by G L Rockey
I glanced to Jay in the hot seat beside Berry's desk. Charcoal jacket, matching shirt, green tie, brown shoes—he wrote on a white legal pad. Corpse possibility, I thought, good to best, ten to one.
Monsieur Berry still on the phone, listening, playing, with an evil eye, Gucci design guy on my khaki slacks, I revised the ten to one bet on the corpus delicti possibility, concluded, could be me.
“I know that.” Berry said into his phone. I noticed his face was clammy white and a splotch of red rested high on his cheeks. He repeated, “I know all that, I'm having a meeting now, we've got to give it time, I think promotion is the key.”
I surmised, on the other end, he might be listening to a future boss from S&W Broadcasting. With the latest ratings, they might be concerned their investment was headed toward the southern tip of Peru.
“Got it.” Berry banged his phone down and beaded me. “Nice you could make it, Carr.” He wiped his face with a towel. “We didn't cause you any inconvenience did we?”
“Not at all. I had another breakfast engagement, but they canceled at the last minute….”
“Bullshit.” Berry sneered, smacked his desk, stood and swaggered to his window. The morning was bright and a patch of sun crawled across the thick maroon carpet. Berry turned. The morning sun back lighted his rounded shoulders in a dark silhouette and he looked like a wounded animal, bleeding and hungry.
Still standing behind the bar, I noticed Berry’s icy stare melt to ugly and he said, “Well, Mister Carr, may we start?”
“Start what?”
“Start the goddamn meeting! May we start the goddamn meeting!”
“Sure.”
“Are you going to sit down?”
“I was waiting for you.”
“Sit down!”
I walked to the sofa and sat next to Bobbi. “How's it going Bobbi?”
She kept calculating.
Berry charged to his credenza, grabbed a fresh towel, wiped his face, threw the towel on the floor, sat behind his desk, and commenced: “The next time anybody is late around here, they're through.” He looked squarely at me. “Got that, Carr?”
“Got it.” I smiled. “That go for Joe, too?”
Joe started to get up. So did I.
Berry smashed his desk. “Sit goddamn down, both of you!”
We sat.
Berry took a minute to calm then commenced: “Now, as everybody knows by now our May ratings look like skinny on a skeleton's ass.” He looked at Jay who appeared to be busy taking notes. “Are you with us Speaker?”
Jay looked up and smiled, “Yes sir.”
It was then I confirmed the corpse.
Berry wiped his face, “We used to own this town. Own it. Now our whole goddamn lineup is down.” He looked at Bobbi. “Do you know why Bobbi?”
Bobbi, no dummy, what she knew she wasn't going to say. “I don't know, no, Berry, I'm not sure.”
Berry said, “No goddamn promotion, that's why. Zero, zip, none. We have the only unique weather show in town and our promotion department can't promote it.” He stuck his chin at Jay. “I need those ratings Speaker, and I'm gonna get them one way or another … and it just might be another.”
I clicked Zippo, lit a Salem and thought, you wonderful son of a bitch. Peggy was your ticket to ride, and now you're … somebody should simply kill you out of the gene pool. I stared at him as somebody said, This is not a lie, this is truth, raped, and I said, “Fuck right.”
Berry squinted, “What?”
“Nothing. Just thinking about how nice and cozy it is in here.”
Berry's face, like he was sucking peanut butter through a soda straw, mumbled something that sounded a little like Aunt Jane’s Rev Molino speaking in tongues.
“Shum da la mum,” I whispered.
Berry gawked at me, and, I also noticed, I had the attention of the other attendees.
After a moment of silence, Berry said, “I'll see you after this meeting, Carr,” stood and paced to his window.
I whispered to Bobbi, “Fun, huh.”
She pressed numbers into her calculator.
Berry turned, rested back against his window sill, folded his arms, said, “Okay, poet laureate, the floor is yours.”
Jay looked like a person caught in a crosswalk when ‘DON'T’ begins flashing. He said, “For what?”
Berry slowly strolled back to his desk, and sat, ““For a goddamn explanation for your fuck up, that’s why.”
Jay: “I … I….”
Berry: “I my ass.”
Jay glanced at me, down, paused, said, “You mean the ratings?”
Berry tilted his head, “You believe this guy, yes the ratings, what the fuck we been talking about?”
“Well, we won’t have a chance to study the results until we get the full report, but I think, maybe it has something to do with….” He stopped.
I know what he was going to say, Luther, so I said, “It starts with an L and ends with an R, sounds like ‘uther’.”
Berry beaded me, “We’re talking to Speaker, Carr, keep your smart ass comments to yourself.”
Jay took the opening, “I think Jack’s right … Channel 3 is capitalizing on Luth—”
He couldn’t get it out, I helped, “—er.”
Berry stared kill.
Jay: “…and I’ve been thinking from the beginning … maybe a total news, weather, and sports promotion … is the path we should take, not just the weather….”
“Hold it,” Berry held his hand up. “What have I been saying since we started this weather thing? Peggy's weather show is the only unique thing in Nashville, the country music capital of the world. Jesus H. Christ, that's why we did it! That's what we gotta promote … and you tell me some total horseshit … Jesus H. Christ!” He wiped his neck and face then spoke to Bobbi. “Bobbi, how much we pay the poet laureate from Providence, Rhode Island?”
Bobbi, an avid golfer, I knew she would never use a driver when a wedge would do, peered over her bifocals, shook her head, and continued to compute.
Berry looked at Joe, shifted his eyes to me, then stuck his stare back on Jay. “Mr. Speaker, for your information, I could have Carr go down to Printer's Alley and hire a hooker for fifty bucks to tell me,” he held up his right pinkie, “'I think we should do a total package.'.”
I said, “I think a hooker is up to two hundred now, unless you want something special, have something to trade … mediocre hooker, some are even up to five hundred, if they sing, play the guitar.”
Berry's stared at me like Sterling Hayden, in The Godfather, in that Italian restaurant, after Pacino had put a bullet between his eyes.
Joe froze.
Bobbi stopped calculating.
Berry threw his Wall Street Journal at the window. Then he kicked his desk, mumbled, in tongues again, something like, “Dirtyfuckingsonofabitch.” Then he got a new towel, wiped his face, and said, “I'll see you after the meeting, Carr.”
I figured I was history anyway, had decided, over the weekend, ark finished, to squeeze it out. I said, “That's two 'see you after the meetings', maybe we could have lunch.”
Berry bit his lip. “Mr. Carr, you are officially….” He paused and looked at Bobbi who stared him down (I figured, saved for the moment, he would get to me later). He went back to Jay. “Speaker, you have exactly one minute to start talking about a promotion campaign for the weather. One minute.” He held his wrist up and looked at his watch.
Jay seemed to be ignoring Berry, distant, outside of time, writing on his note pad.
“SPEAKER!” Berry yelled.
“What?” Jay was back in the room.
“The weather, the weather, the goddamn weather! Promotion Speaker, promotion. We're talking about promotion. Jesus H. Christ!”
Berry looked at Joe, Bobbi, me, shook his head, then marked a spot on Jays' forehead like he was taking aim at a Cape Horn Buffalo.
Jay gave me one of those looks people give you when a kid is killed in a freak accident.
I wanted to vomit on Berry's carpet, rip his sofa, break his window, stand on his desk, kick him in the teeth, but I just sat there feeling numb and amazed like one does at freaky things. The sound of the air conditioner purring in the background, I began thinking: the bread is not to the wise nor is it to the hungry. The bread is to the rich. So is the race and the battle and the favor. Time and chance is what is left over for the poor. Doubting that, ponder the universe.
Berry said, “What are you mumbling about, Carr?”
“Nothing.”
Ugly stare, then Berry turned to Jay, said, “Mr. Speaker, time is up, whata’ you got?”
Jay hesitated, looked at me, looked back to Berry, said, “I still think a total news campaign is the path to take, our entire on-air team in a reaching out to the community. I have some sample copy.”
Berry paused then calmly said, “Mr. Speaker, you're fired. Clean out your desk, get out of my television station, now.”
Jay looked at Bobbi, Joe, me, then Berry. He said, “I….”
”You're history! Get out!” Berry said.
I could see Jay's jaw muscles tense as he bit his molars. He closed his eyes and I swear I saw something pouring out of him, thick, gathering in dark pools at his feet. I looked back to his face. He folded his arms on the edge of Berry's desk, buried his head, and began sobbing.
I heard hounds barking, kids crying, women shrieking.
Shocked expression, Berry stood. “Jesus Christ, quit that slobbering on my desk, you idiot.”
I watched the patch of bright sunlight on the maroon carpet crawl across the floor.
Big Joe studied his fingernails.
Bobbi placed her calculator on the sofa.
Jay's sobs clung to the wall.
Berry's mouth hung open for a second then be spoke. “Speaker! Do you hear me? Stop that right now. Stop it, right now!”
In the shuffle, Berry's toupee got askew. He dashed to his bathroom and yelled, “One of you guys do something … Carr, get off your dead ass and do something!”
In a moment, wig straightened, he came back and charged toward the door. “Meeting is over. Meeting is over.” He stopped at the door and said, “Come on Joe, Bobbi, let's go to The Berry, get a cup of coffee, I'll buy.” He looked at me. “Take care of this Carr, weather's in your department.”
Berry and Joe scurried out; Bobbi, head down, followed and slammed the door behind her.
* * *
Them gone, thinking about Berry's comment, listening to the sound coming out of Jay, a thought came to mind: animals kill when they're hungry. People kill when they lose a fucking marble match. Amazing.
I walked to the bar, snatched a shot of Jack Daniels straight from the bottle and catalogues some thoughts: time, chance, and 'what if' do not a leap year make, and truth is not cheap, and time and chance is mixed up with a fickle free will thing and the consequences are stuck on the smell of humanity forever, and sometimes an end can be better than a beginning and if I'm wrong, fuck right.
I snatched another shot and sat on a stool.
The room was surreal, like a war movie, foxhole fear, and the air conditioner must have been set on 50.
I whispered, “For what and who cares and why am I here because I should not be here because in the end, when the people wise up, you will be hanged along with all the other greedy power-grabbing sons a bitches.”
That thought into reality, I noticed Jay's sobbing had turned to only a bleating … ONLY a bleating!
I heard a tap on the office door.
I walked over and opened it two inches. Judy looked at me. She said, “I noticed the others leave and … is something the matter?”
“No, nothing, just Jay and me having a little talk. Working out a weather related thing.”
“Is Jay….” She tried to look in but I blocked the view.
“Nothing. Give us a few minutes.”
“I … all right.”
I closed the door and went back to the only thing I knew for sure, the bar. Then I felt a chill and thought: in this room another time has crawled on the beach and you must move, adapt, or die.
After some time the swath of sun light, turned crimson red by the maroon carpet, had crawled a few inches more.
Jay quieted and I said, “Jay, you okay?”
He lifted his head and looked at me.
His eyes were holes of wasted nothing. Words are silly and trite most of the time. At a time like this … I said nothing.
Jay wiped his eyes with his hands, smiled, and looked around the room. “Where'd everybody go?”
“The Berry … cup a coffee … you okay?”
Jay nodded, tried to chuckle. “I don't know what got into me.”
“Let’s get out of here, have a drink.”
“Too early for me.”
I watched him stand and brace himself against Berry's desk.
“You sure?” I said.
“Yes.”
“Jay, I'll talk to Berry, he didn't mean that.”
He smiled. “You're in such good standing … it's been coming … I need to go home for a few minutes, get something to pack my office stuff in … and Jack,” he looked toward the office door, “do me a favor, Judy, I don't … could you … just until I can get out of here, I don't want her to see me like this.”
I looked at him and thought, see you like this. See me like this, see the whole fucking world like this…. “Sure.”
He said, “I'll be back in an hour or so … tell Berry … I'm sorry it didn't work out.”
I stepped out of the office, closed the door behind me, told Judy that Jay had to work on fixing up a report for Berry, invited her to the downstairs employee lounge for a cup of coffee. I needed to ask her something about a birthday gift for Joy. She saw through me, knew pretty much what was going on. Everybody seemed to know. I said pretty please and she agreed to join me.
* * *
After Jay left the station, I was thinking I need to get away. And when I needed to get away, confess, talk to myself, that other, one hideaway loomed large on my most favorite of all—The Coney Island.
I asked Sago if he wanted to go. He had seen and heard a Greta video of this morning's infamous promotion meeting, live, and said, “How about Vancouver, we could be there in a day, stay a year.”
I said, “Meet you at The Coney Island.”
* * *
Arrived the Coney Island, the twelve foot wide tavern resembling a long oversize hallway, sat in the middle of a massive cluster of decaying brick buildings amid the original downtown of old Nashville. Down a narrow alley, waist high, a four by five foot window proclaimed, in painted block red letters: The Coney Island: Best coneys in town.
Today, hot, a wood framed screen door seemed to be keeping most of the flies out. A chalkboard sign by the front door read: lunch special, coney & kraut, $2.99.
Inside, bolted to worn yellow linoleum, seated on ten red plastic top bar stools, three ragged older guys glanced my way then readdressed the sweat-stained wooden bar. Behind the bar on wood paneling, an old Schlitz beer sign hung between ancient photos of Hank Williams Sr., Kitty Wells, and George Jones. To one end of the bar, another guy was fishing, in a glass jar that contained a purple brine with beats and boiled eggs, for one or the other. I waved to, at the grill, owner, manager, bartender and cook Charlie Hertzog. An ex-Navy Seal, he stood six foot two, shaved his head bald and had intense olive-green eyes. He wore his usual white short sleeve shirt and white pants. A cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, he nodded to me as he tended a dozen or so plump hot dogs simmering on a flat iron grill next to a steaming pile of sauerkraut. He turned the sauerkraut with a tarnished silver spatula.
I ambled my way between the bar stools and eight wooden booths and sat in the last one. The yellowed Formica table top held glass salt and pepper shakers and a bottle of Heinz ketchup. An oscillating fan circulated the aromatic air of grilling hot dog, sauerkraut, cigarette smoke, and I got a whiff of the one toilet's stinging lime
smell a few steps away.
Like I said, I like the place. Feel more comfortable with the clientele, mostly from the Light House Mission.
Seated in the end booth, basking in the Coney Island’s ripe ambience and toothless smiles, Charley came over and asked what I was up to.
I told him I was working on a book. He said he understood because he had read many books, had been here and there, worked on his own book now and then.
Charley left and for lunch I had a shot of Jack Daniels for an appetizer; then, for my main course, another shot up with an order of Jack Daniels on the side; and, for dessert, a Jack Daniels split.
Mid split, Sago arrived and had a Heineken, and a coney and sauerkraut special.
Eating, he asked about what transpired this morning in Berry's office. I didn't want to talk about it. He didn't either except to say that he thought it sucked and segued into what he knew to date about S-Stuff: “Here's how we think it works. Chuck is a procurer. His contracts are, quote unquote, ‘chinchilla suppliers’.”
“Chinchilla suppliers?”
“They do the dirty work, kidnapping. Chuck's territory is the southeast United States … he gets the chinchillas….”
”What a minute, chinchillas?”
“That's the term for the kids they kidnap, chinchillas. They deliver the chinchillas to Chuck, who then delivers to his brokers. Snakebite is a broker.”
It’s like something you heard but didn’t. “Snakebite, a broker?”
“Like a middleman, uses the chinchillas for whatever fancies the libido. Kids are cleaned up, tested. The broker even goes so far as to inventory parts, catalogue them, computer database, DNA, blood type … kinda like Amazon. Sometimes a special order comes in for a part, Chuck contacts a chinchilla supplier, bingo … cut the spleen, so to speak, split the pie … and it's all under the guise of chinchilla.”
“And to think, this is all floating around in space somewhere, no wonder nobody wants to contact us.”
Driving back to TV12, Sago borrowed my Binaca and said, “And get this, going price for a good liver, around fifteen thousand bucks, they like younger ones … the world's own is being sacrificed on the altar of the all together.”