“You sold that really well. Seriously. Whatever doubts I had are completely gone now. I’m looking really forward to going. I’m starting to think it’s a shame we’re going to have to rob this guy.”
“That’s the spirit!”
9.
The rats were gone by the time Barton woke up. He could hear the paper ripping (maybe in the attic) and a dog howling somewhere in the distance. Could have been that dog that rode with him from the store yesterday. He went into the bathroom to piss and shit and take a shower. The maid was still on the floor. He felt momentarily panicked and sad until he remembered she was filled with candy and sunshine. He would like to suspend the maid in the middle of the tent the caterers would be setting up. No, the caterers didn’t set up the tent and the chairs and the tables. That was the party people. He was pretty sure they were called The Party People. They set up the tents and table and chairs. But not human piñatas. That was all him.
He was going to call William while he was shitting but he didn’t have his phone on him. He needed his phone. There were so many people he needed to call. Also needed to see how many additional cancellations there’d been. Jesus, he still needed to make the banner. He thought it would probably be best if he did that himself. After all, that would be the first thing people saw and he couldn’t really allow someone else to fuck it up. So then he needed to call the caterers and nix his previous order. The only things he wanted them to have on hand were fish tacos, churros, and Corona. Maybe he would jokingly tell them to leave the Mexican water at home. He needed William to bring him like a hundred sombreros. Everyone there, even the help, had better fucking wear a sombrero. Or else he’d like to carve out their eyes and stuff his testicles, his entire sack, into their eye sockets.
He moved from the toilet to the shower without wiping. What was the point?
He really wished he had a phone in the house so he didn’t have to retrace his steps and try to find his cell phone. He hated looking for things. But his parents wouldn’t let him have a phone in the house. He tried to tell them he didn’t make crank calls anymore and they told him that wasn’t the reason. Even thinking about it now made Barton irate. They never told him the reasons for anything. They just told him not to think about it so sometimes it felt like he went whole stretches of time without thinking about anything. Which reminded him he needed to take his pills. Today was going to be a high stress day with lots of people and lots of things to do so he decided he would take the fun dose and wash it down with some of the vodka. No, wait, he was already forgetting the theme. He’d wash it down with some tequila.
Then find his phone.
Check the cancellations.
Call William.
Fuck the maid again. Come all over her tits.
Call the caterers.
Call The Party People.
Call The Party People again and tell them what the caterers had done. Tell them they left things behind last time.
Call his parents.
Call his therapist. No. Fuck that. Today was Mexico Frat Funland. His therapist was a downer. He’d probably just try to tell him it wasn’t a good idea.
Call all the people who’d canceled today and tell them how shitty it was to cancel at the last minute and try to guilt them into coming.
Call Team Klaus just to talk. Did they even speak English?
Find out where those ripping paper sounds were coming from and see if he could find that dog and get it out of here.
Make the banner.
No. He should probably do that first.
He rearranged the order of everything in his head.
Heard a dog howling.
Heard the ripping of paper.
Heard the rats scurrying in the pipes.
Closed his eyes and saw explosions of sunlight.
Smelled shit.
He’d forgotten to turn the water on.
10.
After showering, Barton tore all the clothes out of his closet looking for his favorite pink sweater. Maybe it was too warm to wear a sweater but he’ planned on draping it artfully over his shoulders so it would be available if he got chilled later on. Once all the clothes were out of the closet and piled into an artless heap on his bedroom floor, he decided he didn’t have a pink sweater, had only imagined having one, and went with a white one instead. He found one of several pairs of khaki cargo shorts left over from his real fraternity days, a light blue t-shirt that said, “Everyone loves a Mexican girl” (he’d crossed out “loves” and written “fucks” with a red Sharpie, but it was mostly illegible now), and, yes!, his shell necklace on a hemp band. He was going to be the realest looking person there. He quickly suited up and remembered to make the banner.
He Googled “make banner” and clicked on the first website it gave him. He didn’t have the time to go through all the fonts and backgrounds. Maybe he’d decorate it later. He picked the biggest font he could. That would make it eye catching at least. He went with a different color for every letter and hit print. Unfortunately his printer was out of color cartridges so it just printed black on white, one letter per page. Maybe he’d put William to work on it if his lazy ass ever decided to show up.
That reminded him he still needed to get his phone out of the car.
He ran down there as fast as he could. By the time he reached the car he was panting and out of breath, the sun attacking him. He braced himself on the car so he didn’t fall down. He saw the dog who’d ridden home with him yesterday on the far side of the pool, carrying something in his mouth. This didn’t look as meaty as whatever it was the space birds carried. It looked more like a bone.
He saw the maid (this time he was pretty sure it was the young one) walking toward the main house. He thought about running after her and tackling her, maybe raping her or possibly just tickling her until she pissed herself.
He opened the car door and grabbed his phone. He needed to get back inside to the air conditioning before he passed out.
First he needed to call William. Shit. The phone was dead. Now he’d have to find the charger too. He hated looking for things. Maybe he would go to the main house and use the landline phone. But then he’d have to go out in that sick heat again. He’d definitely pass out by the time he made it to the main house. And he hadn’t seen any of those birds today which meant they were probably all gathered together and conspiring. They’d probably swarm when everyone else showed up. He didn’t know if that would be embarrassing or cool.
The charger was plugged into the wall next to the bed. The rationality of this location struck him as nearly absurd.
Once his phone turned back on, the cancelation messages started popping up. They overwhelmed him and he lay down on the bed, careful to make sure there weren’t any rat droppings on it.
At this point it was probably easier to think about who would be there. Chris would come. Chris came to everything because, even though he was nearly thirty, he still lived with his parents. Like in the same house with them, not in a separate house on the same estate. There wasn’t anything wrong with that.
Jordan.
Jordan would probably come. Barton was going to finally break it to him that he had a girl’s name. Meaning Barton could either fuck him in the mouth or call him Joe, which Barton thought was manlier and more generally traditional sounding. Jordan would come because he was on drugs and an alcoholic and usually didn’t have a lot of money. Barton always had all of those things.
Polly.
Polly would come because, well, she was a twenty-something girl named Polly. And she was kind of fat and not very attractive and probably didn’t get invited out a lot. Maybe he and Jordan and Chris would pull a train on her. That might be kind of fun. He hadn’t done that in a while. They’d have to drag her back to his house where there weren’t any cameras because even though she’d probably be totally into it she’d still cry rape afterward unless she felt too ashamed but, given the way she looked, he thought she would probably feel more pride than shame. But Barton
had a lot of money, which made him the target of so many people who wanted that money.
That was it. He couldn’t think of another person who was guaranteed to come.
Maybe Andy.
But Andy was virtually nonexistent. Maybe he’d show up. Maybe he wouldn’t. Barton probably wouldn’t notice if he was there or not.
He called William.
William never answered his phone. Barton just left messages and he showed up.
“William, buddy, hope you’re going to be here soon.”
Barton ended the call and made some of the other calls he’d planned. Many of the people he spoke with seemed jumbled and confused, as though they’d invented a new language. This, in turn, made Barton jumbled and confused, so when he ended what he thought was his last call, he went to the bar and took the fun dose of his pills and washed it down with some tequila. Then he went to the bathroom and rolled around with the maid again before taking another shower, this time with his clothes on.
He got out of the shower and vomited red into the toilet. At first he was concerned until he remembered drinking some of the maid’s blood. He’d have to throw up again later and see what it looked like. A flash of brilliance struck him and he removed his sopping, heavy sweater from around his neck and dropped it into the toilet. He reached his hands in and massaged the sweater so it would soak up some of the bloody vomit, moderately terrified that a rat was going to bite one of his fingers off. He wrung the sweater over the toilet, pleased that it was close to the shade of pink he’d imagined.
A honking horn disrupted his admiration.
His first thought was that it was the police and he should hide. Then he wondered why he would think that. He didn’t have anything to worry about. He refastened the sweater over his shoulders and went downstairs and outside to see who was honking.
A black, unmarked van was up near the main house. The keys were still in the Versa, so he got in and drove it to the main house. He was pretty sure the only things he would need from his house were the maid and the banner. No. He should probably get the banner now so when people started showing up, they would know they were at the right place. Of course, when he’d sent out the elaborate invitations, it hadn’t been called MEXICO FRAT FUNLAND. He couldn’t remember what it used to be known as. He whipped the Versa around, skidded to a stop in front of his house, and ran upstairs to grab the banner. His Alain Silberstein clock was lying on the floor for some reason and he decided to grab that too. Hoisting it up sent an explosion of sunshine through his head. He thought of the maid but wasn’t sure why. He remembered his phone was still plugged in and charging. He grabbed the phone and the cord. The banner hadn’t been taped together yet so it was just a small stack of paper. Now his hands felt too full. Where the fuck was William?
“William!” he shouted at the ceiling.
He was greeted only by the ripping of paper and the scurry of rats.
He walked everything out to the car and tried his hardest not to break down into tears.
11.
He drove to the main house as fast as he could. Standing beside the black van were four dour looking men dressed identically in black shirts and black pants. The only variation between the four were the matching colors of their ties and shoes. Team Klaus. Had to be. Barton had never noticed the shoes before. Beside them stood a man in a gray business suit, probably their manager. Barton was glad he wore his disguise. While he would have happily gushed over them, he would have also been embarrassed if they knew he had to deal with those affairs himself. He glanced toward the house and noticed the maid, definitely the young hot one, in the large breakfast nook window.
“Mr. King.” The man in the gray suit held out his hand. “I’m Buddy Reynolds, manager of Team Klaus.”
“I’m not ...” Now Barton found it hard to think about anything except the maid in the window. “I mean ... I’m William.” He held out his hand and the man in gray took it.
“Nice to meet you, William. I’m sure Mr. King made you aware of the agreed upon price. We can go ahead and get that out of the way.”
“I ... yes. Cash good.”
“Cash is great. We’ll give you a receipt if you need it.”
“No.” Barton thought about the drive back to his house and then the drive back here and he nearly fell over. He wanted to cry. Maybe he could get the young maid to do it. Maybe he could do other stuff with her when he got her into his house. “Maid! Maid! Maid! Maid!” he shouted at the house. The man in the gray suit flinched back. Team Klaus remained stony, staring somewhere in the middle distance.
“Is everything okay ... William?” the man in the gray suit asked.
Barton pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. He could hear the sound of ripping paper float over the expansive lawn as though it were waiting for him.
“I’ll go get it. The cash. The maid is a lazy Mexican.”
The man looked confused, like he hadn’t quite heard him, so Barton grabbed him by the upper arms and yelled, “The maid is a lazy Mexican!”
The man knocked Barton’s hands off and straightened his suit. His eyes had hardened, all good manners and politeness gone. “We’ll start setting up then. Where would you like us?”
Barton pointed his finger at the large stone patio and said, “Anywhere over there.”
Two other men in black coveralls and gas masks climbed out of the van carrying a mess of cords and walked toward the patio. Barton got into the Versa and sped back to his house. He went upstairs and to the sitting room just off his bedroom, took the oil painting of dogs playing poker off the wall and opened the safe. He never locked it. He’d forgotten the combination a long time ago because his dad wouldn’t let him write it down. He had no idea how much money he would need and wasn’t sure he could count at this point anyway. He went downstairs and got his suitcase from the storage closet off the kitchen. Back upstairs he emptied as much of the money as he could into the suitcase. Most of it was still in bundles so he was sure he had an ample amount. He left a couple of bundles in the safe just in case. Also because there was a rat in the very back of the safe, hunkered over, nose twitching, probably hungry, and he didn’t want to accidentally touch it. He mumbled, “Rats are only for sleeping,” before zipping up the suitcase and heading back to the car amidst the cacophony of ripping paper.
On the way back out to the car, he spotted the dog again. This time it wore a human skull like a hat and Barton was pretty sure the dog was making fun of him.
He got in the car, cried for a few minutes, and sped back to the main house.
William stood in front of the black van talking to Team Klaus’s manager. It looked like the man, Barton couldn’t remember his name, was at ease again. William had an amazing ability to connect with just about anyone. Whatever it was William did, he was very good at it.
“Hey, William,” William said. The manager must have told him Barton had introduced himself as William and the real William, being as quick as he was, must have picked up on it. Barton also realized he wasn’t wearing his disguise like he’d originally thought and was doubly happy to have pulled off the ruse.
Barton almost felt like breaking down again, he was so happy to see William and his deeply lined face and wise eyes.
“I’m so glad you’re finally here.” Barton hoisted the suitcase full of cash at him. “Here, you deal with this now. I’ve got something I need to do.”
“What’s that smell?” William asked.
“That’s the smell of fun. Mexico Frat Funland.”
Barton went back to the car and got his clock and the loose pages he would need to tape to make his banner. He went into the kitchen. The table in there was probably the largest surface in the house. He heard the maid cough from somewhere upstairs. He sat down the papers for the banner, held onto the clock, and followed the sound.
12.
Joe and Alex sat on the couch, each of their right arms raised in front of them, obliterating the zombies on the screen. They had wanted to s
pend the day wasted, as they usually did on their days off, but knew they needed to remain sharp. Therefore it had been nothing but coffee and energy drinks and they were both feeling pretty giddy and wired. Alex hit pause and grabbed his phone from his pocket.
“Dude, it’s Ibbie. She just sent a message that says, ‘Come now.’”
Joe looked at him, frozen.
“We should probably go. Get the wigs and stuff.”
Other than the wigs, they were both already in costume. Alex disappeared into the kitchen and came back out with a gun.
“What the fuck’s that?”
“It’s a gun.”
“Is it real?”
“Yeah, man, it’s real.”
“Do you even know how to use that?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“Look. It’s a precaution. I’m not planning on using it.”
“But you realize just by taking that it makes what we’re doing even ... more illegal. Like if you have a weapon we’ll spend ten more years in jail.”
“It might save our lives.”
Joe stopped. “Look at who you’re talking about. It sounds like it would be like shooting a retarded kid in a wheelchair. I’m not going if you’re taking the gun.”
Maybe it was just the immediacy of Ibbie’s message but Alex really wanted to take the gun. He didn’t have time to rationalize it. But he also didn’t want to go alone. Ibbie probably wasn’t in any kind of danger. If she were in great danger, he didn’t think she’d have the time to stop and whip off a text. Maybe King had stepped out. Maybe Ibbie just knew they’d be in the apartment not really doing much anyway and decided now would be a good time to try something. Apparently King always left the house in disguise. That would be too perfect. The cameras see him leaving in disguise and then coming back looking the same way.
Alex took a deep breath. Convinced himself he didn’t need the gun. Gently placed it on the couch between the two fake guns.
The Warm Glow of Happy Homes Page 3