All the Beautiful People We Once Knew

by Edward Carlson

  “I’ll tell her.”

  She hung up the phone.

  “Attika. Robert wants the watermelon.”

  Attika’s bodyless head appeared in the door across the hall. Milk chocolate Bobby Brown foundation and a hint of thick-jawed Indian about the cheekbones and chin.

  “With tapioca balls?” Attika asked.

  “He likes to spit them.”

  “Really? I always thought of Robert as much more of a swallower.”

  They laughed. I rose from my desk to join the exchange, signaling to the ladies that I too could play. Because we were almost friends Attika fake smiled at me and stuck out her tongue in a naughty way, then walked to the elevators. The tightening girth of her pencil skirt directly proportional to the number of hours she billed while sitting in a chair. Fleeger’s secretary reinserted her earphones and I could hear the music. Either Frampton or Guns N’ Roses. The former reminding her of her first husband, the latter reminding her of her third.

  I let her be. We had nothing in common. Some people were incapable of offending me and she was one of them. Blood pleasurably coursed through my legs as I walked the law firm carpet splotched with Keurig coffee stains, through the file room of closed cases, past the shelves of leather-bound hornbooks, around the cubicles protected by mass cards of saints and angels and jumbo pumps of hand sanitizer. For the chemical annihilation of rotavirus, herpes simplex, common flu.

  The footfalls, the pen clickers, the wedding band against the banister tappers. Like listening equipment positioned in the Negev, I heard all of what was said. Heard all of what they didn’t want anyone else to hear. About their constipation. Potential malignancies. Non-elective laparoscopies. Just the thought of a downtown mosque. Decimated 401(k)s and flex-spending plans and the dirty protestors bivouacked along Broadway and the river and shitting in the alleys and the immigrant janitors who pilfered Hershey Kisses and Jolly Ranchers from the glass scallop candy dishes. One of whom now headed straight for me, the least threatening soul on the planet: limping, eyes cast downward, dumping office trash into his vinyl-sided cart with a Virgin Mary hood ornament, probably on statins or insulin. We passed port to port. That ubiquitous nightshade synthetic lavender scent Kilgore’s management committee voted to infuse into the janitors’ papery tunics—to uniformly (de)odorize them.

  I entered Fleeger’s office and approached him hunched behind his desk in a leather chair broken down by years of bad posture. The office beaten-in, molded around him, like a baseball glove. A thick groove etched into the drywall behind his desk, the plastic floormat worn thin by heavy brass casters. He pointed at his middle flat screen while someone bickered in the Bluetooth device blinking in his ear.

  “Peach?” he mouthed. He wanted my advice about which color to assign Tara on the spreadsheet of women he fucked, was fucking, would fuck since separating from Kath O’Shaugnessy.

  “Wise choice,” I replied.

  He placed his hands on Tara’s imaginary hips and mimed reverse-cowgirling her behind his desk. Scowled while doing so.

  After twenty-two women post-Kath, Tara was Fleeger’s first peach. By the simple act of texting him, she had demoted herself from any girl on the street, riding the subway, chatting at a bar, sitting in class, striving at work, trying to make art, to a row on Fleeger’s cherished spreadsheet. There were now too many of them, to the extent he needed to employ the MS Office suite to keep straight the details. Alma maters. Professions. Hopes and Aspirations. Food allergies. STDs. Potential of anal. I liked that. A special touch. The potential of anal equals the potential of you, dear. A foolproof timeline from text messages to compromised selfies to intercourse. Provided Fleeger didn’t botch the details and commit the technical foul of mistaking Tara for someone else. Lime-green Sonia: Bryn Mawr College. Women’s studies. PricewaterhouseCoopers. Spanking. Cherry-red Jazz: Touro College. Half-Haitian. City planning commission. Pegging. No dice.

  “Listen. Lazlis. Shut up and listen.”

  Fleeger adjusted his ear device, hunched over, gave Lazlis the finger. I circled his corner office. Laminated Super Lawyers covers. Dusty golf trophies and acid-etched crystal Manhattan skylines and Tiffany’s apples in recognition of Fleeger’s steadfast contributions to the insurance defense bar. A framed photograph of Fleeger and his fellow Princeton oarsmen in tiger-stripe singlets—dicks like doorknobs—launching a coxswain into Lake Quinsigamond after winning Eastern Sprints. Which he once boasted John Glenn had proclaimed a thrill greater than orbiting Earth. But that was a lie. I looked it up. John Glenn attended Muskingum College in New Concord, Ohio. And the Fighting Muskies, largest member of the pike family, don’t race Eastern Sprints.

  “But I want you to ask yourself something, Lazlis. What can you prove? What. Can. You. Prove? The good Major has no provable work-related injuries, Jimmy. No contemporaneous medical records. No internal reports that corroborate his version of events. No immediate hospital visits or, or anything. And if he wasn’t injured while working for FreedomQuest in Afghanistan then it’s not covered by the WorldScore policy. It’s just not. You know that. It’s just not.

  “Why aren’t we going to pay him something to make this go away? Let me count the ways. Because there’s no coverage, Jim. Because we’re not a charity, Jim. Because we’re not the VA, Jim. And if it’s not covered by the worker’s comp policy the WorldScore underwriters wrote for FreedomQuest then we’re not going to pay for it. So put on your glasses and read the fucking policy.”

  He pretended to kick the man as Attika entered Fleeger’s office holding two massive Styrofoam cups. Fleeger closed the spreadsheet and gave Attika a thumbs-up, mouthed “First class.” Her complexion richened, foundation creamed around the eyes. Neither her Tory Burch flats, nor her avocado-relaxed bob, nor her pencil skirt comported with the massive cursive Jamal tattooed to her left bicep. I didn’t possess enough of whatever it took to ask her about it. Not for lack of interest but rather my aversion to sounding like an asshole.

  “Lazlis, I leave you with this. If you want comp for Mr. AfPak, and you think he’s entitled to seven-eighths of his maximum earning capacity—for life—and you really think that’s a justified position based on the medicals and his employment history—and that none of it, not one shred of it, predates his employment with WorldScore—then bring it up tomorrow before the judge. Bring it up before the judge. I beseech you. You know why? Because we both know this guy is a fucking bullshit artist and we ain’t going to pay one dime homey until we see some objective evidence that his injuries—which we don’t accept for a second are actually valid—arose in and during the scope of his employment with FreedomQuest. This is a VA matter at best. At best. And Jim? Jim? Jim? Remember this: Hogs get fed, and pigs get slaughtered. Tell the Major that for me.”

  He tapped the earpiece. Blew up his hands as if they were a tiny mushroom cloud.

  “Jesus, I hate that guy,” he said.

  Attika handed Fleeger the Styrofoam cup and he grunted while taking long sips. Black tapioca balls transiting the transparent straw.

  “What does that even mean?” I asked.

  “What does what mean, Harker?” he replied.

  “‘Hogs get fed and pigs get slaughtered.’ I don’t get it.”

  “What’s there not to get?”

  “Can you explain it to me?”

  “It sounds good. That’s all that matters.”

  I let it lie. Would bill it to the file, 444/15 RF/SH: office conference re hogs vs. pigs; debating jargon: .2 hrs.

  “What did Lazlis say?” I asked.

  “He said Thomas is loopy. That’s he’s loopy and he’s seriously injured, which is what Lazlis always says. And that Thomas is armed to the teeth. They’re all armed to the teeth. Half the country is armed to the teeth. As if that will somehow coerce us to drop our pants and pay him comp? And then it’s he can’t work and he can’t pay his mortgage and he can’t buy food for his family and he’s essentially living off the fat of the land. Which supports my suspicion tha
t he is not nearly as injured as he pretends to be. And then it’s fuck you, Fleeger, pay me. Well I’m not bending over. WorldScore doesn’t pay us to bend over. So tomorrow we’ll be in court before Judge McKenzie arguing discovery deadlines and disclosures and HIPAA-compliant production of medical records and I imagine at some point Lazlis will pack up and walk out of the conference with a chip on his shoulder. Which is fine.”

  He launched a battery of tapioca balls into his trash can.

  “Why do I eat these?” he asked Attika.

  “Because they’re delicious,” she replied.

  “They’re too high in gluten.”

  “Since when did you stop eating gluten?” she asked him.

  He ignored her, back to his roll.

  “Well you know what, Harker? I too would like to collect a check for a couple thousand dollars twice a month while staying home and oiling my fucking rifle but comp doesn’t work that way. So we’re going to litigate it. This is all you, baby. What’s up with that memo? Come on. Chop chop.”

  I handed Fleeger the preconference memo and he leaned back in his chair and nodded with approval. The satisfaction of one’s clone deftly completing an important task while your noncloned self bullshitted with pretty associates and flirted with potential clients and racked-up Taras and jostlebagged on the telephone. Fleeger handed the memo to Attika.

  “Attika, read this. This job ain’t about who’s smartest or went to the best law school. Lord knows Harker didn’t. It’s about energy. About fusing knowledge with conviction. Not for the sake of the client, but for the firm, as a profit-making enterprise. Now if I can just train Harker here to do this every day, even when it sucks, instead of whenever something happens to catch his interest.”

  “Don’t be a dick.”

  “Look. He’s fighting back. Good boy, Stephen.”

  Usually there was no reason to argue with Fleeger when the facts worked against you. Facts were like arrows he launched from atop his plinth at those who dared to challenge his assertions. But the day’s work, the quality of the day’s work, the heavy lifting of law and facts, had burned off the passive malaise, and in doing so stiffened my spine, erected my posture. I felt tall. Which I was. I just often forgot. It was a rare feeling, would disappear in no more than a couple minutes.

  “You get the ninja on this?” he asked.

  “Working on it.”

  “Attaboy, Stephen. Honda Tadakatsu. Always gets his man.”

  Fleeger pantomimed a samurai bow.

  “No smoothie for me?” I asked.

  “None for you my man,” Fleeger said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re a hater.”

  The miasma reappeared. It was faint but present, tinged red. Fleeger stepped from behind his desk and around a Venn diagram mounted on poster board propped on a tripod, prepared in anticipation of litigation.

  “Why do you hate, Stephen?” Attika asked.

  “What does that even mean?” I asked. “Doesn’t hate need an object?”

  “You’re still hating,” Fleeger said. “And don’t hate on Attika. If you do we’re going to have a problem. Right sister?”

  “Right brother,” she said.

  She did this thing where she was the cool black female enabler of Fleeger’s untoward white man behavior. Laughed at his jokes. Fig-leafed his crassness. Goosed his entitlement. Like Robin to Howard. But it wouldn’t last forever. At some point she would have to get in line with the rest of us. They gave each other a fist pound and Fleeger collapsed into his leather chair and strapped on a new pair of orange Vibram FiveFingers.

  “Hey Attika, think I can draw with these?”

  “Is there a warning on the box?” she asked.

  “Let’s put a pen between my toes and see if there should be. Otherwise we’ll sue them.”

  Fleeger gripped a ballpoint pen with his strange gloved foot, concentrated and chewed his lip.

  “What do you think?” he asked her, holding up his sloppy stick-drawing of a smiley face.

  “Very impressive,” Attika said.

  “Here.” He autographed the drawing, now with his hand. “It’s for you. I want you to have it.”

  She clutched it to her chest.

  “Robert. I’m so honored.”

  Fleeger approached me in his fingertoe shoes and pulled me tight, our polar vectors opposite, somewhere between antimatter and kryptonite.

  “I love you,” he said. “You know that?”

  I said nothing.

  “Everyone ready for some cocktails with the WorldScore gang?”

  “You know we have a court conference tomorrow morning in re Major Ash-hole.”

  I sounded fake. Even to myself.

  “Nice. I like it. Very childish of you, Harker. Good work. Now come on, let’s go.”

  One final slurp of the plastic straw and Fleeger tossed the smoothie into the trash can. He stared at me.

  “It’s a conference, Harker,” he said. “Lazlis will say ‘blah blah blah’ and we’ll say ‘blah blah blah’ and then the judge will kick the can. And as long as we don’t say anything stupid we’ll be fine. Besides, I’ll be there holding your hand in case you have another panic attack in court.”

  Nothing was sacred with Robert Fleeger. The bonds of professional camaraderie didn’t preclude him from exploiting confidences to his advantage. There was a warning deep inside this disclosure before Attika—Stephen, don’t ever be so foolish as to confide in me that which you fear I may one day use against you. You had a panic attack arguing in court, you fled the scene, you told me about it, that’s your fault. Because you incriminated yourself with failure. Because weakness is vulnerability and vulnerability undermines the client’s case, which in turn undermines him, and in turn undermines the firm. I stewed, knowing I couldn’t stew for long because Fleeger would smell it on me and salvo me with facts, cross-examine my indignation with the truth. It’s true, right? Am I wrong? Tell me I’m wrong, Harker. Attika watched what I would do next, a kernel of empathy there, because she had been on the receiving end as well. Some part of us remained helpless in his presence. But only because we chose to be here.

  Fleeger inserted his massive shoulders into a black wool overcoat and wrapped his neck with an orange silk scarf. I remembered a former word of the day, one of those rare nouns you remember without memorizing. Because some words are like that. Filature. The process of reeling raw silk from cocoons. Thousands of silkworms impaled on mechanical looms having their insides spooled via an industrial process that resulted in Fleeger wrapping a proud Princeton Tiger scarf around his neck at this very moment.

  “Come on, man.” He rubbed my shoulder, his act of penance. “Let’s have some drinks. Nelson will be there. You can make fun of him. He’ll make you feel better about yourself.”

  There was a release in this. The toxicity evaporated as we resumed our roles. I had asserted myself and he reciprocated with a shove. Some golden balm now as our moment of conflict receded.

  “The endomorph?”

  “Attika likes Nelson.”

  “I think he’s funny,” she added. Right on cue.

  I thought otherwise. Nelson was no lure for me. I was incapable of embracing him as a brother in consideration for him sending me WorldScore cases. I demurred, told myself I shouldn’t go, knew the protest was futile. Because after spending the workday behind a computer screen typing digital words into a digital document billing clients at tenth-of-an-hour increments, Anthropocene man finds the pull of the Irish bar inescapable. And he repeats the pattern. Over and over again.

  “Come on,” Fleeger said. “Let’s go. Be a man.”

  I looked at Attika.

  “Yeah, Stephen.” She was talking to me a lot today. “Don’t be such a pussy.”

  Fleeger reverted into his wingtips and we exited the office and entered the elevator. He removed a ChapStick from his pocket and moisturized his fleshy lips. The lobby’s overhead lights burned brighter and the floor tiles shined sh
inier after a solid day of legal work. Floor tiles like fly eyes, identical hexagonal facets. We exited the building through the carousel doors and entered the wind and diagonal sleet and stepped over plastic bits and straws and packets cascading down storm drains, as the whistles and beats of the Occupy protestors rounded the corner. Their daily vigil outside the New York Fed drawn to an end. Wet scarves and soggy sweaters marching behind an American flag hanging upside-down from a bent pole once used to clean swimming pools. Cops in midnight blue, belts of hogties, trailed them atop white mopeds with blinking blue lights.

  “Whose streets? Our streets,” a black man with a face scar like a Bob Evans sausage hollered through an old bullhorn as he approached me, waving a pamphlet with pink and black hands. “Read this, brother,” he commanded, but with warmth, still through the bullhorn, now walking away, Doppler effecting “no justice, no peace.” The Arc of the Universe Bends Toward Justice the pamphlet’s title.

  Fleeger looked at me as if I just committed treason and I tucked the pamphlet inside my suit jacket pocket. A crusty girl with a shaved head and two asymmetrical dreadlocks pointed at Fleeger, then at her crotch, told him to suck it.

  “Lovely,” Fleeger replied, thereby demarcating the nether boundaries of his post-Kath promiscuity. I took a shot.

  “You don’t want to hit that?”

  He looked at me with disgust.

  “No, Harker. I don’t want to hit that.”

  The blinking mopeds followed the protestors down the mild slope toward the East River and we turned west on Maiden Lane. Fleeger worked his phone, his professional success contingent upon responding to a maximum number of emails within the requisite amount of time. Both Attika and Fleeger now texting and stepping over the curb and up the stairs and into the bar in tandem, still working their phones. I rolled and lit my daily cigarette and smoked standing beneath the pub’s circus tent awning and watched the sleet spiraldoodle puddles in the neon-lit gutters, debating whether I deserved a Lorazepam. I told myself I did. I removed the amber bottle from my swish messenger bag fashioned from recycled plastic bits with a seatbelt buckle for a strap and decapped it. One left, the last one. In need of a prescription refill, I would have to call it in soon. I shook free the pill stuck to the inside of the amber bottle. For work-related anxiety. I didn’t need it now. I told myself I deserved it. To turbo-charge the booze. I swallowed the bitter white pill and commanded myself to keep it under control. I would be fine. Just another tiny stain about to melt into my liver.