“. . . smoking in bed is about the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard of,” Margot is saying. “You people need your heads examined. Put on some music, Otis. I’ve got a headache the size of an amusement park. Max, you’re wrinkling my shirts there.”
When I get over to Riley’s, everyone’s wearing t-shirts. There’s lemonade in tall glasses, a blue and white umbrella, a cabana with a matching bar. The filter bubbles away. The skimmer drips. Riley’s wife walks around the perimeter, an attractive, leggy, mother of three. Her t-shirt features a pornographic Disney character. As soon as I’m through the gate, she hands me a glass of lemonade. Her nail polish is the color of tangerine. “I’m Pam,” she says. “These are the kids, Cassidy, my eldest, Shawn, Lisa. Say hello, kids.” The two girls and a boy wave. “I was just about to jump in the pool,” she says, then dives in the deep end. When she comes up, she swims on her back, showing two dark circles under her t-shirt. “Get in, Sam,” she says. “The water’s beautiful.”
I take off my shirt and make a shallow dive. Pam’s now sitting in the shallow end. “We should have come and introduced ourselves earlier,” she says when I surface. “Riley’s a big fence talker. I saw your wife and daughter yesterday. I said to Riley, ‘Let’s ask them over,’ but they were talking.”
“My daughter wants to start a family.”
“Our Cassidy just turned nineteen. I guess it’s only a matter of time. How old’s your daughter?”
“Judy turns thirty-four next month.”
“Time does fly by.”
“Like an albatross,” I say.
She swishes the water around with her toe. Cassidy stands up and dives in the deep end. Her tanned body ripples beneath the surface. She goes from one end to the other without coming up for air. When she finally surfaces, she pushes back her hair and hangs onto the diving board. “What’s your wife’s name, Sam?” Pam asks.
“Mary.”
“Tell her we’d love to have you all over some time.”
“We’re learning Latin dancing.”
“How exciting.”
“My son-in-law knows how to salsa.”
“I love to dance. What’s your son-in-law’s name?”
“Muller.”
“Do you think he’d teach us to salsa?”
“He’s pretty busy right now.”
Cassidy eases herself out of the water, shaking her hair. The others are playing a board game. Cassidy picks up a comb and runs it through her hair, tilting her head back and forth. Lisa goes to Shawn, “That’s not a word. You’re making it up.”
“Challenge me then, idiot.”
“Be nice,” Riley warns from his chair in the shade.
“There’s no such word as burate.”
“Challenge me.”
“Up yours.”
Riley gets up and runs the skimmer down the pool. He raises his arms, exposing his package. Mary’s right, it shouldn’t be flapping around. “You’re welcome to stay for lunch, Sam,” Riley says.
“Yes, stay for lunch,” Pam says. “I’m making tomato sandwiches.”
“I should get going. The lovebirds are calling me.”
“Say hello to Judy and Muller.”
“No, they have real love birds. Meek and Beek.”
“How sweet.”
“Not really.”
I climb out of the pool and get my towel. Cassidy is lying on a lounge chair, one hand above her head, tanned legs shining in the sun. Her toenails are pink. Lisa gets up and dives in the deep end. She comes up on her back with small areolas showing through her top. She glides across the pool. I walk around to the gate, waving as I go.
“Tell Muller we’d love to learn to dance,” Pam says.
I walk away with three words in my head.
Nudists shouldn’t dance.
Chapter 39
Margot’s changed. I don’t know what’s changed, exactly. She’s still the cranky, sullen woman I’ve known for years, but now she wears blue contacts. They’re a light blue, almost grey, and I detect flecks in the retina. Sitting there at the computer screen, she’s a pistol, a blue-eyed terror, exploding myths and goofy lifestyles. Last night, some girl asked if it was okay to blow someone as a favor. “A favor?” Margot said. “Young lady, do you know what a favor is? It’s doing a kindness. Blowing every Tom, Dick and Harry ain’t a kindness. It’s using your mouth like a big box outlet.” Another girl sent a video clip showing her technique. “What’s the matter with you?” Margot says. “It’s not only offensive, it’s tacky. Have you got no sense of pride?” Margot chastises, but it doesn’t make any difference. They like freaking her out. Our generation was taught to think before you speak. These kids act on reflex. One girl sent in a blog, saying, “My farts smell these days,” then followed up by saying, “I like giving myself Dutch ovens.” Margot lambasted her, pointing out that it wasn’t very dignified. Then the girl asked if you could catch anything from sharing a milkshake straw. “Oh, shut up,” Margot said. Then she started giving some livestock farmer in Mattoon shit for going on about his cows. “A cow’s a cow, for God’s sake,” she said. “It’s just going to end up on someone’s plate.” He wrote back, saying she wouldn’t know a Guernsey from a Black Angus. “If it sizzles, Gomer,” she said, “I don’t care if it used to wear a saddle.” Blogs, texts, emails—they keep coming like a tide of dead fish. Otis and Margot practically live on air. They take breaks now and then, running off for washroom breaks, eating, then someone blogs or texts and they drop what they’re doing.
Someone’s even posted a video on YouTube of Margot dumping Otis out of his chair, running it back and forth in slow motion. “That’s so funny,” Judy says, eating toast, getting crumbs everywhere. Otis bounces up and drops like a stone, and Judy giggles like a million other viewers.
I still don’t understand how YouTube makes money. People watch, they post messages—that’s all they do. What’s in it for YouTube? I know they have advertisers, but nobody cares about the ads. Not when you can see someone like Otis make a fool of himself. Margot says it’s all about sponsoring. Otis and Margot have already being approached. They could make a lot of money, but it’s a crowded marketplace. Nobody sticks around long enough to be loyal, and you can only attract so many new viewers. Even when people are watching Otis fall out of his chair, they’re doing other things. It’s hard to keep anyone’s attention. And it seems they’re taking as many videos as they’re looking at these days. Those end up on YouTube as well. How do you make money when you’ve got as many providers as consumers? Maybe I’m too old to figure it out. How Margot makes sense of it, I’ll never know. I guess, in the end, it’s no different than traditional advertising, but, like I said, I still don’t see how it can keep going. One day, someone’s going to realize the craziness, and they’ll go back to The Daily Show, where at least you know who’s running the country. Until then, I guess it’s Dutch ovens.
Chapter 40
Most days, we do our work, pack up, then go back to Otis’s house for brownies. Max found a new supplier with a grow-op in his basement. The stuff turned everyone into wacked out fools. Margot ate her brownie down at the computer, taking over Otis’s time slot. He was too blitzed to move. Margot wasn’t much better. She started out telling one blogger she didn’t do crying. “That’s Otis,” Margot said. “What’s your problem, anyway?”
The woman had a failed boob job. Her tits looked like squashed marshmallows. Nobody wanted her squashed marshmallows. “There’s more to life than your tits, Lola,” Margot told her. Another message followed: “But I’m an exotic dancer.”
“Well,” Margot said. “Maybe it’s God telling you to get off the pole. Did you ever think of that? Surely, a well-spoken girl like you has other options. What about telephone sales?” Another message: “I do telephone sales—check my prices.”
“That’s not what I meant, Lola, and you know it.”
Meanwhile, Ruby’s learning to tango in the living room. She and Muller practice a few cazas under the
critical eye of Otis. He sits off in the corner with Bisquick on his head, grunting like a warthog. Bisquick loves Latin music. He bobs up and down, getting all fluffed up. “Tango,” he says. “Tango.” I finally have to drag Muller away, telling him he’s got two women waiting to dance at home. We leave Otis swatting at Bisquick, and Ruby trying a few moves on her own. Max is passed out on the couch.
As we leave, Otis is saying, “That’s the devil’s music, Ruby.” She tells him to go fly a kite. “I’m tangoing whether you like it or not, Otis,” she tells him.
“I won’t have my house turned into a dago hall.”
“Shut your piehole.”
“I’m warning you, Ruby.”
“Dammit, old man,” Max says. “You woke me up.”
“Your mother’s dancing the devil’s music.”
“You still woke me up.”
“Stop doin’ that dago shit, Ruby.”
Margot’s cattle caller go off downstairs, probably making Lola’s marshmallow tits shake like crazy.
Chapter 41
The mail comes with another letter from Frank. He’s still down in the Los Angeles office, filling in until they find a new CEO. He says it could take another month at least. After that, Iris wants him to slow down, take things easy for a change. I can tell by his writing that it scares the hell out of him. He’ll still have to spend six months in the Chicago office after Los Angeles. It’s a standard arrangement to prevent existing clients from bolting. All he has to do is attend a few meetings. “Just your usual wank,” he says. Then he throws something in at the end that really has me worried.
Once things settle down, we’ll grab a drink and a steak dinner. Iris has me booked up the first month I’m back. After that, my time is my own (she won’t want me under her heels). Hope Mary is holding up okay. Iris would love to hear from her. We’ll get together after Iris’s treatments. I’m sure the doctors make it sound worse than it is. I’ll keep you posted.
Frank
I get Iris on the phone. She sounds the same as always. I tell her about Frank’s letter and find out she has a form of lymphoma. “They caught it early,” she says. “They expect I’ll be completely cured. Fingers crossed. How are you doing? Still dizzy?”
“I’m making out. I think Mary wants to talk to you.”
“Lovely. Put her on.”
Mary gets on the phone, they talk away, then make plans for lunch. Judy wants to go with them. She still calls Iris, Aunt Iris, because Iris gave her a doll one Christmas. It was thirty years ago, but Judy has a long memory where dolls are concerned, and she’s all hopped up about seeing Iris again. “We’re going to a fancy restaurant,” she says. “Uncle Frankie is paying for it.”
“When did you start calling him Uncle Frankie?”
“Iris calls him Frankie.”
“If Iris jumped off a roof, would you do it?”
“What’s wrong with calling him Uncle Frankie?”
“Nothing, sweetie. He’s been called worse.”
Mary comes out of the bedroom in a new dress. “Whoa!” Judy says. “You look gorgeous, Mom! I didn’t pack anything really good. Do you have a dress I can wear?”
Off they go down the hall again, closet doors banging, hangers scrapping together. They come out looking like sisters. Judy’s really matured these last few years. You don’t notice it when she’s in shorts and a tank top, but now she looks great. I’ve never seen Judy in heels. Her wedding was a bit of a hippy affair, everyone with garlands in their hair and bare feet. This is a completely different Judy. She’s actually got nice legs. “What do you think?” she asks, and then takes a last look in the hall mirror. “We’d better get going, Mom,” she says. “Bye, Big Bear.” She gives him a hug. It doesn’t look like he wants to let her go. “Don’t get me wrinkled,” she says. “What are you doing today?” Muller shrugs and looks like he wants to go with them. “We won’t be too long,” she says, giving him a, sloppy kiss.
Muller waves from the living room window as they leave.
“Get dressed,” I say to him. “We’re going to work.” He just stands there. “What’s wrong now?” I say to him.
“Nothing, Sam.”
“Are you coming or not?”
“I was thinking of making étouffée for dinner.”
This is second time in a week he’s begged off work. It nearly caused a riot over at Otis’s place. Without their brownies, everyone wandered around like derelicts, getting all fidgety. “The man’s got no consideration,” Otis kept saying. “No consideration at all. What are we supposed to do now? Ruby, make some brownies.”
“You make them. I’m trying to get this stain out of your shirt.”
To be honest, we need a few days off those brownies. Everyone’s putting on weight. Even the switch to skim milk hasn’t helped. “This is worse than yogurt,” Otis kept saying. I don’t know what’s going on with Muller. Normally he jumps at the chance to see Ruby. Now he stands there, saying he wants to make étouffée. “What’s gotten into you, Muller?” I say. He shrugs, gives the stove a longing look, then goes and gets changed. On the way over to Otis’s, he tunes in a Latin station. The announcer is talking in Spanish and Muller nods. “You speak Spanish?” I ask.
“Not really,” he says.
“Then why are you nodding?”
“I like the sound of his voice.”
“So he could be speaking Farsi.”
“I guess.”
A bent cigarette goes in his mouth and he pats his pants, looking for his lighter. “You could ask for a light,” I say to him, but he shrugs, telling me he’s changed his mind. He turns up the music. When I look over, his eyes are closed. “You sure you’re all right?” I say, and he opens his eyes. He stares at the car stereo. He doesn’t say anything.
Over at Otis’s, Muller makes up the brownies, then we drive to a house up on Cedar Avenue. All the outside needs to be scraped and sanded and then painted. We get out the heat guns, scrapers and paint stripper. It’s hot work up on ladders. By noon, Muller’s covered in paint chips. Both his hands are burnt from the heat gun.
Ruby finally takes pity on all of us and calls it a day. We go back to the house and have brownies and milk. Margot is giving someone shit downstairs. We watch her on Ruby’s computer, munching away on a brownie while she talks. “I’ll tell you why you can’t share your antibiotics, young lady,” Margot is saying. “You’re the one with gonorrhea, not your girlfriend. What do you mean she’s got gonorrhea, too? How do you know that? Who’s she been with? Who’s Brain? Your boyfriend’s name is Brain? What was she doing—oh, God, never mind.”
She comes upstairs. “Honestly,” she says. “Is the whole world into three ways? Why in God’s name would you share your boyfriend with your best friend?”
“I did in college,” Ruby says.
“When did you go to college?” Max says.
“I went to barber college.”
“I didn’t know that. Why did you give it up?”
She jerks a thumb at Otis. “Lamebrain there didn’t think it was ladylike.”
“You were too familiar with the customers, Ruby,” Otis says. He goes to the fridge for more milk. Bisquick jumps on his head, Otis swats at him and milk spills on the floor.
“I could sure use a haircut, Ruby,” Muller says.
“I’m pretty rusty.”
“Goddamn it, Muller,” Otis says. “I sure appreciate your brownies, but, boy, you’re getting my hackles up.”
“Ignore him,” Ruby says.
“Get your own wife to cut your stupid hair.”
“You’re just jealous,” Ruby says. “And who are you to talk?”
“I paid for my indiscretions, Ruby. I don’t have a decent Otis Redding in my collection because of you.”
“If Muller wants a haircut, that’s the least I can do. Look at all the brownies he’s made. Go sit on a stool in the kitchen, honey,” she pats Muller on the back. “I’ll get my good scissors.” She finds her scissors and a comb in a dra
wer, then wraps an old sheet around Muller’s neck. Otis circles behind. “Stop hovering, Otis.”
“I’m watching.”
“You’re making me nervous.”
“Why’re his eyes rolling back?”
“How the hell would I know?”
“Stop massaging his head.”
“It’s good for the follicles.”
“Quit rolling your eyes back, Muller.” Max is wheezing he’s laughing so hard. “It’s not funny,” Otis says.
“Yes it is,” Max says.
“Go put on some music.”
“You go put on some music, old man.”
“Everyone’s a friggin’ anarchist around here,” Otis mumbles, going downstairs with Bisquick following. “Stop sneakin’ up on me, you damn bird.”
“Sauna,” Bisquick says.
“What the hell are you doing, Otis?” Margot yells.
“He wants a sauna.”
“You better not be putting him in the toilet.”
Chapter 42
My dreams come in Technicolor these days, like those old Alfred Hitchcock movies: everything bright, crisp and clean. Ever noticed how good they all look, even when birds are pecking the hell out of them. The guy that really drives me crazy is Cary Grant. Look at him in North by Northwest. Two days without a bath, crop dust all over his clothes, and he’s still fresh as a corsage.
I spent most of the night tossing and turning, getting an elbow from Mary. I don’t dream until the sun starts coming up, and then it consists of flashbacks, usually going back to my agency days. I guess it stands to reason. I spent more time there than anywhere else. This morning, I remembered an incident back in the seventies. We’re sitting in Frank’s office, working on the new campaign. The client is a local department store, one of those old five and dime chains. They’ve been replaced by the dollar stores today, but it’s basically the same concept. We’d been working on this campaign for weeks but Frank wasn’t happy. So this account guy comes up with We make people happy. “What do you think, Frank?” the account guy says. Frank looks around the room at the rest of us. “What do the rest of you think?” he asks. “Is it campaign or not?”
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