“Not if I’m going to be worm food.”
Chapter 66
The phone rings while I’m shaving. Dewey’s calling about the fishing trip. Everything’s set, we’ve got a cabin near the lodge. I tell Dewey I have to bring my son-in-law along. “He’s from Seattle,” I say.
“Nothing wrong with Seattle,” Dewey says. “What’s his name?”
“Muller,” I say. “I hope your boat can hold him.”
Dewey laughs and says he has to go. Business is crazy right now. “Talk to you in a couple of days,” he says. “Heard from Frank?”
“Iris is ill.”
“Sorry to hear that. I always liked Iris.”
“Me, too.”
“What was it—or is it?”
“Early lymphoma.”
“Not good. Anyway, see you on the tenth.”
He hangs up and I check the mail. Someone’s on the diving board next door. Riley’s girls are walking around the pool, tugging at their bikini tops. Judy never wore bikinis. She was always a plump kid, shy, self-conscious. When the Andersons lived next door, I’d take Judy over swimming. As soon as she’d get out of the water, she’d huddle in a towel. I worried myself sick about her. She didn’t go to her prom; nobody asked. Then Mary’s sister Florence called from Seattle. She asked if Judy wanted to go out for a visit. Judy left after graduation and started working in their florist’s shop. They have three: two in Seattle, one in Portland.
A month later, Judy called saying she was dating. “His name’s Muller,” she told us on the phone. Six months after that, they were getting married. Florence was taking care of everything. We flew out on the twelfth. It was a nice wedding, lots of flowers, obviously. We stayed a week and Al, my brother-in-law, took us around the shops. “Sixty percent of our trade comes from funerals, Sam,” he said. “Stay close to funeral homes, that’s my motto.”
He had a map on his wall with green pins showing all the funeral homes in Seattle and Portland. Any location where three pins was close together, that’s where Al planted his next shop. “Easy as pie,” he said. “Judy’s getting to be quite the little flower arranger. Takes after Florence.”
“What are your thoughts on Muller?”
“What about him?”
“You known him long?”
“About as long as Judy. He videoed a few weddings for us. Nice guy. A bit clumsy. Good heart, though.”
Muller was videotaping weddings on the side, that and selling discount vacation packages at Mayan resorts. Some of the hotels disappeared during hurricane season. The travel agency told him to keep selling. Then he got fired for telling people to pack rain gear. It’s hard not to feel sorry for the guy.
I still don’t know what they were living on out there. Judy couldn’t’ have been making much. They have a small bungalow out in East Queen Anne. Florence called the other night to see when Judy would be coming back. Judy told her about Muller’s catering, the dance classes, her trying to get pregnant. Florence had a bit of a wobble. Judy’s the girl she never had. She wished Judy well, saying there would always a job waiting. “Thank you, Aunt Florence,” Judy said.
Al got on the phone and asked if I wanted to do a little franchise operation. They’ve been importing these vases from China containing a computer chip in the base. When it’s delivered, it starts singing, “Happy Birthday” or “Happy Anniversary.” Customers love them. Al plans to market the things right across the country. “You could be in on the ground floor,” he said. “What do you think?”
“Who doesn’t like singing flowers?”
“Give it some thought.”
I hung up, imagining a floral bouquet singing, “So you dying, don’t feel bad. Here’s a song. Enjoy the glads.” Al will probably make a killing on the vases. It’s just stupid enough to work. People love stupid things.
I get a beer out of the fridge and take it outside. Cassidy is doing cartwheels off the diving board. I hear her say, “I think there’s a taco on the bottom.” Then she goes for the skimmer.
Chapter 67
The kitchen counter is covered with platters wrapped in cellophane. Three contracts have come in this week. I keep saying, “Are you sure you want to come fishing, Muller?” Judy tells me there’s one week free. “It’s meant to be, Daddy,” she says, and then shows me a brochure she made on the computer. It’s full of floral arrangements. “What do you think?”
“Is this for Florence and Al?” I say.
“No, Daddy,” she says. “Muller and I are expanding. Every time someone calls about I function, I ask if they need flowers. People call florists right after they call the caterers. Uncle Al told me that.”
“Very clever.”
“Look,” she says. “Different flowers for each country.”
“She’s doing tulips for a Dutch job next week,” Mary says.
“That’s great, sweetheart,” I say. “I’m very proud of you. Now Daddy wants to take a long bath with my head underwater.”
“What’s wrong, Daddy?”
“Your father’s been moping around all week,” Mary says. “He thinks he’s wasting away.”
“You can help Muller make papas bravas.”
“No thanks, sweetie.”
“They’re good,” Muller says.
“I could teach you to arrange flowers,” Judy says.
“One flower arranger in the family’s enough.”
“Margot says Daddy’s jealous of everyone’s success,” Mary says.
“That’s not what I said.”
“What about those singing vases of Al’s? Florence says he’s going to make a killing. Maybe that could be your raison d’être.”
“Is that like a vision quest?” Judy says.
“No, sweetie, it’s not like a vision quest.”
“We know a shaman, Sam,” Muller says.
“That’s nice. Shaman’s are good to have around.”
“Want his number?”
“You keep his number?”
“I got it somewhere.”
“Why not?”
He can’t be any worse than Krupsky.
Chapter 68
Traffic is heavy on Western right up to Pratt. Cars come out of side streets without looking. Honking your horn doesn’t make any difference. It’s a sleepy procession with the occasional finger or fist tossed out the window. At Otis’s place, I let myself in the back door and hear retching upstairs. Same thing when I go to the rec room. Margot’s saying, “Oh, God,” and the toilet flushes. I look at her computer screen and see myself. “You’ve got dead air, Margot,” I say. The bathroom door opens slightly. “Put on some music or something,” she croaks. “I’m dying in here. Max brought home some clams last night. Damn things have been coming up ever since. Where’s Otis?”
I find him in the laundry room sitting on a bucket. I call upstairs to Max. No answer. I call to Ruby. “He’s out back,” Ruby yells from the bathroom. I find Max throwing up behind some Virginia Creepers.
“I’m really sick, Sam. Ruby’s hogging the toilet.”
“What happened?”
“Zack’s been selling clams out of his truck.” He starts to heave again. “Can you get me a roll of toilet paper?”
“Sure, Max.” I go back in the house and search the hall closet. “Where’s the toilet paper, Ruby?”
“We ran out three hours ago. Use magazines.”
“It’s for Max. He’s out behind the garage.”
“Tell him I’m going to brain him.”
“Do you want me to go buy some toilet paper?
“Yes, please. Get Pepto Bismol, too.”
At the store, I buy toilet paper, Pepto Bismol, and a mop. When I get back, they’re all still retching. Otis is over the laundry tub. Even Bisquick’s making horking sounds.
I put on some music, watching blogs multiply across the bottom of the screen. Half the sentences I can’t understand. The others lack any grammar whatsoever. One blogger writes: “Can U tell me what to do wth my mther? 80 yrs old.
Cnt wipe hrslf anymor. Need nurs. Redy to put her away. Any thghts?”
Other blogs appear with the same urgency. Some ask for Margot’s advice, others want a big cry from Otis. “Listen, folks,” I say. “Margot and Otis have food poisoning. Can you hold off on the blogs for a bit?”
A message pops up:
“Who R U?”
“A friend. Listen, they’ll be back on the air later. I’ll put on some more music, okay?”
“Wha about my mther?”
“Look, I can barely understand your messages.”
“Hw old are U, man?”
“Same age as Margot and Otis. Why?”
“Ever hear of txting?”
“Ever hear of spelling?”
“Wht about my f#*# mthr?”
“What about your mother?”
“She nds a nurse.”
“Then get her a nurse. Call one of those home care places.”
“Got a #?”
“No, I don’t have a number. Look it up.”
“Im holding my mthr over tolet.”
I grab a phone book off the floor. “Home care . . . home care. Try this one.” I hold the book up to the screen.
“Thx, man.”
Bisquick flies over and sits on my head. Margot retches again in the washroom. Otis lets out a leaden fart.
Another message:
“Do U knw a good ciropractor?”
“For God’s sake, people. Your spelling is atrocious. It’s c-h-i-r-o-p-r-a-c-t-o-r. Didn’t your teachers ever explain phonetics?”
“I am a teacher.”
“Ma’am, your spelling’s disgraceful.”
“Gimme a break. My back’s killing me.”
The bathroom door opens slightly. “You’re pissing in the wind, Sam,” Margot says.
“They can’t even spell one syllable words.”
“Talk to the hand.” She retches again and slams the door.
Another message:
“I’m with you, Sam. Texting is destroying the English language. We embrace the latest technologies only to write like apes.”
“Amen.”
“Without sentence construction, all is lost. Communication becomes a series of babbles and non sequiturs.”
“Couldn’t agree with you more.”
“We need to stress the importance of language, understanding the distinct meaning of each noun and verb. Otherwise we’ll all be talking like darkies, calling each other ‘Ace’ and ‘Busta’ . . .”
“Look, lousy spelling and contractions are one thing . . .”
Another message:
“What’s a contraxion?”
“It’s contraction. C-o-n-t-r-a-c-t-i-o-n. It’s where you join two words together. You get ‘can’t’ from ‘cannot’, ‘don’t’ from ‘do not’. Don’t you people understand simple grammar?”
Another message:
“Mr. Know-it-all.”
“I know it’s you, Ace.”
“Don’t call me ‘Ace’.”
“Racist prick.”
The bathroom door opens again. “You can’t win, Sam. They’ve got all the time in the world.”
“Terrific,” I say, trying to figure out Otis’s turntable. “Here’s something from Tyrone Davis.” I make the mistake of putting the stylus down first. Tyrone does a slow drawl up to the beginning of “Can I Change My Mind.”
The texts and emails keep coming, asking if I’m going to teach any more English today. When the song ends, I say, “To those last bloggers. No, I’m not teaching any more English today. Besides, it’s not English; it’s grammar. One is a language, the other is the construction of that language. Margot, how long are you going to be?”
Otis comes stumbling out of the laundry room, suspenders down, t-shirt all stained. He scratches his stomach and stares at the screen. “Take over here, will you?” I say to him.
“Why?”
“Some people want you to cry for them.”
“Who does?”
“C’mon, Otis. I have to get Max out of the garden.”
Ruby finally showers and dresses and starts loading the truck. “Come on, Max,” she calls out the back door. “Washroom’s free.”
He goes upstairs while we get the last of the paint cans out of the laundry room. It smells like a sewer in there. Ruby sets off a roach bomb in the sink. The smell sends Ruby and Max out back, barfing in the bushes. Then we find out some of the paint is the wrong color so Ruby decides to call it a day. When I get home, Mary, Judy and Muller are standing there with smiles on their faces. Muller slaps me on the back, Judy gives me a big hug. Even Iris calls, telling me I’m right up there with Captain Kangaroo. “Delightful, Sam,” she says. “We truly enjoyed your little sermon on grammar today.” She and Frank are still laughing their asses off. Judy thinks I should get some puppets. Mary wants me to wear a button-down sweater. I don’t know who’s being serious.
Margot is back on air, talking to the man with the incontinent mother. “Whippity shit,” Margot tells him. “I just spent five hours on the can today. Nobody was wiping my ass.”
“Margot’s been getting calls all afternoon about you, Daddy.”
“That’s nice, sweetheart.”
“You should really do it. Have your own show, I mean.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start, pun’kin.”
“Go shower and we’ll start dinner,” Mary says. “And don’t go dropping any vowels, Sam. I’ll have to come in and pick them up.”
“You’re a scream, Mary.”
I shower and shave with a bandoneon playing on the stereo. It’s a strange sort of flighty music. Muller says it goes back to when poor migrant workers used to tango for entertainment. It sounds like something a poor migrant worker would use. I run a Q-tip around in my ears and join the others for dinner. “It’s a little loud,” I say to Muller above the music. “Even for a penniless Spaniard.”
I fall asleep on the couch after dinner, dreaming of miniature castles and a giraffe that sounds like Muller. “What time is it, Sam?” the giraffe asks and I wake up. Muller’s head is on my shoulder. He stretches and yawns. “You make one ugly giraffe, Muller.”
“You were really good today.”
“Where are the girls?”
“They went to bed.” Muller stands and stretches. I do the same.
“You want a whiskey?” I ask.
“Okay.”
We take the drinks outside. The pool filter hums next door. Someone’s left the lights on. We hear a giggle. “That you, Sam?” Pam calls over the fence.
“Evening, Pam.”
“Riley and I are skinny dipping. Want to join us?”
“Might as well.”
We take our drinks over, strip down, and sit in the shallow end. “The pot’s growing again,” Riley says. I look over and see a bit of growth next to the cabana. Riley slaps Muller on the back. “We’ll be ready for brownies soon, won’t we, Muller?”
“Muller’s concentrating on his catering now, Riley,” I say.
“A few brownies wouldn’t be a problem, would it?”
“You’d better watch those plants,” I say. “Dope thieves always return.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Pam says.
We finish our drinks and decide to turn in for the night.
We go through the hedge. Muller says to me, “Pam’s attractive.”
“Shut it right now.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Never mind what you’re just saying. Keep your mind on Judy and your catering.”
“You’ll make a good grandfather.”
“We’ll see.”
“Seriously, Sam. I watched you today. You’re a natural teacher. Judy said the same thing.”
“It only works on illiterates.”
Chapter 69
Grammar for Gits spikes, and then takes a sudden nosedive. To be honest, I’m a snore. Most of my listeners are either new arrivals to the country or Otis crossovers. One of them asked me the ot
her day, “Do you do that crying bit as well?” I told him I didn’t and he said he’d wait for Otis. I quit after the first week. ‘Ace’ sent condolences, spelt “condullences,” and I sent back, “Haw, haw.” Margot still gets the occasional question about “i” before “e”, something she fields with, “Go buy a book. They’re square. They have pages.”
Sarcasm goes right over their heads, insults barely ruffle their feathers. I don’t know how Margot puts up these people, or them with her. She’s a marvel in many ways, brittle as a ginger snap one minute, soft as cooked macaroni the next. She doesn’t waste words. What’s the point? She’s not trying to change the world. She just wants people to think before spraying their privates with deodorant.
Otis, on the other hand, weeps hysterically at the drop of a hat. It’s pathetic. Nobody can blame him for anything—he hasn’t done anything except sob like a big baby. He makes the occasional observation, but he’s essentially innocuous, and, therefore, mildly therapeutic. You can’t get upset at his logic because, frankly, he’s illogical. Judging from the people who call, they’re illogical, too. In other words, he’s the friend you always wanted. Never judgmental, never saying anything. He’s a pet rock.
Chapter 70
I see the world as an organized place. People stop at stop signs. They drive the speed limit. All in all, things move in an orderly fashion. It feels good up here under the eaves. It’s nice knowing I’m with the bees, not down with the bottom feeders. We’re making good progress with the painting these days. Three houses are done, the contract on the fourth has been signed. Margot asks for twenty percent up front. She sends Ruby out with proper paper work, our official letterhead on top. It looks professional, anyway. People like the way we present ourselves. It also helps that we have the garb, the painter paints, and the bandanas. I’ve become weathered and paint-splotched, going home with more dirt under my nails than a gravedigger. When I shower and change, Mary calls me Crocodile Dundee. It’s her way of bucking me up before we go to the dance studio. We’re starting the intermediate dance classes tonight. Mary wants me ready to voleo.
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