It Won't Always Be This Great

by Peter Mehlman

I gave his feet a more superficial inspection than usual. Nothing I’d live to regret and nothing he’d notice. I just wanted him out of my office by 10:05. I needed a second to collect myself, grab some things from my office, and go to the bathroom.

  On my way to the elevator, I told Sylvia I’d be back in time for my 10:30. She must have heard doubt in my voice, though, because she asked if I had my cell with me. Good employee, huh? I tapped the elevator button nervously because I wanted to get away before Arnie happened to come out and see me. If he did, I didn’t know if I could resist the safety net impulse to tell him what I was up to.

  IV.

  The garage has three levels. The bottom is reserved for people who work in the building, and the top two are for visitors. I went down to the bottom level, where there would probably be no one pulling in or out in the middle of the work day. Rain oozed down the ramp through a grating in a corner of the ceiling, leaving a gunk of stained wall like in a cave. What do they call that, a stalagticite? Whatever. The place was dank and looked vaguely green in the fluorescent light.

  I, ridiculously, decided not to wait in front of my car—as if Byron couldn’t find out what I drive if he’d wanted to. Instead, I leaned against a Buick Regal which, I think, belonged to a receptionist for an endocrinologist on the second floor. It seemed like a neutral car, not too suburban and not expensive. I wanted to give Byron the impression I was a man of the people. It was idiotic, sure, but then again, it’s pretty fascinating to see what goes through your mind in these situations.

  When it got to be 10:13 and Byron still hadn’t arrived, my thoughts started going to bad places. What are you doing here? Are you nuts? Byron’s being three minutes late was all it took to discombobulate me, all it took for me to picture the cops looking for defensive wounds on my hands; finding my wallet missing and misdiagnosing my murder as a robbery gone bad; grimly walking to the front door of my home and then leaving with the words, We’re sorry for your loss; and Alyse spending the rest of her life wondering ‘What was he doing in the garage in the middle of the morning?’

  I then projected the fatherless lives of my kids: Esme turning 13 and going Goth with black clothes and thick mascara; Charlie developing a love for killing small animals, and sticking cherry bombs in the ass of the neighbor’s cat; both kids reaching their late teens, their only thing in common being how much they hate their new stepfather. Or, even worse, how much they really like him. That thought was enough to make me take two steps to my left toward a door with an exit sign. But then I heard an aggressive vroom, and I knew it was Byron.

  Apparently, he did already know what car I drive because he pulled right up to the back of my Saab. Then he let his car lurch a bit, clanking my bumper with his grill.

  “Oops,” he said, getting out.

  To which I said, “I guess we should exchange insurance information.”

  Can you believe I said that, Commie? It was just like when Uziel confronted me that first time in my office and I joked with him that he could pay at the front desk. This latest joke came out of me from God knows where.

  Anyway, Byron wasn’t laughing. In fact, I think he was pissed because the joke made it seem like I wasn’t intimidated even though I was beyond intimidated. He said, “How’s Alyse?”

  “She’s okay,” I said. “She feels safe because of the FBI detail outside our house.”

  Well, that backed him up some. That was the first part of my plan: mention the FBI as fast as possible. Then Byron would at least have to listen.

  “FBI? What the fuck are you talking about?”

  I took a deep breath and launched into a badly under-rehearsed speech:

  “Look, Detective Byron, you and I got off to a bad start and, for whatever part of that is my fault, I’m sorry. And, as a way of making it up to you, I’m here right now to basically save your life.”

  Okay, that was a little over-the-top. Stupid. I still shudder about that. Byron took his hands out of his pockets. I’m sure he was this close to beating the crap out me.

  “You fucking little—”

  “Just hear me out. If what I have to say doesn’t have any impact on you, then you can just beat the shit out of me and rape my wife and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  I tried not to beat the shit out of myself for what I’d said, and instead chose to simply talk faster.

  “Detective, because my wife sells the artwork of You-ey Brushstroke and he made some very public anti-Semitic remarks, neo-Nazi hate groups started bidding on his work. My wife’s computer was filled with bids from whack-jobs all over America. We didn’t know what to do, so we called the FBI and they immediately got on the case. An Agent Lester Horton—you can look him up—posted a security detail outside our home. Alyse thinks the detail is out there to protect the operation from the neo-Nazis but, the fact is, it’s there to protect the operation from you because I told Agent Horton about your threats to my wife.”

  Byron stared at me fiercely, then threw me a hanging curve ball. “Try fucking proving I threatened your wife.”

  I pulled out a mini-cassette recorder, hit play, and let it roll for maybe twenty seconds of the conversation between Byron and me.

  In the slow-motion of my terrified state, I noticed Byron’s Adam’s apple bob. I took that as a sign that shit was sinking in. “Detective, my chiropractor friend recorded our conversation over his phone. After you left, I told Agent Horton about you, and he advised that we make several copies. My friend has a few, I have a few, there are some in a safety deposit box, and there is one that will go to Agent Horton if anything happens to me.”

  V.

  Okay, those last two were lies. Horton already had the tape and there weren’t any in a safety deposit box. I don’t even have a safety deposit box. What the fuck would I put in a safety deposit box? The savings bonds I got for my Bar Mitzvah?

  Hey, did I ever tell you about the Bar Mitzvah gift I got from one of my parents’ best friends? This will only take a second, I promise. My friend, Scott Pfeiffer, had had his bar mitzvah in February and, since the Pfeiffers were such close friends, my parents splurged and wrote him a check for fifty bucks. His mother kept saying how she couldn’t believe how generous the gift was. But, when it came time for my Bar Mitzvah in September, did the Pfeiffers reciprocate in kind? Oh, no. For a gift in honor of my becoming a man, the Pfeiffers, knowing I was such a Knicks fan, gave me four shares of stock in Madison Square Garden, selling at five and a quarter per share. Can you believe that? Not even an even five shares! To this day, I try to imagine the strategy sessions between Ken and Estelle Pfeiffer as they tried to figure out the most elegant way of being cheap pieces of shit.

  Okay, back to the garage.

  Byron looked down and swung his head left and right. It seemed as if he was sure he’d find a way out of this, but didn’t have an immediate plan. I said, “Detective?”

  He looked at me, and then I was sure he was trying to figure out what he’d do after he killed me.

  “Detective,” I pressed on, “in a few hours, you are going to be given a random drug test.”

  Byron grabbed me by my jacket and threw me up against the Buick Regal.

  “What the fuck?”

  I guess he was confused and a physical impulse was all he had. I felt lucky that he hadn’t decided to shoot me, so I started talking fast again.

  “Detective, I told you when you first came down here that I wanted to talk to you to save your life. And, the fact is, I’m here to help you in the hope that, if I do, you will in turn leave me and my family alone.”

  “I’m totally fucked. How the fuck do you know I’m gonna be tested?”

  “If you repeat this, I’ll deny it. FBI Agent Horton told me so. He’s a computer whiz, so my guess is that he hacked into the department’s computer. And he also knows that you’re not going to pass it.”

  “Jesus fucking Chris
t. Well, that’s it. I’m fucked.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  This is kind of funny. I started to reach into my inside pocket, then flashed to all those Law & Order perps who freak out the cops by reaching into their pockets. I said, “I’m not pulling out a gun, okay?”

  Byron tilted his head up at me like, Go ahead.

  From my pocket, I pulled out a long, thin vial full of my own pee.

  “You can hide this somewhere on your person and fill the urine test cup with it. It’s my urine, and it’s a lot cleaner than yours. There’s no reason for anyone to frisk you beforehand because they know of no way in the world you could know in advance that you’d be tested.”

  I have to tell you, Commie, Byron’s reaction registered with me as one of the greatest, if not the greatest, moments of my life. I know I’m supposed to say the best moment of my life was when my kids were born, or the first time that I made love with Alyse, or my wedding, but those are moments that happen for someone twenty thousand times a day. To find yourself in a horrible situation and devise a plan that leads to a predatory cop dropping his tensed-up shoulders, widening his eyes, and looking like, like—I dunno, a grateful human being? It was the best moment of my life.

  Another thing I never told Alyse, so . . . you know the drill.

  You know the drill. Another expression coined and popularized for exclusive use by idiots.

  “You put a lot of thought into this, didn’t you?”

  I took it as another good sign that Byron managed to get out a sentence without using the word fuck.

  “Actually, I came up with the whole idea when I was stuck in traffic this morning.”

  “Really.”

  “Yeah. And it wasn’t easy because I had a lot on my mind. Not only did I have you to worry about, but my oldest friend was struck by lightning yesterday and is now in a coma—not to mention that Charlie woke up sick as dog today . . .”

  “He’s a cute kid.”

  “Thanks, though hearing that from you makes me a little more appalled that you’d threaten to sodomize his mother.”

  Well, I really pushed my luck there. I guess I started feeling too comfortable. Byron tensed up, and I thought I’d blown the whole thing, but then he dropped his head.

  “I caught a fifty-four-pound striped bass and brought it to a taxidermist,” he said, “I had him hollow it out and put a removable square in the gut. While I was working one morning, my kid—he’s five—he climbed up on the couch and knocked the fish off the wall. My stash of ecstasy and Oxycontin, all wrapped and labeled by the guys in the evidence room, flew out on the floor. By the time I got home, my wife had taken my kid to New Jersey.”

  “Were you selling or using?”

  “Both.” He said it with a look of, I’m such a fuck-up. Then he looked at me and said, slowly, “My ex-wife is gorgeous. Thin and tan with dark eyes.”

  He paused to make sure I made the connection.

  “Of course, she’s Italian.”

  Even though Byron’s solid-state rage had all but dissipated, I didn’t like this part of the conversation. You know, I just didn’t want to talk about girls. So, I handed him the vial of urine. My end of a trade: I give you clean pee, you don’t rape my wife.

  “Look,” Byron said, “I appreciate this.”

  “I have a good rapport with Agent Horton. So, I don’t think it’ll be a big problem to tell him we had a good talk and worked things out ourselves.”

  Byron put the vial in the crotch of his pants. Smart move, to keep it warm. Then he said, “I thought you were an asshole from the first second I met you.”

  I said, “Well, now you know: I’m just a schmuck.”

  Byron shook his head, almost laughed, then put his hand out for a shake.

  VI.

  Look, even in your coma, I appreciate your restraint in not telling me that what I did was unbelievably stupid and risky. I know I said that this moment in the garage was the best moment of my life, but I avoid thinking too much beyond that. It was a good moment. The whole thing worked out. But now that I’m solidly back to my annoyingly sane self, the whole scene in the garage makes me shudder. To be perfectly honest, if it’s raining when I go to work, I’ll slip the garage attendant a twenty to let me park in a visitor’s spot on the first floor. Unlike the campus at Maryland, I don’t seek out memories in that garage.

  You know, listening to myself, I’m a little bummed about all these mentions I’ve made about “the best moments of my life.” Isn’t it a little early for that? It’s not like I’m ninety, sitting in a rocking chair with nothing left in my life but retrospect. Maybe I should merely hope for two or three moments per year that I remember at all. Jesus. Have you ever seen someone who can lower his expectations faster than me? This aging business is relentless.

  I got in the elevator and pressed two to get back to my office, but it stopped at the lobby and my next patient got in. I’d only had one previous appointment with him, so, combined with being over-juiced on adrenaline, I couldn’t even remember his name (George Hershey) or what I was treating him for (heel spurs).

  “Getting in a little late today, Doc?”

  Doc. I was in an elevator with Bugs Bunny.

  “I had to go down to my car.”

  “What for?”

  I couldn’t stop my neck from turning my “Are-you-fucking-kidding-me?” face toward him.

  “Sorry, Doc. I was just kidding.”

  I guess I’d run out of personality. The elevator ride was a shade longer than it takes to get to the roof of the Chrysler Building. When the door opened, I said, “I’ll see you in five minutes.”

  I drifted past Sylvia, who whispered, “Everything okay?”

  I nodded and glanced down at her appointment book. George Hershey. Heel spurs.

  Mr. Hershey, you can stop walking for the rest of your life or I can amputate. Try to make up your mind fast. I’m in no mood for delay.

  I closed my office door. Finally, a second alone to digest all that had happened in that leaky garage. You would think some of the weight would be off my shoulders. And, in a way, it was. Just not in a way that had me shoot my fist in the air and go, YES! Quite the—well, oh Jesus. The truth is, actually, I just, you know, quietly lost it.

  Commie, it’s moments like this that make me glad there are euphemisms like, “lost it.” You get the point. We can move on, right?

  O. K.

  VII.

  I broke down. I sobbed. Head in hands, quivering, snot, phlegm—the whole deal. I’m not ashamed to admit it. Actually, I’m totally ashamed to admit it. But, in the spirit of full disclosure, coupled with your unconscious state—

  The normal thing to say is that “I cried like a baby” but, in the rare times I’ve thought back to that moment, the description never seemed apt. Really, it was much more pathetic than that, much sadder. Isn’t it always sadder when an adult cries? The only thing I can compare it to is the way Kevin Kline breaks down and cries in the car at the end of that movie about all the couples with waterbeds in the ’70s dropping their car keys in a fish bowl and swapping wives.

  I never remember the title of that one.

  I splashed my face and took another sliver of time to pull myself together. That was nixed by the little ping of a text message: Thanks. I WON’T let it go.

  It was from Audra. It took me a few seconds to figure out what the hell she meant. The “Don’t let it go” text I’d sent her the afternoon before felt like five years ago. Part of me wanted to answer with a screaming text back to her: With the horrible things that have happened since yesterday, you expect me to give a shit about your puny problems with your father?

  Don’t worry, Commie. I didn’t do anything stupid. At least not anything else stupid. I didn’t respond at all. It was no time to be dealing with Audra. I had no clue what she planned as part of her not
-letting-it-go strategy, and I didn’t want to know. Even with Audra’s sophistication, let’s face it: The smartest nineteen-year-old in the world is still a moron.

  I treated Hershey without lopping off his foot at the ankle. On the other hand, I should mention that he blew off his follow-up appointment and never came in again, which is fine by me. I hope he found another podiatrist who appreciates his sense of humor. I also hope he took a trip to Arizona, walked around barefoot, and was stung on the heel by a scorpion. I am human, after all.

  I drifted over to Arnie’s office. I should mention that you didn’t get the exclusive on my session with Byron. This wasn’t like the bottle-throwing thing, where I kind of had to keep it secret so as not to wind up in jail. I had to tell someone about Byron because A) it was too much to keep to myself, and B) it had to be Arnie because, for obvious reasons, I couldn’t tell Alyse. Truthfully, I didn’t think I should talk to Alyse at all for a couple of hours. All I needed was for her radar to pick up some jitter in my voice.

  Actually, that should be sonar, right?

  I poked my head in Arnie’s examination room and he mouthed the words “Two minutes” while monitoring a fairly attractive woman suspended in traction. I hovered around Sylvia in the waiting room and decided to head off a call from Alyse by texting her.

  How’s Charlie?

  Ten seconds later: Resting comfortably. How r u?

  I’m so slow at texting, I was sure Alyse would think something was wrong based purely on my delayed answer. Then again, she knows I’m a technical pea brain.

  K. Trying not 2 think 2 much, I managed.

  The moronic cheerfulness of text shorthand felt all wrong in light of the emotional g-forces of the day. It reminded me of the day after my father died. I was at the funeral home going over all the arrangements with one of those guys who must have studied grief at Yale Drama School. Every word was so delicate, every hand motion so deliberate and rounded off. The whole world felt solemn and severe, yet I couldn’t help thinking that there were millions of people just outside Browning Funeral Home who were riding and walking and sitting and gossiping their way through another blissfully forgettable day. How could they not be aware that this moment in time was no joke?