You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can't Make It Scuba Dive)

by Robert Bruce Cormack

  “It’s interesting, Frank,” Reynolds, the creative director, says. “Do you want us to do something up?”

  “I want to know what you fuckers think,” Frank says. “What about you, Sam? You’re the copywriter.”

  “Honestly, I don’t know if we make people happy,” I say.

  “Why not?”

  “The stuff’s cheap.”

  “Watch your mouth. That’s our client.”

  “All I’m saying is, people go there because it’s cheap. They get a bunch of stuff without spending a lot of money.”

  There was this song on the radio that morning, a stupid disco hit where the singer kept going, “More, more, more.” I couldn’t get it out of my head. So I say to Frank, “What if we used a song. Something that’s out there now. I heard one this morning that just keeps going, ‘More, more, more.’” Frank sits up and twists the cap off his tortoiseshell pen. “Yeah, so what’s the angle?”

  “Low prices mean you can have more. That’s what the store’s all about, isn’t it? You want more, we’ve got more.”

  “Not bad,” Frank says. “What do the rest of you think?”

  “Everyone could dance around the store,” Reynolds says. “Maybe bring in one of those disco balls.”

  “We’re not selling disco balls, for fuck’s sake,” Frank says.

  “What if we had contests?” I say.

  “What kind of contests?”

  “The kind they used to run at the supermarkets. They gave you five minutes to fill your grocery cart. Whoever filled their cart up first won the groceries. What if we bring that back?”

  “Where does the song come in?”

  “It’s playing the whole time.”

  “While the people jump around like monkeys,” he says, “which we turn into commercials. What would something like that cost?”

  “Dirt cheap.”

  Frank looks around at the other people, then the account guy. “See why he’s creative and you’re not?” he says. “We need the rights to that song. Any of you know what it’s called?” Everyone’s looking at their shoes, straightening their bra straps. “Well, get production working on the rights. Sam, put some scripts together. Just the general idea. The client’s in on Friday.”

  Friday comes along and we bring all the storyboards into the conference room. Frank’s telling the client a joke. “So the guy says to the priest . . . Wait, here’s the creative. Arthur, this is Sam. Sam, this is Arthur. Set up the boards, Sam. I’ll give Arthur a brief introduction. Arthur, we got a song here we want you to hear. Sam, play the song first, then we’ll go through the concepts.” I play the song and Arthur nods his head. “Catchy tune,” he says.

  “Damn right it’s catchy,” Frank says. “Take a look at the storyboards. Remember those supermarket contests? First one to fill their cart wins the groceries? We do the same thing, only we turn them into commercials. Dirt cheap, Arthur. Not actors, no talent fees. Someone falls on their ass, leave it. Someone does a header into a display, leave it. Everyone’s having a great time. It’s a fucking party.”

  “What if someone falls and gets hurt?”

  “Ever seen your place on Boxing Day, Arthur?”

  “That’s true.”

  “Fucking right, it’s true. You ready to sign off, or what?”

  “I’m thinking, Frank.”

  “What’s to think about? Money goes in your coffers. End of story. What more do you want?”

  “You trying to hard sell me, Frank?”

  “Sam, take off. Arthur and I want to talk.”

  Frank comes out later with everything signed. The campaign goes out, people love it, the media budget doubles. “You did good, Sam,” he says. “Now let’s go find that fat fuck Reynolds. Cocksucker thinks he can coast. You want his office? You wanna be creative director?” He’s already standing at Reynolds’ door. “Has anyone seen Reynolds? The little prick’s probably gone to lunch.”

  “Where are you going to put him?”

  “I’m not gonna put him anywhere. I should have kicked his ass to the curb years ago. Do you want his office or not?”

  “Do I get more money?”

  “You think I’m soft?”

  “I could use a raise. I’m getting married.”

  “Good for you. I like married people. You starting a family?”

  “We want to settle in first. What about the raise?”

  “Fucking hell. You’re worse than Reynolds. Okay, you get your raise. Find Reynolds for me. He’s around somewhere.”

  “What do you want me to tell him?”

  “I don’t care what you tell him. Tell him he’s fired. You’re the creative director. Use some initiative.”

  Chapter 43

  “Why’s your hair lopsided?” Judy asks Muller this morning. She’s running her fingers through his hair while he cooks. Mary’s out in the sunroom watching Margot’s show. How people can talk about their problems at this hour is beyond me. I take my coffee out there and sit across from Mary. Meek and Beek are going at each other. The cage rattles, feathers fly, birdseed falls on the rug. Mary takes off her glasses and stares at me. “What’s with Muller’s haircut?” Mary asks.

  “Ruby tried to clean him up a bit,” I say, flipping the paper open. “She had to stop halfway through. Otis got jealous.” I pretend I’m reading.

  “I thought he slept with Max’s girlfriend?”

  “He did.”

  “And he’s jealous of Ruby cutting Muller’s hair?”

  “Otis is Otis.”

  “How can Margot live with these people?”

  “Beats me. They gave her the downstairs bedroom. It’s better than commuting and Margot doesn’t like buses.” I flip through the paper, hearing Margot doing her show. “Anything good this morning?”

  “A woman thinks her husband loves the dog more than her.”

  “What did Margot say?”

  “If the dog’s not wearing women’s panties, it’s okay.”

  “Sounds like Margot. I’d better get to work.” I grab some fruit out of the fridge. “Get your clothes on, Muller,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  “Can he have the day off, Daddy?” Judy asks. “He’s got sun stroke.”

  “I’m okay, Jude,” he says. “Sam needs me.” He puts on his martyr’s face.

  “Give me a hug before you go,” she says. They start necking. It’s so damn sloppy.

  “Don’t be late tonight, Sam,” Mary calls from the sunroom. “We’ve got our dance lessons tonight.”

  “What if I fall off the ladder?” I grab some scissors from the washroom on the way out.

  “Don’t you dare.”

  “Bye, Jude,” Muller says.

  “Bye, Big Bear.” They start necking again.

  We finally get in the car and I try to even out Muller’s hair. He looks in the mirror on his side. “Hold your head still,” I say to him.

  “You’re not much of a barber, Sam.”

  “Slick it back. And stop pissing Otis off.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Margot thought you were going to leave a wet spot.”

  “Ruby can do better than Otis.”

  “I’m holding scissors, Muller.”

  “I’m just saying she could.”

  “Keep your fucking opinions to yourself.”

  “We’re learning the sacada tonight.”

  “I need that like a head cold.”

  “You’re getting better, Sam. You have to let yourself go.”

  “Last time I let myself go, I ended up with a paper bag over my face. Did you see Krupsky doing the twist?”

  “I don’t think he was doing the twist.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “You’re imagining things, Sam.”

  “He was doing the twist.”

  “If you say so.”

  It sure as hell wasn’t a sacada.

  Chapter 44

  Paint falls off the overhangs like corn chips. I’m scraping while Muller does th
e window frames. From my perch, I see manicured lawns and hydrangeas swinging in the breeze. It’s one of those days when I don’t feel rattled. Maybe it’s the sun, or knowing this house will soon match its surroundings. Maybe I’m learning to appreciate careful maintenance and a good hedge trimmer.

  Ruby comes outside with a cigarette going. I’ve cut back myself. Hauling a ladder the other day, I thought I was going to pass out. I’ve been making Muller do the heavy lifting. He huffs and puffs, complaining he’s got a bad shoulder, but I caught him last night moving the oxygen tank closer to his cot. Now he’s working the heat gun like a hair dryer.

  Ruby comes and stands at the base of the ladder. She looks up with one hand shielding her eyes. “Good job, Sam,” she says. “We’ll be done in the bedrooms this afternoon. How about out here?”

  “Everything’s pretty much stripped.”

  Muller speeds up when he sees her watching. “You’re in fine form today, Muller,” she says.

  “Anything to get the job done, Ruby.”

  “That’s what I like to see.”

  When she goes back inside, Muller leans against the ladder. “What are you stopping for?” I say.

  “I got something in my eye.”

  “Your eye was fine a minute ago.”

  “I should go wash it out.”

  “Use the garden hose.”

  “Sam, did you ever cheat on Mary?”

  “No, I didn’t, Muller.”

  “Did she ever cheat on you?”

  “No.”

  “Is it possible?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “Just want to know.”

  “You’re a dummy, you know that?”

  “It’s a simple question, Sam.”

  “I haven’t cheated because I don’t want to cheat. Okay?”

  “And Mary feels the same way?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Haven’t you ever talked about it?”

  “No, we haven’t talked about it. Why, have you seen anyone slipping out of our house?”

  “No.”

  “Then go wash your eye out, for chrissake.”

  He turns on the house and flushes his eye. Then he’s lapping water like a dog.

  Chapter 45

  We’re learning how to “walk between the woman’s legs” tonight, which Muller says is based on the caquero style. He’s been reading up on all this stuff in some book. Ruby loves hearing terms like voleo and barrida. How Muller remembers it all is beyond me.

  “You’re becoming quite the expert, Muller,” Ruby says. “Maybe Otis and I should take up dancing. He could lose some weight.”

  “I ain’t doing no tango,” Otis says, suspenders dangling. “Neither are you, Ruby. No fucking tango.”

  “I’ll bloody well tango if I want.”

  “You could use the exercise, old man,” Max says. “Besides, Ruby hasn’t been out in ages.”

  “Then we’ll go to a movie,” Otis says.

  “When was the last time we went to a movie?” Ruby says.

  “I don’t like these modern films. Why can’t they make movies like Cool Hand Luke anymore? There’s an actor for you. Paul Newman. What ever happened to him?”

  “What are you talking about, old man?” Max says. “The Verdict? Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid? The Color of Money?”

  “Those sucked,” Otis says. “Bunch of wussies now, anyway. What ever happened to that feller, George Kennedy? Luke, where you at, boy? That’s acting. Whatever happened to him?”

  “Naked Gun?” Max says.

  Otis gets up and hikes his pants. “Ruby doesn’t need to see anyone naked, Max. Least of all George Kennedy.”

  “I’d like to see Paul Newman naked,” Ruby says.

  Margot comes upstairs for more milk. “Who do you want to see naked?” she asks.

  “Paul Newman.”

  “He turns me on like a four stroke engine.” She opens the fridge. “We have any brownies left?” she says.

  “There’s one on top of the fridge,” Ruby says.

  “What the hell, Ruby,” Otis says. “You told me we were out.”

  “You’ve had enough,” Max says.

  Otis jumps up but Margot elbows him in the stomach. “Ouch! Jesus, Margot!” he says.

  “I need this brownie more than you,” she says, pouring a glass of milk and taking the brownie downstairs.

  “Woman’s a menace,” Otis says, watching Muller put one of Ruby’s gold studs in his ear. “What the hell are you doing?” Otis says. “Big man like you. George Kennedy would never be caught dead wearing a God damn earring.” He goes off scratching himself.

  Actually, George Kennedy wore a loincloth in Spartacus.

  Chapter 46

  Silvio has us out on the dance floor, showing us a new step. Every move he makes is so slick and effortless. Tonight, he has his wife with him. Her name is Carmen, a former tango champion with the build to go with it. He leads her out on the floor like a prize hen. “My lovely wife will now demonstrate a proper gancho,” he says. She puts one hand on his shoulder, holding the other hand back. Then she hooks her sculptured leg around Silvio’s thigh, leans back, then straightens, all in one fluid motion. Everyone applauds. “Now, please, everybody” Silvio says. “This is a dance of love. Every move you make is a suggestion—an invitation. Invite your partner between your legs, ladies. And you, gentlemen, accept the invitation. Do it with authority. Remember, machismo.” Mary steps towards me and thrusts her hip into my side.

  “That’s pretty hard, Mary.”

  “I’m inviting you in, Sam.”

  “That’s still pretty hard.”

  “Me siento, Sam.”

  “Me siento, yourself.”

  She gives me a glazed look.

  “Begin,” Silvio says. “Come this way towards me. Yes, very good. Now caress. Caress.” He slaps his hands together. “Everybody,” he says. “Stand at ease, please. Watch our friend, Muller. See how he takes his lovely lady in his arms?” Muller executes what Silvio calls a barrida. “Very good,” Silvio says, crouching down beside them and takes Muller’s foot. “When you tap her ankle,” he says, “be very gentle. Tap both sides of her foot. You must always do it affectionately. Now, the rest of you, see if you can do the same.”

  We try following Muller’s example, looking stiff, bumping hips. “Woo her, Sam,” Silvio says to me. “Tango must come from the heart. It must be passionate.” Mary reaches down and pinches my ass. I yelp and Silvio looks over. “Your wife has the idea, Sam,” he says. “Let us not forget the female machismo.” Mary really dug in her nails. She’s got enough machismo for both of us. No wonder I don’t want to wear silk. “Come on, Sam, woo her,” Silvio says. “Machismo must be met with machismo.” Other yelps go up across the room.

  See what you started, you crazy Argentine?

  Chapter 47

  One night of tango and Mary’s ready to jump on a banana boat to Santa Cruz. I try pushing her hand away, but she’s got a strong forefinger hooked on my belt and a lion in her eyes. “Goodnight, kids,” she calls to Judy and Muller. Once we’re in our room, she gets me against the wall. One leg goes around my waist. “Let yourself go, Sam,” she says.

  “Let what go?”

  “Everything,” she says. “Sólo lo hacen.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  I’m forced down on the bed, suddenly having flashbacks of my youth, while she is trying to unzip my pants. “That’s the way, Sam,” Mary cries. “Let yourself go.” Her hair is in my face, swishing back and forth, knees digging into my sides. Mary lets out a voleo, throwing her head back. The shower starts in the washroom. “They can hear us,” I say.

  “Shut up, Sam. Como quieras.”

  “What?”

  “Como quieras.”

  “No idea what that means.”

  “Push, Sam, push.”

  She twitches and squirms, making more faces than she did at Judy’s birth. “Ya voy! Ya voy!”

  �
�Again, no savvy.”

  “Ya voy! Ya voy! Ya voy!”

  Mary shudders, says, “uch,” and then rolls off me. Air suddenly bursts into my lungs. The woman’s not as light as she used to be. I hope she realizes I’ve gone the extra mile here. “I can’t paint houses all day and do this sort of thing,” I gasp.

  “Then give up painting.”

  “I haven’t finished the overhangs yet.”

  “Ruby can find someone else.”

  “It’s too short notice.”

  “Sam, this is the hottest I’ve been in years. Maybe the hottest I’ve ever been. Don’t spoil it.” She gives me a crazy smile.

  “Don’t even think about it, Mary.”

  “What was I thinking?”

  “I have to work tomorrow.”

  “Screw work.”

  “Those soffits aren’t going to paint themselves.”

  She’s holding my shoulders down, swishing her hair against my cheek. “Come on, Sam,” she says. “Como quieras.”

  “This is just cruel, Mary,”

  “Como quieras.”

  “Judy and Muller can hear us, for chrissake.”

  “Sólo lo hacen.”

  I can see Muller nodding away in the hall, telling Judy it’s the language of love, as long as you’re Spanish or south of the Equator.

  Chapter 48

  It’s Tuesday and hot as hell up on the ladder. My legs are chafed from the scrapers in my pockets and rubbing against the metal rungs. Muller looks all depressed again. Krupsky told him his sperm count wouldn’t impress an eighty year old. He’s got Muller wearing underwear with an ice pack in the crotch. Muller brought two spare pairs. Ruby put them in the cooler next to the Gatorade, saying, “Let me know when you need a change.” Muller stands there pulling at his crotch, grateful for Ruby’s concern, probably fantasizing a little bit.

  “I won’t be much good today, Sam,” Muller says.

  “It’s just a goddamn ice pack.”

  “It hurts.”

  “Go inside then, you big baby.” I still have gutters on the west side to do. That’s the hottest spot right now. All the shade is on the east side. There’s some shade under the eaves, but I’m still sweating like crazy, feeling the weight of some oncoming doom, sensing, like so many others, that I’m a fraud on the dance floor and possibly a failure as a father.