Mixed Nuts

by Venita Louise

  The moment they were seated Joan dug a dollar from her purse. “Matt, give this to the piano player and ask him to play my favorite song.”

  “Aw mom, I don’t even know how to say it,” Matt whined.

  Susan pushed her face close to his. “It’s Lisbon Antigua.”

  Matt shoved her back. “Keep your cooties away from me.”

  “Susan, since you know how to say it,” Joan said and handed her the dollar, “you do the honors.”

  Susan let out a huge sigh and rolled her eyes. “Fine.” She slid out of the booth.

  “Susan,” Frank said.

  She turned to give him a wry look. “What?”

  “Why don’t you leave the hard hat here?”

  Susan took off her hat and sat it on the booth before shuffling off, kicking at the sawdust as she walked.

  “You don’t have to pay to hear that song you know,” Frank said to Joan. “I’ll play it for you anytime you want.”

  Joan smiled dryly. “You say it, but you don’t do it.” She lifted the menu to cover her face. “All you do is play those silly jingles of yours.”

  A flush heated Franks face. “I see.” He cleared the anger from his throat. “Those silly jingles Joan?”

  She lowered her menu.

  “They are paying for this meal, our new car, the clothes we’re wearing and the roof over our heads.”

  Matt looked up at the ceiling.

  “Of course dear,” Joan said and gave his arm a condescending pat. “And my little worthless part-time job pays for nothing.”

  The tinkling keys of the piano began to play Lisbon Antigua.

  “Did I say that?” Frank growled.

  The waiter appeared next to the table. “May I get you some beverages while you make your selection?”

  “Yeah, I’d like a double martini,” Frank announced.

  “Frank,” Joan said in a warning tone. “You’re driving.”

  “No dear, you are.” He looked back at the waiter. “Make that a triple martini.”

  “Dad, can I have a Roy Rogers?” Matt asked.

  Frank nodded. “A Roy Rogers for my son and two cokes.

  “I’ll just have a cup of coffee please,” Joan said.

  The waiter quickly wrote down their requests and walked away.

  “Since when do you drink coffee at night?” Frank glared at Joan.

  “I’ve just started. Besides, coffee is cheaper than coke.”

  Frank ground his teeth. “For God’s sake Joan, I can afford to buy you a coke!”

  “I don’t want one.” She raised her menu back up.

  “I want to buy you a coke,” Frank raised his voice, and several people looked over at them.

  Joan slapped her menu down on the table. “You can buy the whole world a coke and keep it company for all I care!” She pushed Frank to stand then slid out of the booth and stomped toward the ladies room.

  Frank gulped in deep breaths as he listened to the piano player end the song with a flourish.

  “Dad, how much does the roof over our heads cost?” Matt looked up again.

  The waiter returned with their drinks followed closely by a chef with his arm around Susan’s shoulders.

  “Sir,” the chef began. “Is this your daughter?”

  Frank took a swig of his martini before answering. “Yes sir, she is.”

  “Please inform her that this is the area for guests, and the kitchen is reserved for the cooks.”

  “Daddy, you should see how dirty the kitchen is, there’s food lying everywhere, and the aprons they’re wearing are disgusting,” she said as she pointed to the cook’s front. Her face twisted up. “And I think I saw a dead bug on the floor.”

  “Shhh!” The chef held a finger to his lips. “That’s my pet bug,” he whispered. “His name is Herman. Now I’ll have to go revive him. We bring good things to life you know. Please don’t scare him again.” He shook his head and walked away.

  “Susan, sit!” Frank commanded. He looked up at the waiter. “We’ll have two New York steaks, medium rare with baked potatoes, butter and sour cream and two dinner salads.” He looked over at Matt and Susan. “They will both have a hamburger with fries.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Susan watched the waiter walk toward the kitchen then sipped at her coke. She gave Frank a snotty look. “You think it’s butter but it’s not.”

  “Susan, that’s enough,” Frank said before taking another gulp of his martini.

  Joan returned and sat down in the booth without saying a word.

  “I ordered you a steak with a baked potato and salad,” Frank said with a friendly tone. “Is that alright?”

  “Why are you asking me? You know what you can afford and what you can’t,” Joan snapped.

  Frank knew better than to try to keep the conversation going when Joan was in one of her moods. Her monthly cycle maybe? Whether it was or whether it wasn’t, he was smart enough to keep quiet.

  “You want me to ask the piano player to play something else?” Matt asked as pushed his fingers into his glass and fished out two maraschino cherries.

  Frank gulped more of his drink and pushed a hand in his pocket. “Yeah, ask him to play Always. Can you say that?” He grinned.

  “Hah! Very funny, dad.” Matt dried his sticky hand on his white crisp napkin and plucked the dollar from Frank’s fingers. He disappeared beneath the table.

  “Matthew Beal! That’s no way to leave the table,” Joan chided. But he was already on his way toward the piano player.

  Frank drained the rest of his martini. He held the glass up to signal the waiter. The waiter nodded and returned to the table.

  “Another triple martini please.”

  “Right away, sir.” He picked up Frank’s glass from the table. Frank grabbed his arm as he turned.

  “Don’t take my olive,” he slurred slightly as he pinched the toothpick from the edge of the glass and popped the olive into his mouth.

  “Yes sir,” the waiter said.

  Joan leaned toward Frank after the waiter walked away. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

  Frank sat quietly for a moment, eyes closed, swaying as he listened to the arrangement of Always floating from the piano player’s direction. “They played this song at our wedding,” he reminisced and placed a hand over Joan’s before heaving a sigh. “I’m glad we were able to book that band before the lead singer was electrocuted by the faulty wiring on his amplifier.” He cracked an eye and flicked her a sidelong glance to catch a faint smile on her face.

  Joan was usually impressed when he remembered a heartwarming detail. He felt her staring at the side of his face.

  “They played it at our reception,” she corrected then pulled her hand back and sipped her coffee. “And it wasn’t the singer who was electrocuted, it was the guitarist.”

  Frank’s eyes snapped open as if an alarm clock had just gone off. He took a pen from his shirt pocket and began to scribble something on his cocktail napkin.

  “What are you writing?” Susan tried to cock her head so she could see.

  Frank grinned. “I have an idea for the ad I’m working on.”

  Chapter Three

  “Dad, are we getting a dog?”

  Frank cracked an eye to see Matt dressed and ready for school.

  “Hmm?” Frank licked an arid tongue over his chapped lips. “A dog? Where would you get an idea like that?” He mumbled and squeezed his eyes shut to keep out the evil morning sunlight lurking just on the other side of his hangover.

  “Last night you asked the waiter to give you a doggie bag so I thought we were getting a dog.”

  “No Matt, no dog,” Frank groaned and rolled his face into his pillow.

  “But why?” Matt asked with a longing that would require more than any parent’s because I said so response.

  Frank slowly unwound himself from his pillow and the bedding and shoved his legs over the side of the bed. With a hand on each knee, he hung his head. It w
as as if a sledgehammer had smashed on a pedestal at his feet, sending a marker ripping through every nerve ending in his spinal column. A sharp bell rang in his head and ricochet painfully off the walls of his skull. Bingo! He had won first prize. The gigantic, plush, stuffed toy.

  He reached forward and tugged Matt down to sit on the edge of the mattress. “Son, do you remember what happened to Hamlet?”

  A look of protest washed over Matt’s face. “Dad, that was months ago.”

  Frank winced at the volume of Matt’s voice. “Nevertheless, you didn’t take care of him, and he went legs up,” he said as softly as he could.

  The door of the bedroom opened. “There you are,” Joan said. “We have to go or you’ll be late for school.”

  “Mom,” Matt whined. “Tell dad a dog is different than a hamster.”

  A slow smile spread across Joan’s face. “If I have to tell your father that, he had way more to drink last night than I thought.”

  Frank squinted up at her. “Sorry about that.” He scrubbed his hands hard over his face. “I guess I got carried away celebrating our new car.”

  “No kidding, you almost got carried away by two of the waiters after you insisted on filling in for the piano player during his break time.”

  Frank vaguely remembered singing a rousing rendition of ‘when the saints come marching in’ among other party tunes.

  Matt grinned. “I thought you were neato, dad.”

  “Come on Matt,” Joan said and turned. She stopped suddenly and returned. She rummaged through the contents of her purse and pulled out a cocktail napkin. “I almost forgot.” She handed it to Frank. “Here are your ideas for the ad you’re working on.”

  Frank swallowed a gag and took it from her fingers. He blinked and tried to focus on the tattered napkin, he turned it over then back again. He stared at it with cotton-headed shock. It was filled with the illegible scrawling of a frustrated jingle writer.

  “By the way,” Joan said. “We’re having Melinda’s boyfriend for dinner tonight. I thought we may as well get to know him so we’ll know what we’re up against.” She bent down and softly kissed his cheek.

  Frank nodded dumbly and held his breath for fear that Joan’s heavily applied Madame Rochas perfume would send him racing to the bathroom.

  The house was finally empty; everyone had gone to their designated regions. It was his favorite time of day, the most productive time of day, morning. Frank stood in front of the bathroom mirror, it reported back accurately the way he felt. He opened the medicine chest and browsed the contents.

  “Ah yes,” he said as he reached for the Alka Seltzer. “My friend Speedy.” He gazed at the character on the box before opening it. It smiled back at him, wearing an effervescent tablet as a hat. He removed one of the foil packets. “Now why couldn’t I have thought of that?” He tore open the packet and let the large tablets plunk into his palm. “Plop, plop, fizz, fizz,” he said as he held one of the tablets over his head halo style. He gave his reflection a disappointed glare. He looked around for the rinsing glass. It was gone.

  “I swear,” he said as he headed down the stairs. “Why don’t things stay where they belong?” He walked into the kitchen and opened a cupboard. It was empty. The sink was full of dishes. “Three kids and a wife and not one of them do any dishes.” He turned around and leaned his backside against the edge of the counter then looked up at the ceiling in desperation. He shrugged, and as he popped both Alka Seltzer tablets into his mouth, the doorbell rang.

  The fizzing didn’t get a good rolling start until after he had his hand on the knob. He opened the door and wasn’t altogether surprised to see Tito Tortuga standing on his porch.

  “Meester Beal,” Tito began. “I tole jew jesterday to stop sending jore snails into Meester Robers jard.”

  Frank quickly tried to swallow the foam as it churned. At first he was successful but the volume soon ballooned and tripled, the tablets began producing much more than he could swallow. The effervescent white muck began to seep out of the corner of his mouth and run down his chin.

  Tito frowned. “Are jew rabid?”

  “Wha?” Frank asked with his head tipped back so he wouldn’t drip on the floor.

  “Are jew sick?” He repeated.

  Frank swallowed and coughed. He wiped at the steadily flowing froth curving from the corners of his mouth. He shook his head and began to close the door. Tito blocked it with the toe of his shoe.

  “I tole jew Meester Beal.” He shook his head sadly. “I tole jew a hundred tines, but jew don lisson.” He reached in and grabbed Frank’s wrist and pulled his arm out. “Now jew weel fine out what things may happen.” He put a snail into Frank’s hand, closed it then wrapped both of his hands tightly around it. He squeezed until Frank felt the snail’s shell shatter and the slick texture of its moist body.

  “Gawwk!” Frank yelled and ground his teeth breaking the tablets into numerous foaming pieces. He jerked his hand back and shook away the mess. “Go away!” Frank managed to yell and slammed the door before running into the downstairs bathroom and spitting what was left of the tablets into the sink. He stood red-faced and panting as he scrubbed the snail from his hand and rinsed out his mouth.

  “This means war!” He vowed into the mirror. He stomped back to the kitchen and picked up the phone. He dialed a number and listened.

  “Gene, I need your help,” he said staring at his palm as if the snail were still there. “Yes. Yes. Okay, we’ll leave the light on for you.” He hung up and stomped out onto the back patio.

  Frank mimicked Arthur Ashe’s style as best he could. He twirled his racquet and served several snails, ripe or not, into Robert’s back yard before he was able to calm down.

  A number of aspirin later, Frank settled down to work. Same old quandary, same old block. Maybe he had picked up a virus? Matt was always bringing something home from school. Macaroni cuff links, paper mache Christmas ornaments, relief maps of the United States made from flour, salt and water and on special days, bronchial pneumonia.

  He played two rounds of chopsticks then blew out a breath. His thoughts wandered back to Roberts and his strange Brazilian gardener. Imagine Roberts thinking his yard could be the cream of the crop? First one on the block to have a blue ribbon, first prize, showcase backyard. He snorted. Everyone knows it’s what’s up front that counts.

  Perhaps he should have checked with Joan before inviting Gene? He shook his head. If she got angry, and put up a fuss, he knew exactly what he would tell her.

  “I’m sorry,” Frank said. “I just wasn’t thinking.”

  “That’s an understatement, I’d say,” Joan glared. “Don’t you remember all the trouble we had the last time he came to visit?”

  “He’s my brother.” Frank shrugged. “I was angry.”

  “What exactly did this Brazilian gardener say to you to get you so angry?”

  Susan walked in, her steps slowed when she felt the energy of the mood in the kitchen.

  He said things … may … happen, Frank impersonated a Brazilian accent. “Then he crushed a snail in my hand.”

  “That’s assault,” Susan chimed in. “Assault with a deadly weapon, punishable by law.”

  “Susan, please,” Joan said. “A snail is hardly a deadly weapon.”

  Susan turned to Frank. “Was it a poisonous snail?”

  “Susan, this is a private conversation between your father and me.”

  Susan gave Joan a bored glance and opened the cupboard to get a glass.

  Joan moved away from the sink so Susan could get a full view of the pile of dirty dishes. “If you insist on staying in the room, I’m going to make you wash the dishes.”

  Susan looked at the dishes, then back at Joan. “Let me know when dinner is ready.” She quickly made an about face and walked out.

  Joan focused her stare back on Frank. “What is Gene doing now?”

  Frank shrugged. “He’s looking for work. He just hasn’t found the right job.”

&
nbsp; “In all of my imagination,” Joan opened her arms wide. “I can’t think of any profession that would be right for Gene. Why is he out of work this time?”

  “Deadwood,” Frank replied.

  “Is that where he lives now?” Joan’s voice raised an octave.

  “No, it’s what he became. They bought machines to do what Gene was doing.”

  Joan turned on the water in the sink and began yanking the dishes out of the sink one by one.

  “And just what was Gene doing when all the machines took over?” She dropped a glass. It shattered and shards went in all directions across the floor. She looked at Frank as if he had knocked it from her hand before bending down to pick up the pieces.

  Frank went to the utility room to get the whiskbroom and dustpan.

  “Move,” he said and began sweeping up the glass.

  Matt came bouncing into the kitchen, full of energy and smiles. “What’s for dinner?” he asked before stepping on a sliver of glass.

  “Aaagh,” he yelled hopping on one foot.

  “Matt, get out of here; there’s broken glass on the floor,” Joan ordered, holding up a hand.

  Matt hobbled to one of the kitchen chairs. “I got some in my foot!” he wailed.

  “I’ll go get the tweezers,” Joan said and rushed out of the kitchen.

  Frank walked over to Matt. “How did you get glass in your foot? You’re wearing your tennis shoes.”

  Matt grinned up at Frank. “You looked like you needed me to rescue you.”

  Frank gave him a fatherly look. “Matt, it’s not your job to rescue me, and besides, what makes you think I needed to be rescued from your mom?”

  “You had that help me look,” Matt said with a shrug. “I thought if I helped you then you would help me.”

  “What is a help me look?” Frank asked.

  Matt displayed a helpless expression.

  Frank frowned. “You want me to rescue you from mom?”

  Matt waved a hand. “I don’t need rescuing from mom. I know how to handle her.” He reached down to take off his shoe and sock.