You Got Nothing Coming

by Jimmy A. Lerner

  "Hey, pal, don't you fucking dare to lecture me! You're not my sponsor now. You think I don't see what you're doing? Better clean your own house before you start pointing fingers at my mess."

  He was right and we both knew it. I went to safer ground.

  "Dwayne, why not just forget about the sprinklers? Keep the digital box. I don't need any of this stuff. The garden hose works just fine."

  But the Monster had already turned back to his bundle of wires.

  "Too late now, pal. I'm done. Just open the garage door and I'll be finished in ten minutes. I gave my word." Sulking worse than a child, the Monster started gathering up his pick, shovel, and other assorted tools. I pulled the clicker out of the car's visor, pushed the button, and let the Monster enter with his top-a-da-line two-hundred-dollars-extra digital box.

  My refrigerator was near empty again. The F.W. would be bringing the girls over in a couple of hours and I needed to prepare dinner. No problem. I called Tony Roma's and reserved a table. The girls loved Tony Roma's, the baby back ribs chased down with Shirley Temples.

  Actually the girls loved McDonald's and Burger King. Every now and then I just had to have some real food.

  The F.W. drove up with the girls just as the Monster finished digitizing the water so my dead flowers could benefit from a high-tech resurrection. The F.W. and the girls looked like three dark-haired beautiful sisters coming down the cobblestone path. They were lugging enough backpacks and suitcases and soccer paraphernalia to sustain the girls for a year of weekend visitations.

  Dwayne emerged from the garage side door as I was relieving the F.W. and the girls of their lighter burdens. The hip-to-neck fusion had never taken properly, and I was careful to avoid lifting anything too heavy.

  "You're in business, pal! I'll come back for my tools and stuff tomorrow." Dwayne was talking to me but staring at the girls and at the F.W. with the incredulous manner of a death row inmate in Texas who has just been granted a last-second pardon by the governor.

  "Thanks, Dwayne." Ignoring his unspoken plea for an introduction, I hustled my former family inside, where the F.W. immediately went to the girls' bedroom, followed by an inspection tour of the bathrooms and kitchen. She took note of the empty refrigerator.

  Alana took immediate advantage of having both parents present.

  "Dad, can't I just sleep on the living room floor? Mom can bring over my sleeping bag. No way I'm sharing a room with Rachel— she's so gross!" Alana, pretty as a fresh-minted penny, all of fourteen, athletically slender, and already drawing her battle lines.

  But I was still a general.

  "No, honey, I've set up a nice bedroom for you and Rachel. Only crack addicts and refugees sleep on living room floors."

  "But, Da-ad! Rachel's so disgusting. She does things just to annoy me. She's so sick, she—"

  "Shut up, Alana!" An outraged Rachel, a beautiful thirteen-year-old version of her sister (and her mother). "You're the one who's sick. Why don't I just tell Dad who you—"

  "Girls," I interrupt in my most authoritative manner, "there will be a minimum of bickering in this house— a new rule for a new house." I could almost hear their eyeballs rolling up to the backs of their heads— the adolescent antidote to parental pompousness. I ignored them.

  "You girls are sharing a bedroom and that's final. I had to share a bedroom with your Uncle Michael for years, and he used the wallpaper above his bed for a booger vault. Now, that's disgusting."

  "Da-ad!" Both girls now in whining unison: "Booger vault? That's so sick!"

  The F.W., laughing, picked up her purse and headed to the door.

  "Enjoy the weekend, girls. Jimmy, don't forget about the soccer games at nine tomorrow— it's the first round of the play-offs."

  "How could I forget? I tried to schedule an optional root canal procedure instead, but all the other dads beat me to it."

  The F.W. closed the front door behind her. I glanced around to see if any windows of opportunity had magically opened. You never can tell.

  "Dad, what are we having for dinner? I bet you didn't even buy any food yet. Can we go to McDonald's?"

  "Special treat tonight, Alana. We've got reservations for Tony Roma's."

  "All right! Can we get those tall Shirley Temples?"

  "Anything you want."

  And Alana hugged her little sister and squeezed her affectionately until Rachel howled in protest.

  God, how I loved those girls.

  * * *

  The following week on Saturday morning both girls went berserk at the same time. I attributed it to the stress of the final soccer play-off games. Or maybe they were nervous about leaving for summer camp in a few days.

  Or maybe just the fact the sun had risen again.

  "Dad, I can't find my soccer shoes— that idiot Rachel probably hid them!"

  "Don't call me an idiot, Alana. I've got my soccer shoes on. You're just a retard!"

  "Da-ad— Rachel called me a retard."

  This time the bickering only lasted ten minutes.

  After a hurried breakfast we raced out to the station wagon— late, of course— loading up the back with the tons of equipment necessary for landing on Omaha Beach.

  The car, parked overnight in the driveway, wouldn't start.

  Just a feeble click.

  I turned the ignition key again.

  Click.

  This had never happened to the Camry before. I maintained both our cars— the Camry and the (F.W.'s) Honda Accord— with the fear-driven fanaticism of the mechanically hopeless. I grew up with subways and buses and Keds sneakers. One time I took a ferry out to Staten Island. You didn't have to know about auto repairs.

  Click.

  "Da-ad! We're going to miss the game!"

  "No we're not, baby."

  Click.

  "Forget it, Dad— can't you just call Mom?"

  "She's already at the game, honey— she's helping set up."

  Click.

  Clueless, I wondered if the clicking noise indicated carburetor arrhythmia, or worse, a terminal transaxle disorder.

  "I'll call Triple-A," I finally reassured the now-hysterical girls.

  "That will take, like, forever. Can't you check under the hood? It sounds like a dead battery." My daughter Alana the mechanic.

  Everything under the hood looked fine to me (it always does). All the important stuff seemed to be in the usual places— the engine, the battery, and God only knows what the rest of those things are. Like I said, I took the subway during my formative years.

  "Hey, pal, need a hand?" Dwayne was approaching from across the street, a long-sleeved flannel shirt over tiger-striped fatigue pants, safari hat, and shades. We had gotten together once during the week after I got off work. We went to a new Chinese restaurant in downtown Danville so we could criticize it later— "In New York you can get real lobster Cantonese." After dinner we drove in to Berkeley for a revival of Midnight Cowboy. When Dustin Hoffman, as an outraged Ratso, slammed his hand down on the hood of that car and proclaimed, "Hey! I'm wah-kin here," we both shrieked with delight. Ratso Rizzo! That was a real New Yorker.

  "Morning, Dwayne. It won't start. I think it's the transaxle fluid or something."

  "Dad! Da-ad! We gotta go— the game's starting in like five minutes!"

  Dwayne took a look under the hood and listened to the click.

  "Jimmy, do you have jumper cables? I'll go get the Rover and get you started." Dwayne went jogging off, disappearing around the block.

  "Dad, who is that huge creep?"

  "My new neighbor, Alana."

  "When did they let him out?"

  The Range Rover roared down Maple Street, freed from its temporary hiding place. After a quick battery juice transfusion the Camry came to life and we were racing toward the park. Dwayne insisted on following in the Rover in case we stalled out on the way.

  Both girls' teams were in the play-offs, on separate fields. I was the designated sufferer for Alana's game. Whenever the girls
had games at the same time, the F.W. and I would switch off, alternating teams over the season. We wanted to quash any adolescent charges of favoritism.

  So we both suffered equally. Or at least I did. The F.W. genuinely enjoyed watching the games. Must be a New Jersey thing.

  The girls charged across the field as soon as I opened the Camry's door. Then Dwayne came over and leaned down to the window. He was apparently experiencing another attack of summer allergies, sniffling and dabbing at his nose with a slightly bloody handkerchief.

  "It probably won't start up again after you turn the ignition off. I better hang out, follow you to a garage after the games. You can get the battery recharged or a new one at Exxon."

  "Thanks, Dwayne, you saved the day."

  But Dwayne was gone.

  It was the Monster who snarled down at me.

  "Sure, pal, guess I did save your ass— the ass of a guy who just last week thought he was too fucking good to introduce me to his precious little girlie family." The Monster leaned into my window, removed his shades, and directed a green laser glare at me. The eyes glittered in the sun's reflection.

  Like an ax.

  "Dwayne, I'm sorry about not introducing you— we were in a huge rush."

  The Monster receded. "All right then, buddy, apology accepted." Dwayne reached down and tightened the laces on his jungle combat boot. What was he expecting? Hand-to-hand combat with a deranged soccer ball?

  From the field came semihysterical screams and shrieks.

  From the parents.

  They thought of this as "encouragement."

  "Thanks again, Dwayne." I escaped from the car, taking my cell phone. "You don't have to hang out. I'll call Triple-A from the game. One of the soccer moms will give me a boost if I need it."

  "Hey, there's no problem, pal. I'll just wait with you until the games are over. I'm a big soccer fan."

  "I appreciate that, Dwayne, but it's not necessary."

  "Neither was giving you a boost or making sure you made it here."

  So the Monster sat beside me on the splintered wooden grandstand, just two guys, the only guys, neighbors, in a sea of frenzied, encouraging soccer moms. The moms prowled the sidelines, cheering on every misplaced kick, every misguided pass.

  The players, the girls, were just happy to be out in the sunshine, kicking it with their friends and basking in the adulation of their moms. The rare ball that actually squirted past the defending goalie was regarded as a not unpleasant bonus.

  "Hey, pal, check out the little babe with the blue sweatband." The Monster elbowed me in the ribs. The "babe" in question was a good friend of Alana's named Courtney. She'd been over to the house dozens of times.

  "What about her, Dwayne?"

  "What about her? Are you blind? The little bitch's tits are bobbing around like fucking grapefruits." The Monster was also bobbing around the bench, clearly excited by his belated discovery that many thirteen-year-old girls had well-developed breasts.

  Unbidden, the downloaded image of a naked and kneeling adolescent on Dwayne's computer monitor swamped my brain.

  "Shut the fuck up, Dwayne! That girl's a friend of the family, and even if she wasn't, she's thirteen, for Christ's sake." A few of the cheerleader moms stopped prancing on the sidelines to look reprovingly at me. The Monster, unaffected by my remark, squeezed my elbow, leaning into my face.

  He whispered.

  "So what are you saying, pal? Look at the fucking tits, the ass on that little bitch! You saying you wouldn't stick a bone up that tight little ass? Maybe slap her around a little bit first, get her in the mood, ya know?"

  My friends say that I am slow to anger, very slow, but when I get there, people usually know it.

  "Get the fuck out of here, Dwayne! Move your ass— now!"

  The Monster didn't move. Just gave me that injured look, then the slow twist of a smile. My friend Dwayne was long gone and far away.

  "Or what, Jimmy," he said softly. Calm and cold as a rock. "Let me tell you something, pal— back in Brooklyn, if I had seen your skinny ass on the streets when we were kids, I would have taken your lunch money. You think you're gonna do something? You going to hit me in front of your daughter, in front of all these fine ladies?"

  I jumped off the bench, startling the ex-cheerleaders.

  "No, Dwayne, I'm not going to hit you. But if you're not out of here in three seconds… I WILL BREAK YOUR FUCKING NECK!" The cheerleader moms all scurried away down the sidelines.

  The Monster feigned fear, mocking me, before sliding off the bench and strolling casually toward the parking lot.

  It was the F.W. who later gave me the battery jump.

  * * *

  The girls begged off for the rest of the weekend, having accepted invitations for sleep-overs. On Monday morning they would leave on buses for a two-week camping trip near Lake Tahoe. They wanted to be home on Sunday night to pack.

  After buying a new battery from Exxon (the teenage battery specialist determined that my three-month-old one would not hold a charge) I spent the rest of that Saturday at my computer, chain-smoking and putting together financial projections for the new dot-company I would shortly join. The instant that the phone company offered me the cash buyout (Rumor Control said my group would "receive coverage" this week) I was gone. Out the door. Good-bye, Empty Suits.

  My friends (all phone company marketing guys but without the bell-shaped heads) had already received their cash buyouts and leased office space on Market Street in San Francisco. Initial funding would come from our cash buyouts, and we were confident of quickly picking up venture capital once we firmed up the business plan.

  We were going to make millions through an on-line telecommunications management company. We would guarantee to save businesses 20 percent off their phone bills, and our fee would be a percentage of those savings. A slam-dunk, no-brainer proposition.

  We would simply follow the model of traditional "resellers" and billing "aggregators" who made high-volume (and highly discounted) wholesale toll purchases from long-distance carriers and then resold it to business customers. My Lotus spreadsheet profit projections were very simple to build: buy millions of MOUs (minute-of-use) at three cents a minute and resell at five to seven cents. Not too profitable— ha!

  The bankers or venture capitalists would resonate and salivate.

  Bill Gates would want to either buy us or crush us.

  From my phone company supplied "workstation" in the living room I watched the mailman screech his van to a halt in front of the mailbox. I watched him stuff it and then returned to my fantasies of dot-com deification and millions in equity ten minutes after the IPO. The mail could wait.

  Sunday morning, sporting my old ratty bathrobe (with fresh cigarette burns), I unhinged the mailbox to release the new bills and advertising circulars ("$2.00 off your 2nd large pizza!"). Mostly junk except for the comp offer from the Excelsior Hotel in Las Vegas. I had played blackjack there a few months ago with my marketing buddies, and we had made our usual donations, losing maybe two hundred dollars in total.