How Perfect is That

by Sarah Bird

  Robin has barely begun enumerating all my moral failings when Chloe returns and announces softly, “Mr. Dix will see you now.”

  Dix?

  Fighting shock as we follow Chloe down a hall, I tell the others to go on ahead without me, then pull Chloe aside. “Did you say ‘Dix’? Which Dix?”

  “You will be seeing Mr. Henry Dix the Third.”

  “Tree-Tree? What is Tree-Tree doing here?”

  “Mr. Dix is our client contact. We are very fortunate to have him assisting us in an interface capacity where his unique talents as both a lobbyist with significant legislative contacts and—”

  I cut Chloe off with a brusque, “Yeah, right.” I don’t have time for the full wanka-wanka. I already know that anytime a Dix is involved, the answer to “What is he doing here?” is, “Extending the grip of my mother’s blood-sucking tentacles.” I mention a tiny detail: “Trey doesn’t have a law degree.”

  Chloe loosens the death grip I have obtained upon the sleeve of her bespoke jacket. She indicates with a subtle sweep of her hand toward the open door of Trey’s office down the hall that this is not her problem. Through the open door, I see that Tree-Tree’s office has its own entryway which features a large aquarium atop a half wall that functions as a sort of divider. Hidden from view by masses of rippling algae, I slip inside the office and Chloe shuts the door behind me.

  Concealed by the aquarium, I peek into the wobbly, underwater scene unfolding in Trey’s office. This is the first time I’ve glimpsed my ex-husband since his family air-evacked him out of our marriage. He is pulling out chairs for Juniper and Robin. The aquarium rippling lends the scene a wobbly flashback quality. It could have been me in that chair being tended to by Henry “Trey” Dix.

  Doug pivots in his chair. I fade farther into the underwater foliage as he searches the office. “Where is—”

  Thankfully, the reliably testy Juniper cuts Doug off with a curt, “Pit stop,” before he can reveal my name.

  Trey is trotting out his best country club manners, the ones reserved for parents of important friends, college admission directors, people who can do things for a presentable lad. He helps everyone settle in, patting hands, shoulders, leaning in to ask, “You okay there? My girl take good care of you? What can we get you? One of them French fizzy waters?”

  Trey points to each person in turn and asks, “You good?” He massages Doug’s shoulders. “You work out, don’t you? You do!” He stabs a finger into Doug’s chest as if he’d caught him in some scampish prank. “You’re a monster gym rat, aren’t you?”

  Doug shrugs. “Not really.”

  “You’re not gonna tell the boss on me if I take my jacket off, are you?” Trey asks Doug. “Cuz you look like trouble.”

  Doug, who is wearing his most formal outfit, a guayabera and clean jeans, shrugs. “Be my guest.”

  Trey winks at Doug as he shucks his jacket. “I like you. You’re trouble.”

  He moves on to Juniper. Cupping her hand in both of his as if it were a baby chick, he soaks her in and announces, “You’re a tall drink of water. I’m gonna call you Slim.”

  Slim was my nickname.

  Juniper, who is actually fairly broad in the beam, does not object. He moves on to Robin. I can’t wait for this die-hard feminist to read Trey the Seneca Falls Convention Act. I can tell from the annoyed quirk of her eyebrow and peptic seam of her lips that she sees right through his unctuous bonhomie and is ready to uncork.

  Before she can open her mouth, however, Trey asks, “Darlin’, where did you get those eyelashes?” Robin does have great eyelashes. “You, you are Bambi. Case closed.”

  Trey shifts his attention back to Doug. He shakes his hand in a manly fashion while thumping his shoulder. “And now we’ve got Trouble. What am I gonna do with you…”

  “Doug.”

  “Doug? That’s what you’d like me to think, isn’t it?” Trey fixes Doug with a bad-boy grin as if they were both in on the most inside of inside jokes. “You are one bad hombre. I’m gonna have to call you Drug, cuz…” He looks around and leans in to whisper, “You smoke the herb, am I right, mon?”

  “No.”

  Trey mimes sucking on a joint, complete with jerky inhalations, eyes squeezed shut against the curl of imaginary smoke, then a coughing exhalation. “We all smoke the herb, right, mon?”

  Trey wears a silly, stoned grin as he returns to the overlord side of the desk. “So, tell me,” he asks, folding up the monogrammed cuffs of his custom-tailored shirt in a ritualized display of folksiness. “What problems can I make disappear for y’all today?”

  As Doug outlines our case, Trey mutters, “Sons of bitches.” “Assholes.” “Jerkwads.” Such are his considered legal opinions, delivered while shaking his head in righteous disgust and anger.

  “How do you feel about some of the more aggressive defenses?” Doug asks. “Countersuing for racketeering, First Amendment protection against the chilling effect of—”

  “Oh yes. Oh hell yes,” Trey answers with a ringing bellicosity that calls his renegade grandfather Uno to mind. “You do not mess with me and you do not mess with my people and y’all are now, officially, my people. We’ll countersue the bastards back to the Stone Age is what we’ll do. Racketeering, tax evasion, pedophilia. Are you asking me what we’ll countersue with? Is that what you’re asking? Cuz my answer is, ‘Whatta you got?’”

  “So you’re proposing—” Doug begins.

  “Are you asking me what I’m proposing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because if you’re asking me what I’m proposing, is that what you’re asking?”

  Doug doesn’t bother to answer.

  “Okay, just want to get that straight, because what I propose is this: I propose that we rain a shitstorm down on them that’ll make ’em sorry they ever crossed paths with Slim, Bambi, and Drug. You wanna know what I say to the R fucking IAA? You wanna know what I say?”

  Three pairs of eyes glow with the throwback glee of having the biggest sumbitch in the jungle taking up the cudgel on their behalf.

  “I say, bring it on! Cuz we will not only wipe you off the map, we’ll make you pay us a fortune in damages for the pleasure.” Trey glances from Juniper and Robin—who are making tiny fist-pumping gestures—to Doug, who is, thankfully, withholding judgment.

  “Looks like we got us a quorum. First thing we’re gonna need is all the documentation you’ve got. We have to see just how much of a case the RIAA has. Drug, buddy, you look like the tech wizard in the group; maybe you could just step over here to my computer and send a big ol’ group message to everyone in the house and tell them to forward all their files and pertinent documentation to me so I can get the brain boys working on making this all disappear.”

  Disaster! That cannot happen. I don’t know what angle Trey is working, just that he is certain to have one. I pray for Doug to jump up and storm out.

  “Drug? We’re waiting.”

  “I’m thinking.”

  Thinking? No! Storm out. Yes!

  They cannot even consider getting involved with Trey. Though it is the last thing on earth I want to do, I step out from behind the aquarium. “Don’t listen to him.”

  Trey greets me with a casual, “Blythe, I was wondering when you were going to join the party.” Ever the perfect host, perfect rush chairman, perfect lobbyist, ever the guy who always makes sure everyone has a drink in their hands, and that it is a double, Trey offers a graceful, “I assume y’all know my ex-wife.”

  Though distracted by the impressive sight of three jaws dropping in perfect synchronization, Trey gives me his patented twinkly grin as I belatedly notice the video camera on the ceiling above the aquarium and the small monitor on Trey’s desk that have been displaying my hiding place from the moment I stepped into the office. “You should know by now that folks in my family don’t like surprises.”

  “Seriously, don’t listen to him.”

  “Slim One, are you ridin’ in here to warn your compa
ñeros all about me? Tell ’em what a bad hombre I am? Maybe mention that I’m not technically a lawyer?”

  Trey’s affable admission worries me. “Well, you’re not. You’re not a lawyer.”

  “And damn lucky for you I’m not, either. Y’all don’t want a lawyer. Spot y’all are in, lawyer’s gonna hurt you a hell of a lot more than he’ll help. You get a lawyer, you’re playing their game. And, my friends, that is a game you are gonna lose. You know why?”

  “Don’t listen to him,” I warn yet again as I try to figure out what Trey is up to.

  Robin ignores me and asks, “Why?”

  “Cuz y’all broke the law!” Trey declares, delighted. “Y’all’s guilty as sin. You stole the goods and are in possession of said stolen goods. You get anywhere near a courtroom and they will fry you.”

  “Don’t listen to him. He comes from a family of total users. Liars. Completely without scruples. They’re not what they seem. They’re—”

  “Could you shut up?” Robin, whom I have lied to and tried to use without scruple, requests.

  Trey winks at Robin. “Thanks, darlin’. I appreciate the backup, but I don’t really think it’s necessary. Is it, Blythe? I mean, as far as someone not being what they seem and lies and all, I doubt Slim One wants to go very far into that.”

  I say nothing. He is as well acquainted with my fictional embellishments as I am with his.

  Trey puts his arm around me. If anything, he smells even better than he did when we first met. “Slim One and Tree-Tree understand each other. Don’t we, Buttercup?” He chucks me under the chin, then steps away.

  With a wink and a finger gun in my direction, Trey retakes control of the meeting. “What y’all need is a massive preemptive strike. Y’all need a few strings to get pulled so this stinking turd of a case never gets to court. What you need is what I can provide and it sure as shit ain’t a law degree. It’s connections. Slim One, you care to comment?”

  “Yeah,” Juniper sneers. “You care to comment?”

  “About what? Is he connected? No question, his family is all about connections.”

  Doug shakes his head. “This has ‘bad idea’ written all over it.” He stands up. “We need to find a real lawyer and get a real plan.” With that, Doug leaves. Robin and Juniper are thrown into turmoil by his defection.

  “The deal’s falling apart, ladies,” Trey observes calmly. “You wanna go and round up your stray?”

  They rush after Doug, leaving Trey and me alone.

  I stand to leave. “Well, my work here is done.” Trey lunges out of his chair, grabbing my arm. “Blythe, please, don’t go. I’ve wanted to talk to you for a long time.”

  “Where did your accent go?”

  “Blythe, this is the sound of me speaking from the heart. Not being the family jester, happy party boy, not playing any of the roles I was forced into playing by my family from the time I was still so young that I never knew how to be anyone else.”

  “Trey, where was this level of self-awareness when we were married?”

  “Blythe, there is so much I am genuinely sorry for. So much I want to make up for. This, helping you and your friends out here, it’s one way I can make amends.”

  “But why? What’s in it for you? For your family?”

  Again the wink and finger gun, this time to signal that I’ve caught him. “All right, I’ll shoot straight with you.” His accent is back. “As you may have guessed, the family is sort of behind this firm. We hire the fancy-pants lawyers and put their names out front so we can keep our brand clear. This is going to be a huge high-profile case, and the firm wants to dominate this business, this intellectual property deal. Internet’s changing everything. It’s the new oil. Whole new game, music, books, anything you got that can be changed into pixels or whatever the hell it is computers change shit into. Lotta money’s changing hands and lawyers are gonna suck up most of it. This is our chance to get in on the action. This is the case we’ve been waiting for.”

  From the hallway comes the sound of Robin and Juniper arguing. Trey drops my hand, leans in close, and whispers, “Slim, if you tell anyone, the Chancellor will have you killed.”

  This is the Tree-Tree I remember.

  Robin and Juniper reappear with a reluctant Doug in their wake. “Doug has some reservations,” Robin announces. “Doug, you want to share your concerns?”

  “Actually, I’d like to hear what Blythe has to say. I mean, obviously, the big question here is, Should we trust Mr. Dix? And Blythe is in a unique position to answer that for us.”

  “So?” Robin demands.

  “Don’t ask me. Have I been right about anything yet?”

  Doug speaks. “All right, then give us your considered opinion.”

  “My considered opinion? In my considered opinion you shouldn’t trust any member of the Dix family any farther than you can throw the weaselly bastards.”

  “Blythe, darlin’.” Trey shakes his head with fond bafflement. “Are you calling my family weaselly bastards? Is that what you’re doing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, we’re not. You’re in the wrong section of the animal kingdom. We Dixes are half hyena and half snake. The whole damn bunch of us!”

  I have nothing to say in the face of Trey’s grinning exuberance.

  “And isn’t that exactly what you want now? Aren’t a complete lack of moral scruples and utter contempt for the public opinion that we plan to mold like Silly Putty precisely the qualities you need to back the RIAA down? So what if old Tree-Tree doesn’t have an actual ‘law degree’? He’s got legal underlings, lackeys, grinds chained to oars down in the galley to do all that boring stuff. Besides which, if we play our cards right, if we play this the Dix way, your stinking turd of a case will never come to trial.”

  “And just how do we play our cards right?” Juniper asks.

  “There you go, Slim Two, asking the tough questions.” He puts an arm around Juniper. “That’s why I like smart girls. Married one, didn’t I? Slim One, why don’t you answer Slim Two’s question. Tell ’em about the Family and how good we are at making sure we take care of our own.”

  I reflect on all the family stories I’ve heard, all the peccadilloes chuckled over: the teacher fired for daring to flunk a Dix; the waitress bought off before she could press charges when Trey and some frat brothers walked a bar tab and stuck her with a bill that was more than she would make in a week; the transcript full of Cs that was good enough to get Trey into the Ivy League after Uno endowed a new wing; the DUIs that disappeared from police records. And though no one chuckled over this, I’d heard about an illegitimate child who was hushed up, the mother bought off, leaving Trey to drink and snort his way from job to job, and, in the end, to be set up by his family in Pemberton Palace.

  It is pointless to warn the others about Tree-Tree’s brand of good-old-boy intimidation and his family’s behind-the-scenes strong-arm tactics. If I reveal that what Double T has, what has always been enough to get Trey and every Trey like him over in life, are family connections and standing golf dates with all the other silver-spoon string-pullers in town, I will only prove his point.

  “Well?” Doug prompts me. “What do you think?”

  “What I think is that Henry Dix the Third is precisely the person you need.”

  “All right! That’s what I like to hear!” Before anyone can say another word, Trey presses a cabinet door to reveal a minifridge filled with Dom Pérignon. Chloe appears carrying a tray of champagne flutes. They are all clinking them together, toasting victory over the RIAA, toasting their future working relationship, before they’ve even made a deal. By the time Trey is forcing thirds on everyone, Robin has gotten giggly and is batting her Bambi lashes at Trey from beneath sheepdog bangs.

  Trey claps his hands together. “All right, gang, before we all get too buzzed, we got us a little work to do. Drug, you’re our computer dude—”

  “Actually, I’m not all that good with the technical—”

&nb
sp; “So why don’t you get cracking on having everyone in the house, all our little co-defendants, shoot their files over to us so we can get the legal drones working on how best to make this all disappear. I’m thinking preemptive strike. A legal blitzkrieg that’ll leave the RIAA crapping their pants. But I can’t set that in motion until I know what we’re dealing with. Doug, can you get those files for us?”

  Doug looks at me. I can’t formulate a logical objection. Trey does in fact seem to be exactly the right piece of slithering offal for the job. Trey motions Doug to a computer. With a last glance in my direction, he sits down and types in a group message that asks all the residents of Seneca House to forward lists of their purloined music files to Trey Dix and his firm’s crack team of intellectual property lawyers. Doug hits SEND and Trey pops open another bottle to top off everyone’s glass.

  Trey’s computer pings merrily as, one by one, all of Seneca House’s residents forward evidence of the total scope of our theft to our new legal counsel. As the last ping chirps out, a line from Trey’s favorite movie, Animal House, runs through my brain. The line was delivered by the smooth frat boy, Otter, to the hapless Flounder after Otter wrecked Flounder’s car. “You fucked up,” Otter told Flounder. “You trusted us.”

  Vast Assumptions

  YOU TOLD US WE COULD TRUST THIS EVIL SACK OF SHIT!”

  A few days later, I awake to Juniper screeching and smashing a newspaper against my face. I push it away and read the headline: “Local Firm to Handle Landmark Music Theft Case.” Of course the firm is Trey’s, and of course they are now working for the RIAA.

  As far as you can throw him. I am too furious to bother reminding Juniper of the caveats on my endorsement. I grab the cell phone that Juniper holds out and punch in Trey’s number.

  “Slim, Slim, Slim, you talk to your mama with that mouth?”

  Among all the invectives that I hurl, Trey takes umbrage only when I won’t stop shrieking that he is a liar.