“The edge, right.”
“So if that’s a little too scary, if somebody in a suit and tie, somebody safe—somebody like David, for example—is more your type, well, we should probably forget about it right now before somebody gets hurt. Understand what I’m trying to say?”
“You mentioned a cup of coffee?”
I looked straight up at the blue, blue sky. “I believe I did. As a matter of fact I believe I did.”
We decided on the Starbucks a couple blocks from where I was, along High Street. She told me she’d be there in fifteen minutes. I told her I’d be outside by the door, in a dark blue beret.
“All right,” she said, “about fifteen—”
“Hey, Alice?”
“What.”
“This is pretty great, huh?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Y’know?” I said.
“Okay, bye,” she said, and hung up.
I found the off button.
I’ll tell you something: you never know. When you get up in the morning, you just never know.
I stood outside the Starbucks entrance, enjoying the fact that I wasn’t just standing there watching the people go by but was actually waiting for one of them, a young lady named Alice, possibly approaching right here in a yellow dress, merrily swinging her bare brown arms.
She swung on by.
Or hey, what about this one? Long and lanky. Oh, snake woman . . .
She slithered on by.
Or this one here. Oh, that would be nice, to rest my head on those. Rest my weary head . . .
She bounced on by.
The phone rang.
I looked at it in my hand. It rang again. I pressed a button. It rang again. I pressed another one. I heard a man’s voice saying, “Hello? Hello?”
I spoke into it. “Yeah. Ray Parisi here.”
“Who?”
“Ray Parisi. What do you need?”
“I . . . think I may have dialed the wrong—”
“Who you looking for?”
“Dave. Dave Soderstrom?”
“He’s not here right now.”
“Oh. I thought this was his cell number.”
“Well, he’s not here.”
“This is his cell phone, right?”
“Like I said.”
“Well, can I leave a message for him?”
“Uhhh, negative.”
“Who is this?”
“Already told you. Now, look. I don’t want to be rude but I’m meeting someone here, a young lady, okay? And she’s, well, she’s pretty special, put it that way, all right? Enough said?”
“I still don’t quite understand . . .”
“Hey,” I told him, “don’t even try. It’s all a mystery, the whole journey, the whole—wait a second, hold on.”
Dave was marching up.
I stepped backwards, holding out the phone: “It’s for you.”
He snatched it out of my hand and spoke into it: “Hang on.” Then he told me, “C’mere, you. C’mere.”
But I was in a hurry and ran off. I wanted to get back to my garret. I had a fresh idea for my monster series. I would call it, simply, Alice.
NO PLACE LIKE HOME
Arnie wondered about Dorothy. She seemed way too big to be wandering around the barnyard in a party dress and pigtails, singing to her little dog about rainbows. Shouldn’t she have been helping out? She was bigger than Auntie Em.
There was a pink-faced, Dorothy-sized girl in the neighborhood named Gloria who also wore pigtails and party dresses, plus a lot of messy lipstick, and when the older boys shouted, “Hey, Gloria, show us your panties,” she would stop her bike and lift up her dress with a horrible smile.
Dorothy didn’t seem that far gone, but like Gloria, she didn’t seem to have any friends—except of course for Toto, and when Miss Gulch took him away in her picnic basket Dorothy didn’t just cry, she threw herself across her bed and sobbed.
Arnie saw Gloria crying like that once, pedaling hard down the sidewalk, bawling away at the blue sky. Somebody must have done something to her, something bad. He felt sorry.
He felt a little sorry for Dorothy when she got locked out of the storm cellar, the cyclone closing in. Auntie Em had called out her name a few times but gave up pretty easily, it seemed. And when Dorothy stomped on the cellar door with her heel, they had to have heard. Maybe Auntie Em and Uncle Henry figured this was a good way of getting rid of her. After all, they weren’t her real parents, and she didn’t contribute anything to the farm, and probably ate as much as three little girls.
Gloria was always gobbling Hostess cream-filled cupcakes. She carried them around in the wire basket on the front of her bike. Sometimes she would pull up by the backstop in the park and eat cupcakes while she watched Arnie and his friends playing ball. He tried not to look, the way she always got cream and crumbs all over her face. After an inning or two she would finally wave and yell, “Byyye,” no one replying, and pedal off.
But Dorothy changes. She grows up a little. In fact a lot. It begins with the ruby slippers. Looking down at them on her feet, she goes up on her toes and does a graceful little turn, like a young lady. Then she actually starts being useful. She helps the Scarecrow down from his pole and keeps him on his feet, squirts oil on the Tin Man to get him going, and scolds the Cowardly Lion for scaring little Toto. “Shame on you,” she tells him.
Gloria scolded Arnie once.
The way it happened, he was walking home from the park one afternoon, just walking along with his bat and glove, then all of a sudden Gloria came bicycling around the corner. “Hi, Arnie!” she shouted, and as she pedaled by and continued on down the sidewalk she cried out, “Bye, Arnie! Byyye!” He walked home horrified: Gloria never used anyone’s name, she didn’t know anyone’s name, but somehow she knew his, which meant he was in her mind, which made him feel sick deep inside. After that, he started crossing the street whenever he saw her coming, pretending not to see her.
“Hi, Arnie!”
Pretending not to hear.
“Bye, Arnie!”
He had a dream one night in which Gloria was also Dorothy, also the Wicked Witch, wearing ruby slippers as she pedaled her bike across the sky, able to spell, looping out Hi Arnie in white smoke for all to see, smiling her lipsticky smile up there.
Then one Saturday morning she was waiting for him. He was coming out of Dorbern’s Bakery with a loaf of raisin bread his mom had sent him after, and there she was, straddling her bike and smiling. “Hi, Arnie! Wanna see my panties?”
“No!”
She stopped smiling as if he had slapped her.
Then he told her, slowly so she would understand: “Leave. Me. Alone.”
Gloria started breathing hard. She stretched out a fat red arm and pointed at his face. “You’re not nice, Arnie.” Then she pedaled off, bawling out, “You’re not nice!”
He gave a shrug to show how little he cared what Gloria thought. Walking home he ate a slice of raisin bread to further show himself, though he had some trouble swallowing.
Dorothy ends up scolding even the Wizard, telling him, “If you were really great and powerful you’d keep your promises!” And he finally does, sort of. But then she wakes up in her bed back in Kansas and seems really simple again. “I’m not going to leave here ever, ever again,” she promises Auntie Em, who glances at Uncle Henry.
But maybe Dorothy had the right idea, staying close to home. Gloria’s body was discovered one morning under some bushes in a park two towns away, her bicycle lying nearby.
BOB AND TODD
A burly man in his midthirties was driving along 95 North out of Boston, humming “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” A scrawny young man in a poncho and hiking boots was standing in the breakdown lane with his thumb out, a duffel bag upright beside him.
“What have we here?” said the driver, and pulled over.
The young man grabbed the duffel bag by its handle and hurried on over to the car. He stooped d
own to speak through the partly open passenger-side window. “Thanks for stopping!”
The driver leaned over: “Where you headed?”
“North.”
“I’m going as far as the Lewiston exit.”
“That’s great. Thanks. Appreciate it,” said the young man, still standing there.
“You getting in?”
“Just wondering. Why’d you stop?”
“You had your thumb out. Thought you might want a lift.”
“Sarcasm. Okay.”
“You getting in or not?”
“Just seems a little weird, stopping for some guy in a poncho in the middle of nowhere, see what I’m saying?”
“Right, so the only people you’d get in the car with are the ones who don’t stop,” the driver said, and laughed. “Good luck with that.”
“Wait, you’re leaving?”
“Been interesting.”
“I’ll get in.”
“Jesus.”
After he was in, holding the duffel bag between his legs, the young man once again thanked the driver for stopping. “Appreciate it.”
The driver checked the traffic behind him and pulled out. “By the way, you’re a very handsome young fellow,” he said.
“Aw, shit.”
The driver laughed. “Kidding. So where you going?”
“Just . . . north.”
“Yeah but how far?”
“All the way.”
“All the way to where?”
“Just . . . all the way.”
“That’s quite a distance.”
“I’ll get there.”
“You realize, if you do go all the way you’ll end up at that same spot along the road back there.”
“The Earth is round, I know.”
“So let me guess. You’ve had all you can take and now you’re getting the hell out.”
“Something like that.”
“Turning your back on civilization.”
“You could say.”
“Maybe go live with the Indians.”
“Possibly.”
“Adopt the ways of the red man.”
“Why not?”
“I wonder what name they’ll give you. They do that, you know.”
“Fed-Up.”
“That’s a good one. I like that.”
They were quiet for a minute. Then the driver said, “Now me, I sell athletic shoes, what you would call ‘sneakers.’ That’s what I’m doing up here, peddling my company’s product to outlets in the area. Know what your Indian friends would call me? Sells-Athletic-Shoes. By the way, if you’re interested, I’ve got a bunch of samples in the trunk, along with my wife’s body.”
The young man looked at him.
“But I’m gonna confess something to you now,” the driver went on. “Just between you and me, I hate athletic shoes. I hate the way they look on people, especially on adults, on so-called grown-ups. In fact, you know what’s wrong with this country? Too many silly-assed people bopping around in sneakers. Nobody’s serious anymore. Not like you. You’re serious. I can tell by your footwear. Hiking boots. Those are serious.”
“You mentioned . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Your wife’s body?”
“Did I? Nice body—very nice, in fact. No problem there, believe me.”
“But?”
“Nice butt, yes. Very nice. Why the sudden interest in my wife’s body?”
“You said . . . anyway I thought you said . . . it’s in the trunk.”
“My wife’s body is in the trunk?”
“Along with your samples.”
“I actually said that?”
“I could be wrong.”
“Oh, I’m sure you are.”
“I was out there for a couple hours, in that sun . . .”
“That’ll do it.”
The young man gave a laugh. “I really thought you said your wife’s body was in the trunk.”
“Well,” said the driver, “if I did say that, I apologize. I certainly didn’t mean to. What do you say we just forget about it, leave the whole thing behind us.” He gave a chuckle. “Which is where it is anyway.”
Laughing along, the young man said, “I know you’re only pulling my leg.”
“Well of course I’m pulling your leg, what do you think? You think if I shot my wife and stuck her in the trunk I would tell you about it? Even accidentally? Come on, use your head. That would mean I’d have to shoot you as well, stick you in the trunk.”
“I know you’re only trying to scare me.”
“That’s all. That’s all I’m trying to do. Don’t be scared.”
“I’m not. If I was scared, that would mean I believed you, which I don’t, so I’m not. Scared.”
“Well, fine. Can we move on now, please? Let’s talk about your future, boldly going where no one has gone before—except, you see, that’s just it, there isn’t any place where no one’s gone before, not on this fucking planet anyway.” He shook his head. “Just once, just once I would like to get really and truly totally lost, you know? Just once be able to cry out, ‘Where the fuck am I?’ And for an answer? Only an echo: ‘Fuck am I, fuck am I . . .’ See what I’m saying?”
“Sir, I was wondering, could I . . . possibly . . .”
“Pee in a cup?”
“. . . get out for a minute? Just wanna stretch my legs a little.”
“Just wanna bolt, you mean. Don’t try and kid a kidder: you’re still thinking about Betty, aren’t ya.”
“Was that her name?”
“I thought we had moved on.” He sighed. “All right. Look. You want me to pull over and open the trunk and show you? Would that help?”
“It would. Yes. Go ahead, pull over. Stop the car.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but you know what? I’m not gonna do that, and I’ll tell you why. Because if you don’t trust me any more than that, you have no business being with me in the first place.”
“You’re right. I agree, sir. Completely.”
“All right, then.”
“So go ahead. Pull over. I’ll get out.”
“Oh, now . . .”
“No, really. Go ahead. Please?”
“Don’t start getting all—”
“Please, sir? Let me out?”
“Will you listen to yourself? My God. And you want to go live with the Indians? You know what they would call you? Scaredy-Cat. That’s the name they’d give you. Mine’s Bob, by the way. What’s yours?”
The young man continued sitting there staring rigidly ahead.
“Let’s try that again. My name is Bob. What is yours?”
In a weak voice: “Todd.”
“Sorry, didn’t catch that.”
A little louder: “Todd.”
“Todd? Is that what you said? ‘Todd’?”
“Yes.”
Bob gave a laugh. “That’s really your name? Todd?”
Todd looked at him. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Just strikes me kind of funny: Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, Geronimo . . . and Todd.” He laughed harder.
“Yeah well, what about ‘Bob’?”
He stopped laughing.
Todd spoke rapidly, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, Bob’s a good name, a serious name.”
“As in what, Bob and Ray? Bob Newhart? Bob Hope? Clowns, Todd.”
Todd said quietly, “I’m sorry.”
“Let’s face it, we’ve both got less than fully serious names. Bob and Todd: now there’s a couple of lightweights—although, of course, my name is actually Robert, which is somewhat serious. But what the hell is ‘Todd’ short for?”
“Theodore?”
“You’re thinking of Ted, like Theodore Roosevelt. His wife used to call him Teddy. ‘Oh, Teddy,’ she used to say, ‘you do carry a big stick.’ But with his clothes on, in the Oval Office, he was Theodore. Ever been to Mount Rushmore? You might get there in your travels. If you do, take a good long look at those faces up the
re. Those were serious men. I guarantee you, those men did not wear sneakers. And I know what you’re thinking.”
“No. I wasn’t. Honest.”
“But maybe it’s not too late, you know? For either of us. After all, we’re both wearing serious footwear. You’ve got your boots, and look at me, what I’m wearing: wing tips. Classic. Traditional. Serious.” He looked at Todd. “Deadly serious.”
“This looks like a real good spot, right along here. Thanks again.” He gave a laugh. “Every little bit helps. Really appreciate it. If you could just pull over, sir. Right here would be . . . would be . . .”
“Know who used to wear wing tips?”
Todd sat there looking longingly out his window at the side of the road.
“I asked you a question, Todd. Do you know who used to wear wing tips? Always? On all occasions?”
“No.”
“Take a guess.”
“Theodore Roosevelt?”
“My father wore wing tips. My old man. Now there was a serious person. There was a man who believed in the basic fundamental seriousness of life. He used to say to me, ‘Robert?’—he always called me Robert, never Bob. In fact, no one ever called me Bob, not even my friends, not even my enemies. It was always Robert. It wasn’t Bob until I got married. That’s when all this Bob business began. And you know who started it? So that everyone calls me Bob now? Thinks of me as Bob? Even myself? You know who started all this Bob shit?”
Todd looked over at him slowly. “Betty?”
Bob was quiet for a moment. Then: “My father would put his hand on my shoulder, his massive hand on my little shoulder. ‘Robert?’ he would say, closing his hand like a fucking vise: ‘Life . . . is no . . . joke.’”
The road curved eastward, putting the sun in their eyes. Bob lowered his visor and Todd did the same.
Bob went on, “My father died from a stroke one afternoon sitting on the couch watching television. Know what he was watching, Todd? Do you know what he was sitting there in front of, with his eyes still open? Take a guess. Go ahead.”
“The market report?”
“Bob Barker. The Price Is Right.”
Todd said quietly, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry. You’re always sorry. You’re about the sorriest motherfucker I ever met, you know that? And don’t say you’re sorry.”
But You Scared Me the Most Page 7