Side Effects

by Harvey Jacobs

  “What’s with you all of a sudden?”

  “Frankly, I have a thing for Polly Moon. I don’t want her to see me looking like a wet schmuck.”

  “You hear that?” Benny said to Wallace Waldo who’d wandered in dripping a puddle on the carpet. “He has a thing for Polly Moon. You’re not being paid to have things, Sinbad, you’re being paid to shlep, so move out now.”

  “It’s pouring cats and dogs,” Waldo said. “Torrents.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Benny said. “Who made you Uncle Weatherby?”

  Simon thought about quitting on the spot but he remembered that Friday was payday.

  He did his best to balance the gigantic Westinghouse on its tiny platform, then shoved it into the hall, battling the box into the service elevator, up a ramp, out the building’s rear end and out onto West 58th Street. The storm was in full frenzy when he turned left, heading up Fifth Avenue, due north into the gale. Benny’s slicker—its flimsy zipper jammed halfway up its track, a floppy hood attached with packing cord to a jacket patched with masking tape—didn’t offer much protection. It ballooned with the wind and flooded with rain.

  Simon caught a reflection of himself in a window inhabited by mannequins in bridal gowns. As he moved along, the plastic brides watched him from inside their dry, hopeful world. He drifted across their steady gaze like the groom from Hell.

  At Central Park South, Simon passed the golden statue of Victory, then lumbered along the park’s eastern border, fighting to keep the outrageous cardboard box from toppling off the dolly with its rusty donut wheels. Panting for breath, Simon prayed that the gift from Wallace Waldo Enterprises, along with Benny’s love note, would be received by a total stranger, an impassable doorman or bodyguard. Anybody but Placebo herself, not that she would recognize him. Nobody looked at waiters, doormen or errand boys.

  A lightning bolt ripped a thick limb off a tree just past Central Park’s protective stone wall. One of those jagged electric fingers could easily be attracted to the box Simon pushed his weight against, since the cardboard shell was banded by metal strips. In case of a strike, chances were his fat would fry in less than an instant, which erasure Simon could consider a happy ending.

  From the park’s zoo, he heard a lion roar, answering a thunderclap. That was a conversation between equals. What could he say to his beloved Placebo, if, God forbid, she did remember him, in an encounter that should have been saved for Venice, Casablanca or, bottom line, the furious battlefield of some righteous war?

  Along with gravity and the weather, Simon was plagued by a growing irritation between his legs. That discomfort had been lingering for several days. He attributed it to nothing more than chaffing from the stiff fabric of a new pair of Levis. Whatever the cause, the symptom was minimal and had been manageable until the muscles in his groin strained against the behemoth Westinghouse Deluxe. By the time he reached 63rd Street, the itch in his crotch and had to be addressed. He stopped all forward progress to reach into his Jockey shorts and scratch. It was instantly obvious to his fingers that he had a problem beyond the ordinary. His balls were swollen to twice their normal size and his penis replaced by a salami.

  Scratching only made the itch worse, though a stream of rainwater that flowed from the slicker down into his underwear gave some solace. Simon’s impatience to be done with what was probably his last outing as Wallace Waldo Enterprise’s mule was further fueled by the need to stop every half-block, loosen his belt, and let the cool rain soothe what began as little flecks of pain from a sparkler, and then, at 64th Street, kindled to a Roman Candle.

  Up ahead, across the avenue, he saw the canopy that marked his destination. Getting the dolly off the curb and through an ankle deep puddle, then dodging a stampede of traffic that rushed around him when the traffic light changed, left Simon in a defensive crouch, blinded by headlights and deafened by a barrage of complaining horns. With his chin on his chest and arms extended, he thrust at the box, gaining momentum with whatever power was left in his legs. Somehow he made it across the avenue.

  The next curb, all but obscured by a gutter current carrying debris down from the Bronx, Harlem, possibly Canada and the Arctic Circle, presented a formidable obstacle; surmounting that barrier, one of the dolly’s wheels spun sideways, then inward, dumping the refrigerator onto the asphalt sidewalk. Simon had to wrestle the horizontal lump back onto the dolly. By force of will he managed it after three tries while the doorman guarding Polly Moon’s posh building watched his misery in mild amusement from behind a revolving door.

  Seeing that spinning portal and a narrow swinging door beside it, Simon saw there was no way to stuff the Westinghouse between the whirling wedges of brass and glass or to guide it through the alternative entrance. He parked his hippo box on the sidewalk and spun himself into the lobby. A saturated blob, Simon saw two rivulets form on the rubber mat under his feet where rainwater drained past his burning privates, ran down his legs and cascaded out over his shoes. The doorman stopped him with a gesture.

  “Delivery for Ms. Polly Moon,” Simon said. “If you’ll sign my receipt I’ll leave it with you. One of your porters can . . .”

  “The hell you will,” the doorman said. “No maintenance men are available. You’ll roll that thing down the ramp outside to the delivery entrance, then take the service car up to Penthouse C. Wait till I buzz you in, Neptune. Where should I tell them you’re from?”

  “Wallace Waldo Enterprises.”

  “Wait while I call upstairs.”

  “Tell me, is Polly Moon married? Does she have a guy or what?”

  “Are you some kind of retard? We don’t discuss our tenants with swamp rats.”

  “Is there a chance she might answer the doorbell herself?”

  “You’re talking about America’s favorite songbird. A diva. A superstar. She just won a Pan Award. You expect she’ll run out into the hall and dry you off with a Turkish towel? Or maybe invite you in for a bubble bath?”

  “We happen to be old friends,” Simon said. “We go way back.”

  “Right, Elvis. I didn’t recognize you without your blue suede shoes.”

  Leaning backward, scraping concrete, his heels acting as brakes, Simon followed Polly’s Westinghouse down the service ramp to the building’s basement where an oversized elevator with walls padded by heavy blanketing swallowed up Simon and the refrigerator with room to spare. Riding up to the Penthouse floor, Simon blotted himself against the padded walls while he fished in the pockets of Benny Valaris’s permeable slicker looking for Benny’s thank-you note. What he found was a waterlogged envelope the consistency of an anchovy, its ink blurred and unreadable. The paper inside was in no better condition.

  Simon winced. He would have to break the company’s rule of silence and express sentiments of corporate gratitude to whichever servant accepted the impressive gift and ask they be repeated to Placebo.

  He crumpled the soggy document and dropped it onto the elevator floor, then tried to wipe his inky hands on the mercifully absorbent padding. Some of the ink left a stain on the wall but most proved indelible. Simon’s fingers were dyed cerulean blue.

  As the car approached the Penthouse level, the itch in Simon’s inflamed crotch demanded a token scratch. He had one hand in his pants when the elevator’s doors split apart with a clang. A tall, thick woman hovered in the hallway ready to supervise the delivery.

  Half-hidden behind the packing case, enough of Simon was visible to make the lady jump back a step. While he yanked his scratching hand free, in that instant, his mind flashed back nearly a quarter of a century. He realized instantly that the woman was the current incarnation of Fritzel Vonderbraun. He saw her pushing Polly Moon’s pram down Glenda Road disapproving of the creature in the adjoining carriage pushed by his own beloved Victoria. Simon let out a gasp, Fritzel answered with a shriek.

  It was understandable that Fritzel was startled by the size of the crate rolling toward her and the sodden creature pushing the soggy mountain who’
d apparently occupied himself during the long trip from the basement by jerking off with a blue hand. It was also understandable that she had no idea that the pervert she faced was the same Simon Apple, the allergic infant, who’d caused such a fuss back in Glenda.

  “Tell me your name!” Fritzel yelled. “Do you speak English? I’m going to report you.”

  “Please calm down, lady,” Simon said. “I have no name. I’m only a messenger from Wallace Waldo Enterprises. This package is for Polly Moon. A token of appreciation from Mr. Benjamin Valaris. She’s expecting it. It’s a Westinghouse Deluxe. It makes its own ice cubes. Top of the line. Where do you want me to leave it?”

  “Don’t come any closer,” Fritzel said.

  Simon had his dolly part way out of the elevator when the door tried to slam shut. It hit the box then slammed again. “You’re blocking me,” Simon said. “That door weighs a ton. It could cut me in half like a melon. And damage the merchandise. I can’t stop it. It’s automatic. Please get out of the way, lady.” Simon gave a major shove and freed the refrigerator just as the elevator door whacked his shoulder, spinning him face down onto the luxurious penthouse carpet.

  Fritzel howled again while Simon pulled himself upright. “We have a major misunderstanding here,” Simon said. “Just tell me where you want this thing and tell Polly Moon Benny Valaris wants to express . . .”

  “You remind me of somebody,” Fritzel said. “I know you. I never forget a face.”

  “I don’t think so,” Simon said.

  “What’s happening, dudes?” Simon, astonished, saw Polly Moon standing at the door to her apartment, sipping a martini. She was glistening fresh from a shower, wearing a kimono with a towel wrapped around her head like a turban. “Who are you, seaweed man?”

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Moon,” Simon said. “I realize I probably look menacing but I walked all the way from Fifty-Seventh Street in practically a tsunami. If you’d simply tell me where you want this monster deposited . . .”

  “He says it makes ice,” Fritzel said.

  “Yes, I got a call from Benny Valaris saying you were on your way. Well, dude, could you undress it here in the hall so all the packing crap doesn’t mess up my kitchen?”

  “You want me to open the crate? I didn’t bring any tools.”

  “What do you need?” Polly said. “A hammer? A saw? A screwdriver?”

  “Don’t give him weapons,” Fritzel said. “Let him leave it. The handyman can come up and do all that.”

  “Suppose I want to send it back?” Polly said.

  “Send it back?” Simon said.

  “I don’t want them telling me it’s my fault if there’s something wrong with my toy. I’ll get you tools. Stay put. Take off that cool coat and hat before the air-conditioning turns you into a Popsicle.”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine,” Simon said. “Very comfortable.”

  “He’s a crazy,” Fritzel said. “I’m going to report him.”

  Polly Moon disappeared into her apartment and came out with an iron pot, a steel nail file and a butter knife. “The best I can do,” Polly said.

  “No toothpicks?” Simon said.

  “Now he’s sassy,” Fritzel said.

  It took Simon almost an hour to break through thick, wet cardboard fortified by a skeletal wooden fortress. He pried at a line of industrial strength staples with Polly Moon’s knife. “This is like taking stitches out of a statue,” Simon said.

  “Listen to him complain,” Fritzel said. “And they expect pensions and health plans.”

  When Simon ripped the carton apart it puked a shower of Styrofoam worms. There was the Westinghouse, liberated. Simon had to admit it was a glorious appliance, a shrine, even spiritual. He carefully unwrapped a collection of plastic bins, steel trays and glass shelves, snapping things into place with the help of an illustrated manual.

  “I’ll show you where it goes,” Polly said. “I’ve got a perfect space. You can take out my old fridge and do what you want with it. And you can scoop that mess of popcorn curls back into what’s left of the carton and take the garbage downstairs.”

  “Setting it up requires a plumber, maybe an engineer,” Simon said. “The ice maker hooks up to water pipes. It’s not just a matter of plugging it in.”

  “They told me you’d handle everything,” Polly said. “There must be instructions.”

  “I’m no good at instructions,” Simon said. “I think your handyman . . .”

  “I called downstairs and they said the handyman is off duty. It’s some kind of religious holiday for him. He belongs to a church where they pray to snakes. Won’t you try to help me in my hour of need? Pretty please with sugar on it?” Polly made a sad puppy face. Simon remembered her addiction to instant gratification. Watching her pout unleashed an ancient yearning. He could never deny Placebo.

  “I can’t promise you ice,” Simon said, peeling himself out of the membranous slicker and hat. “But I will try to get things going if I can find crucial nozzles, faucets and valves.”

  “Don’t let him in the house,” Fritzel said. “I know his face, probably from the News or the Post. He won’t tell me his name. At least make him wash those hands. I saw him doing disgusting things in the elevator.”

  “My name is Sinbad Green,” Simon said to Polly. “And I happen to be your biggest fan. I saw you win the Pan last night. You looked gorgeous.”

  “I did?” Polly said. “Did I sound stupid?”

  “You sounded fantastic. Like Winston Churchill. I’ve followed your career since The Rumplestiltskins.”

  “Wow, what a memory,” Polly said. “I didn’t think anybody remembered The Rumplestiltskins.”

  “Whatever happened to that guy who thought he could sing? I read he became your manager.”

  “We parted company,” Polly said. “I think he went to law school.”

  “Are you here to work or do an interview?” Fritzel said.

  “You know, Fritzie, he does look familiar,” Polly said.

  Simon turned away in terror. He began laboring in a frenzy, managing to dislodge Polly Moon’s obsolete refrigerator while Fritzel emptied its shelves and freezer of the usual staples like ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, milk and cheese, enough vegetables and fruits for a troll’s garden, dozens of yogurt cups, tins of Beluga, bottles of wine and champagne, assorted packages wrapped in aluminum and plastic, the remnants of a cake decorated with a replica of the Pan and a variety of sundries as exotic as candied chestnuts and banal as flashlight batteries.

  Fritzel warned him to hurry before those contents spoiled. Simon inserted innards of the ice maker into their proper place, laid out rubber tubes and curved pipes, frantically leafed through the maze of incomprehensible instructions, connected, disconnected, called on instincts hidden in previously unused and unsuspected genes, plugged in the Westinghouse and heard it purr with life.

  A light lit when the door opened, the ice maker woke grinding hidden teeth; there was a counterpoint of splashing and groaning. When Polly came to check on his progress, Simon pressed a glass against a niche built into the freezer door and some invisible angel rewarded him with the zygote of what looked like it might evolve into a frozen cube.

  “It needs a few hours to get used to itself,” Simon said. “Machines are like that. They have a sense of self. Parts are like newlyweds. They’ve got to mesh.”

  “Watch your mouth,” Fritzel said.

  “This young man is a gem,” Polly said, holding out her hand. “A marvel.”

  “Don’t shake his left paw,” Fritzel said. “The blue one.”

  “He came in dripping rain and now he’s a pool of sweat. We can’t send him away with pneumonia. We’ve got to warm him up,” Polly said, pouring herself another martini.

  “Not necessary,” Simon said. “Just doing my job.”

  “Nonsense. Fritzel, I want you to go down to Bonté and pick up a dozen assorted tarts. And a pound of that coffee we like from The Hazz Bean.”

  “We have lefto
ver cake and there’s coffee,” Fritzel said. “It’s still raining.”

  “Just a drizzle now,” Polly said. “Go.”

  “I know what you’re thinking. Give him an autographed picture and a five-dollar bill. It’s enough already with sweaty boys. You swore off, remember?”

  “No gratuities, no pictures,” Simon said. “Wallace Waldo Enterprises treasures our relationship, Ms. Moon. Benny Valaris gave me a note for you but it turned to mush. He wants you to know . . .”

  “Go, Fritzel. Don’t hurry back.”

  “A sprinkler went off in my head. I know who this person reminds me of and I think you do too. Bad memories. Get rid of him.”

  “Take in a movie, Fritzie,” Polly said. “You deserve some time off.”

  “I try to take care of you. Why do I waste my time?”

  “I should be getting along,” Simon said. “Remember, you’re under a two-year warrantee for parts and labor. It’s been an honor to . . .”

  “Don’t move a muscle,” Polly said. She unwrapped her towel turban and threw it at Simon. “Wipe your face. Sit. What do you like to drink?”

  “I’m not thirsty.” Simon saw that Placebo’s hair was back to tawny orange, the way he remembered it from her pre-punk days.

  “A smoke then. I have some fantastic stuff. Direct from the Holy Land. Colombia’s finest jaguar food.” Polly opened a jar labeled Organic Green Tea and pulled out a pair of beautifully rolled joints the size of fountain pens. “There’s a book of matches on the table. Or should I rub my legs together?”

  “I’m not sure I’m allowed to be doing this,” Simon said. “I’m on this medication, Solacitrex.”

  “Not for anything catching?”

  “No. Nothing like that. It’s a kind of antidote for Xanelul.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. Well, I don’t think a few drags of Jesus dandruff can hurt. It might cure you. You look like you need to relax. I know I do.”

  Simon watched Polly wrap her lips around the perfect joint, inhale with a vengeance, hold the smoke until the color of her face matched her hair, then let it drift lazily from her mouth and nostrils. She passed the joint to Simon who forgot his qualms. This was no ordinary grass. It tasted like the color of parrots. The smoke hit with a soft thud. He could feel his pupils turn to stuffed olives.