Remembrance of Things I Forgot: A Novel

by Bob Smith

  A smirk appeared on his face. After six years his signature expression still gave me the creeps. His lips slithered around like snakes trying to find a warm place on a rock.

  “I am.”

  I put what felt like an equally bogus smile on my face to feign pleasure at hearing his identity. Junior grinned. “Cool,” he said before crossing the street to our car. There was a moment of silence before Bush spoke. “You’ve got a good boy there.”

  “Yes. But he still has a lot to learn.”

  “He will. Look how he jumped in to help. Not everyone would.”

  “That’s true. But he jumps before he thinks. He thinks with his gut without planning beforehand or asking for advice. He makes up his mind without considering how things could go wrong. Then when things do go wrong, he refuses to admit he was wrong.”

  “A smart man is never wrong; he’s just not right, right now.”

  “Yeah, but if you make a mess of things, tell somebody.”

  “You don’t want him crying wolf every time he’s barking up the wrong tree.”

  I searched his grayish-blue eyes for outward signs of intelligence but they were as lifeless as car lights; I could see they were on, but I had absolutely no sense that a brain lurked behind their gleaming.

  “He learned to drive without crashing my car,” I said. “He can learn to run my business without wrecking it.”

  “That’s it,” George said. “If you go for broke, sometimes you end up there. Some of us prefer to take our learning curves at a hundred and twenty rather than putt-putting along. I say if you can’t stand the heat, crank up the AC.”

  It was spooky. Nothing he said made sense, but his relaxed posture gave him the cocksure air of a sage. It was the perfect set of attributes for a Republican presidential candidate.

  “I take it,” he said, “that your wallet’s been fucked harder than a whore with a pension?”

  I nodded grimly. “My son John made a bad deal and lost a bundle. It almost sank us. He’s taking it harder than I am.”

  “Well, that’s good. The sooner you feel bad, the sooner you’re done with it.”

  I should have responded that that skill would come in handy when twenty-five hundred American soldiers come home in body bags from Iraq, but I didn’t. George had a disarming ability to talk away hostility. He was convinced of his inherent likeability, proving that in America, the delusion that’s caused the most harm is the heterosexual version of the Narcissus myth, where a guy sees his own reflection and doesn’t fall in love, but thinks he’s found his new best friend.

  Junior returned carrying the spare tire while Taylor lugged the jack. Taylor was introduced as his younger brother.

  “How come you weren’t at the study group?” George asked.

  “He doesn’t have to study,” Junior said. “He’s the smart one.” Then he glared at Taylor.

  “Well, I’m smart enough to know how to change a tire,” Taylor responded.

  “And we’re smart enough to let you do it,” George said as he looked at Junior, signaling that he’d gotten off a good one. Junior gave him a thumbs-up, which I thought was excessively buddy-buddy. Taylor began to jack up the back of the car while we watched.

  “How long you been in town?”

  “We haven’t moved yet,” I said quickly when Junior seemed unsure of what to say. “We’re looking to relocate and attended Bible study to get a sense of the place.”

  I explained that we lived in New York but thought Texas would be a better place to run our business. George talked up the virtues of Midland like a one-man chamber of commerce before asking what line of business we were in.

  “Comic books,” I said.

  “Like Superman and Batman? There’s money in that?”

  “There is if you know what you’re doing.” I glanced at Junior. “But if you don’t know what you’re doing, there isn’t.”

  Junior didn’t respond immediately but continued moping. I was impressed with the maturity of his acting ability: he really knew how to play disgruntled. Taylor removed the tire and a little air leaked out with a hiss; if I didn’t know better, I could’ve sworn the sound was coming from Junior.

  “Sounds like we’re both in mineral rights—I’m looking for oil and you’re looking for Kryptonite.” Bush’s grin quavered. “Only I hope your business ain’t as bad as mine.” He explained that he ran an oil and gas company and was going to have to lay off workers. “It’s bad. We’re spending a dollar to make a dime.”

  “We’re not doing so well either,” I said. “We’ve had a few setbacks, which is why we’re looking to move.”

  “You don’t need to keep reminding me that I’m not as lucky as you are,” Junior said. He looked at me with such ferocity that it unnerved me. It was almost like he really was angry.

  “It wasn’t all luck,” I said.

  Junior looked at George. “When Dad started out he had it easy. Twenty years ago, old ladies had attics and basements filled with comics that they just gave away. Now the easy money isn’t easy. I have to dig to find something.”

  “I didn’t have it easy,” I said. “I had to schmooze those old ladies into letting me into their attics. Jesus, I had to compliment more fat cats. ‘Oh, look at Mr. Whiskers, he’s such a nice kitty.’ And I’m allergic to cats.”

  Junior glowered at me.

  Taylor lowered the jack and stood up. “That should do it.”

  I looked at Bush and said, “Mission accomplished.” It was completely childish but I couldn’t resist.

  “That’ll get you going.” Taylor said. It was impressive how he’d finished the job in no time. I’d still be figuring out how to attach the jack to the car.

  Bush looked down at the replaced tire. “Damn. That was fast. He is the smart one. Sorry, John.” Bush winked at Junior.

  I couldn’t resist good-naturedly rubbing Taylor’s hair. “Heck of a job, Brownie.”

  Taylor looked at me oddly but didn’t say anything. No one else commented on my strange outburst, but I relished mocking Bush with his own Bartlett’s quotations.

  “I can’t thank you guys enough.”

  It looked like Bush was going to take off—his car keys were in his hand—and Junior and Taylor kept glancing nervously at me. We still needed to have him meet Elena, have him fall for her, get him drunk, and then videotape him having sex with her. Jesus, this was going to be a long night. I was also hungry.

  “We’re looking for a good restaurant for dinner. Can you recommend some place?”

  Bush’s smile reappeared without any hint of smirk. “Dona Anita’s. It’s my favorite place in town. Everything’s great, but I love the chimichangas.”

  Junior put on a look of mock supplication mixed with hero worship. “We’d be honored if you joined us.”

  “You’re one of the first locals we’ve met,” Taylor added.

  Bush appeared flattered by the young men’s invitation.

  “I’m buying,” I offered.

  The smirk reappeared. It was such a clumsy smile that it looked like George’s face was trying not to drop his lips. “Then I’m eating and drinking!” he shouted.

  Bush gave us directions to Dona Anita’s from the church, but before we said good-bye, Taylor held up his dirty and greasy hands. “Can we stop at the motel for a minute so I can clean up?”

  We also needed to go there to see if Michael had arrived. Then I remembered we had to quickly convince Elena that I was Junior from the future. Even I thought that might take some time.

  “You guys do that,” Bush said. “I’ll go ahead and get us a table. I’ve got to call my wife and tell her I won’t be home for supper. She won’t like it, but she’ll be fine if I tell her it’s business and bring her cigarettes. Some women love getting a dozen roses, but Laura lights up at a carton of Camels.”

  “It is business,” I said. “You’d be helping us.”

  “Although, I like to mix business with a little pleasure,” Junior said.

  “Da
mn right,” Bush said as he opened the door to his car.

  I actually wanted to keep this a business meeting. I was horrified that anyone might think we were his friends.

  13

  WE KNOCKED ON THE DOOR of room 218. Elena opened it, andWMichael, freshly showered, was getting dressed behind her. I was immediately struck by how little they had changed in twenty years. In 2006 Elena would still have the same buxom chest and narrow hips, short hair, and flawless skin, but she would develop a few lines around her eyes, evidence that the more of life you see, the more you need to squint. Michael’s hair would recede slightly, but he’d still be fit. Although I’d soon notice his younger self possessed an unguarded effervescence lacking in the forty-four-year-old Michael. Elena stuck out her hand and said, “Nice to meet you again, John.” Michael grinned with a sudden movement of his face that was as delightful as watching someone do a handstand. It made me think one of the chief infirmities of middle age is that your smile isn’t as limber as it used to be.

  Michael stared at Junior and then at me. “Wow,” he said. “You look like . . . brothers.”

  “You can say it,” I said. “Father and son.”

  Michael nodded. “That too.”

  Elena also examined both of our faces closely. “Well, I’m not going to fuck a stranger just on anyone’s recommendation.” She found two moles on Junior’s neck and arm and seemed reassured when she found corresponding ones on my neck and arm. She pulled out an inkpad and then responded to our inquisitive looks. “We stopped at a stationery store.” She ordered each of us to press our thumbs into the inky-blue cushion then press them next to each other on a blank sheet of paper. She compared the prints carefully before declaring, “They’re a match.” She sighed heavily. “I kind of hoped they wouldn’t be.” Her face crinkled abruptly, as if she smelled something awful. “I’m going to fuck a Republican. A Republican man. This will be the most disgusting thing I’ve ever done in bed.”

  We chuckled, but her forbidding expression stopped us. “I’m serious. Now tell me exactly why I’m doing this. I need to believe that my fucking him will save us all from a calamity.” I briefly recounted Bush’s political history, trying to give only the highlights of his incompetence and villainy, but Elena asked several pointed questions whenever I tried to condense his record of malfeasance. “Don’t skip over anything,” she said. “You’re not the one sleeping with him.” She appeared to be distraught and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I honestly don’t know if I can go through with this.”

  I decided to tell her about our daughter. If I were about to attempt to have sex with Bush or Cheney, I’d need an especially compelling reason to overcome my revulsion. But I would do them for Isabella’s sake. I sent Junior out of the room for a minute. He protested but split when I snapped, “We don’t have time.”

  Elena seemed joyful, incredulous, and oddly serene when I told her about Isabella. She repeated Isabella’s name in the most maternally tender manner, saying it as if she were caressing her. Suddenly she stared at me. “I have a baby by myself ?”

  “No, you’ll do it with someone you meet . . .”

  “Don’t tell me!” she shouted before I could finish. “It’s bad luck.”

  I smiled. Elena had dated some disastrous girlfriends before she met Sonia. Even I felt superstitiously cautious about talking about her future.

  “Who’s the father?”

  “I am.”

  She looked carefully at me. “That makes sense.”

  To further our case, I explained how Bush would do absolutely nothing to combat global warming, and the consequences of his inaction would be borne by Isabella and her children; how he would waste a trillion dollars on an unnecessary war in Iraq, short-changing Isabella’s generation; how he would torture people for the first time in U.S. history; and I harped briefly on his trying to drill in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, destroying something that should be preserved for Isabella, her children, and her grandchildren. “Oh, and he will also propose a constitutional amendment to limit marriage to a man and a woman, making Isabella’s family constitutional outcasts.”

  Elena asked me several questions about marriage equality, happily surprised to hear something that had been inconceivable in 1986 would be close to unstoppable in the next twenty years.

  I’d been having doubts about whether trying to prevent George W. Bush from becoming president was worth the effort, but telling Elena about Isabella reminded me once again how he had wantonly endangered my daughter’s future happiness, and renewed my determination to stop him.

  Elena checked her appearance in the mirror above the dresser, combed her lustrous hair, and pulled down the light pink blouse she was wearing. She looked terrific. I assumed any straight man would find her hard to resist. “Let’s go or I’ll change my mind.”

  Before we departed, Michael pointed out he would need an auditory signal from Elena to allow him time to head to the closet before she entered the room and then another signal to come out. “I’m not going to wait in the closet all night while you’re having dinner and drinks.” Elena promised that she would talk loudly and fumble with the key in the lock in order to give Michael time to hide in the closet. “And when I say, ‘Oh, George, that’s fantastic!’ That’s your signal to come out. And I’m praying that happens before I have to give him a blow job. My gag reflex isn’t strong enough to swallow Republican dick.”

  Junior was waiting outside and wrapped his arm around Elena’s shoulder and hugged her. “Ask not what your country can do for you, but who you can do for your country.”

  “Great. You’re making me feel like Rosa Parks—only I’m letting someone sit on my face.”

  Dona Anita’s was a short drive from our motel. Everyone was quiet while I gave Elena background information on George and sketched out a rough psychological profile: “He has a domineering mother and an overachieving-war-hero-oil-man-millionaire-before-he-turned-thirty father.” I added that his father was the captain of the Yale baseball team but his son had only been a cheerleader at Andover. I summed Bush up with President Clinton’s famous quote about him, “He doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t want to know anything. But he’s not dumb.” (I didn’t attribute the quote to President Clinton. There wasn’t time. I just claimed “a famous U.S. politician will say about Bush . . .”) As we pulled into the restaurant’s parking lot, I thought Elena had a tough job ahead of her, but she’d routinely handled hecklers and drunks in comedy clubs, and I was confident her improvisational abilities were capable of outwitting our least curious president.

  I felt a palpable mournfulness as we walked to the entrance. It was distressing that the only way we could save our country was by a sordid, underhanded seduction. And I hated that I was asking one of the mothers of my daughter to be intimate with him. I tried to put those thoughts out of my head by thinking that we would all be much better off if he never became president. It didn’t help. I just had to regard the situation as one of the paradoxes of modern medicine I’d learned from treating my cancer: the cure is often more nauseating than the illness.

  We told the hostess we were meeting a friend. She smiled in recognition and led us to the back of the restaurant. Dona Anita’s Mexican décor was surprisingly more Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera than piñata donkeys dangling from the ceiling. George was seated at our table with an empty rocks glass rattling in his hand when he spotted us. He had arranged for a table for four, but seeing that we were five, he asked a busboy to add a two-top to give us more room. George smirked strenuously when Elena was introduced and then graciously pulled out the chair next to him for her.

  “It’s always nice to visit Texas,” she said, “where there are still gentlemen.”

  “That’s because ladies still visit us.”

  “I’ve heard about you,” she said while shaking his hand. “You’re the Texan who can’t change a tire.”

  “Yeah,” George admitted, “but my mother says the smartest man in the world always kno
ws who to call.”

  “And I take it you’re the smartest man in the world.”

  “No. But I got his number.”

  Elena laughed. “Well, my mama said there’s those who fix and those who know what’s busted. And sometimes it takes more brains to know what’s busted.”

  “Your mama sounds like a wise woman.”

  “So does yours.”

  “She is.” He flagged down our waitress by holding up his empty glass as she passed our table. “In our family, behind every successful man is an angry woman telling him, ‘Don’t be an idiot.’” He said this with a smile, but it sounded like one of those unintentionally revealing sentences punctuated by a spot of blood.

  “Are we gonna order some drinks?” George asked us as the waitress stood with a pad and pen in her hands.

  “You don’t have a say in this,” I said. “You’re not buying so I’m the decider.” I couldn’t resist using his infamously idiotic word. “I’m the decider and we’re having a round.”

  George turned to Elena. “He can be the decider if he’s buying.”

  I wondered if George was on his second or third drink. I hardly expected a future president of the United States to make disparaging comments about his mother, but then I grasped that he wasn’t famous yet, and no one in the entire country—including his parents—would have dreamed that someday he’d become president. It truly was an Age of Innocence.

  George first asked Elena if she’d like something to drink, and she ordered a margarita on the rocks with no salt. He ordered a Jim Beam on the rocks. The drink orders continued around the table. I had to face that there was a chance I was about to drink alcohol for the first time in thirteen years. It made me uneasy. My sobriety had been exceedingly difficult to achieve. But there was no way to get George drunk if I practiced abstinence. I was going to try to covertly empty my drinks in a potted palm near our table when George wasn’t looking, but in case I had to drink I considered ordering a Cosmo, my favorite cocktail in the day. Then I realized I didn’t start drinking them until sometime in the ’90s. The bartender would have no idea how to mix one. I decided to play it safe and order white zinfandel, a nauseatingly sweet wine that I hoped would ensure I didn’t fall in love with drinking again.