changed back into my clothes, Whitlock went behind a small bar where a tiny refrigerator was hiding. Reaching inside, he took a tunafish sandwich wrapped in cellophane and offered it to me. “I have a gift for finding people’s vocations. If you have a calling, I’ll see it in your eyes.”