Then again, let’s face it, that question is small potatoes. Maybe the real brilliance of humanity is our ability to totally ignore our own survival instincts. Some stymied corner of our brain is trying to tell us we should worry about living through the day, but it’s outvoted by the rest of our brain telling us to worry about parking spots and credit ratings. By now, it probably sounds like I enjoy contemplating stuff like that, but the truth is, it gets me frustrated. My capacity for it has pretty strict limits.
Luckily, Alyse cut off the texting with, Charlie calling. Gotta run. (By the way, we relaxed the rules on “I love you’s” when signing off text messages. Enough is enough already.)
Arnie’s patient emerged from his examination with a real bounce in her step. She was a lot of woman, tall and solid like an Olympic swimmer with a big, pretty face, and long, dirty blonde hair in a loose ponytail. Come to think of it, Olympic athletes do seem to get more and more attractive all the time. The shtupping that must go on at those Olympic Villages.
Arnie saw me watch her get on the elevator. The second the doors closed, he whispered, “Former plus-size model. Imagine getting wrapped up in that.”
My smile was feeble.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’ve got a sick story to tell you.”
“You wanna grab lunch?”
“Oh. Okay. But not around here, where I’ll see people I know.”
“How about that place in the Bronx where Michael Corleone took out Salazzo and that crooked cop?”
I laughed because it was funny coming from Arnie, but I’m not a Godfather freak like every other guy in the world. Something about the way you’re supposed to root for these thugs who are passed off like they’re trustees on the board of Chase Manhattan just rubs me the wrong way.
We went to a Chinese place in one of the economically depressed towns located closer to the beach but not close enough. You know what I told Arnie already, so I’m not going to go overboard describing lunch. If you want to pop up now just to say, “Thank God,” and go right back under, that’s fine with me.
For the most part, the conversation with Arnie went like this:
I’d say “This morning, ba-da-ba-da-ba-da,” and Arnie would say “Get the fuck out!” And I’d say, “After Byron plunked my car, ba-da-ba-da-ba-da happened,” and Arnie would say, “You’re fucking kidding me!” And, eventually, I said, “So, in the end, ba-da-ba-da-ba-da.”
Arnie leaned back and said, “Holy shit. You took a pretty insane chance there. I mean, you pulled it off and I’m glad you did, but why didn’t you at least tell me, so I could hide behind a car and leap out if things got out of hand?”
“I guess I just didn’t want a safety net this time. I pretty much needed to feel unsafe and hope Byron would see that I was scared. That way, at least he’d have to be somewhat impressed by the fact that I had the guts to face him.”
Actually, I hadn’t thought of that until I said it to Arnie, but it made sense.
“Dealing with him one-on-one was the only way I could really get him out of my life.”
“You know,” Arnie said, “you could get in a lot of trouble for supplying the clean urine. I mean, you could lose your license.”
“I know, but Byron’s pee test will come up negative and that should be that. They can’t give him a random test and not trust the results, right?”
“Yeah, you’re right. And, look, even if they didn’t trust the results and Byron broke down and said he’d gotten your urine, he can’t prove it. You just deny it, then play the tape of him threatening Alyse. Not that any of that’s going to happen anyway.”
“Yeah, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
Arnie nodded thoughtfully before saying, “So, even if this all works out perfectly forever, I hope you’re not going to tell Alyse about it.”
“Don’t worry.”
“Good,” Arnie said. “Because women have a real bug up their asses about rape.”
I choked on a spring roll, and that was pretty much lunch.
Wait. Of course, I did also ask Arnie how Fumi was doing, and Arnie told me about the doctor who suggested to his wife that they hire a Filipino nurse to take care of her while she convalesced.
I looked at Arnie like, huh?
“Filipino nurses have a reputation for being really great. And they speak English so they’re especially good.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that. So, did Fumi go for the idea?”
“Fumi liked the idea of a nurse, but not a Filipino. See, the Japanese are totally racist against all other Asians.”
“Another thing I didn’t know.”
“I didn’t either, but Fumi explained, and I quote, ‘For Japanese, it’s simply tradition for us to look down on other Asians.’ So, I said to her, ‘Well, that’s perfect. The Filipino nurse would be your servant. You can look down on her all you want.’ But still no dice. There was no way Fumi was going to have a Filipino in our home, so I just dropped it, but not before saying something really stupid.”
“Uh oh. What?”
“I said, ‘You Japanese gotta lighten up on your traditions.’”
“What’s stupid about that?”
“Well, you know they also have a whole suicide tradition, and that’s what Fumi thought I was implying. She got all crazy, crying and telling me that she didn’t attempt suicide at dinner, that she had just wanted the pills to work faster.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. I eventually convinced her I wasn’t implying that she attempted suicide, and that I was guilty of a poor choice of words.”
“Is she still pursuing the lawsuit against the emergency room doctors who sliced up her dress?”
“Oh, yeah,” Arnie said, nodding helplessly. “I’ll tell you, from the second America’s idiots and/or nutcases discovered litigation, there was no hope for this country.”
We talked about that for the rest of lunch. How there’s no hope for this country or this world. It was reassuring to hear that Arnie was, like me, too freaked to even contemplate what his kid would see in life. By the time we covered dirty bombs, biological weapons, global warming, over-population, Jesus-freaks, and swine flu, we agreed that we were pretty lucky to have lived during the years we’ve lived.
I grabbed the check from Arnie, paid for lunch, and said, “You know, it’s impossible.”
“What?”
“All of it. Everything in the world. You name it, it’s impossible.”
“Yeah, well,” Arnie said, “no one said it was going to be easy.”
It was rare to hear Arnie spout such a Readers’ Digest line. Maybe that’s why I thought to myself, Really? “No one said it was going to be easy?” But someone must have said it at least once. I couldn’t have gotten that impression out of thin air.
Arnie and I drove back to the office and repaired to our separate examination rooms. I felt even keeled after muscling through three patients, and I called Alyse, confident my voice wouldn’t give anything away.
“Your timing’s perfect. Charlie just fell asleep.”
“How’s he feeling?”
“He had one more round of diarrhea around noon, but not that long after, he sat up in bed and started chatting up a storm.”
“What was he chatting about?”
“Becoming a vegetarian.”
“What?”
“The thought of meat pretty much grosses him out right now.”
“You know, Alyse, most of the vegetarians I know are actually pretty fat.”
“I know!” Alyse said, laughing. “I’ve noticed the same thing!”
“What are they getting fat on?”
“Mac and cheese.”
“That must be it. Their diet is so limited they think that anything they can eat must be good for them.”
“Exactly. I love mac an
d cheese, but I have it maybe once a year.”
“I think they eat a lot of nuts, too.”
“And nuts are also fattening. In fact, a lot of veggies are fattening. Avocados—you can totally blimp out on them.”
“That’s kind of unfair. They should make a law that all plants are healthy.”
“That would be a great law. You could run for president on that.”
“I think you’re right.”
“If I were president, I’d make a law that the gas tank has to be on the same side of every car.”
“Oh, Alyse. That is brilliant. I’ve had my car for four years now, and I still can’t remember which side to pull into a gas station on.”
“No one can, honey.”
You could say it was some kind of testament to the human spirit that Alyse and I, on that particular day, were able to veer into a conversation that had us laughing over the phone. We kept it going a few minutes more. I think we ended on the idea of passing a law that would abolish the death penalty except in the case of people who clip their nails on the subway.
Just as I felt a hairball of guilt about laughing so much on such a shitty day, Alyse came through with her typical mind-reading. “Honey, Commie wouldn’t want you to feel guilty about having a good laugh.”
“Even over the phone, you picked that up?”
“Even over the phone.”
“Well, you’re right. Commie was never into guilt trips.”
Then I sensed that Alyse took a second to gather herself. I was right. She told me Agent Horton had spoken to her in the morning after he left.
“He told me he was going to talk to you. He said everything with the bidding was going well, right?”
“Yeah. Horton said that they’ve tracked three separate groups doing most of the bidding and one he’d never heard of before. He said that he checked up the guy—his name is Ezra Panchen—and he’s super-loaded. He compared him to—remember that billionaire who spend all that money trying to destroy Clinton?”
“Yeah, vaguely. I think he had three names?”
“Horton mentioned the name, but I don’t remember it. Horton also compared him to another bazillionaire whose money was behind the swift boat thing with Kerry.”
“In other words, wealthy right-wing crazies.”
“Exactly, but this Panchen guy’s a wealthy right-wing, Neo-Nazi crazy. So wealthy, that by the time Horton closes the bidding on the nine pieces up on the site, he expects it to cap out at about $800,000.”
“Get out.”
“I know. It’s crazy.”
“And, eventually, because of this, Horton will hopefully nail this guy, right?”
“I guess. And he also confirmed that we can keep our share of the commissions.”
“Wow,” I said, and then, like a dipshit, I thought aloud: “Twenty percent of $800,000 comes to—”
“Don’t get into the math, honey.”
“Oh, no?”
“No. I started thinking about how I’ll feel to know we made all that money off American hatred.”
“Oh, fruit of the poison tree.”
“Well put.”
“I guess we’ll have to discuss this.”
“We have time. Horton has to close the bidding, the Nazis have to send the checks, we have to wait for them to clear, then ship off the artwork.”
“Don’t forget dealer prep and destination charges.”
“Right.”
“We’ll have time to think. That’s good.”
VIII.
When I said “good,” I meant it. I’d been making some pretty snap decisions lately, so it was a relief to be able to settle back into the comfort of procrastination. You know, sometimes I think the most beneficial thing I learned in college was how to effectively put shit off.
I’m not complaining. It’s a good skill.
When Alyse and I hung up, I felt pretty much okay. I mention that because you might remember what I said when I started this story—what? 55 years ago now: I told you that it bugged me when Alyse said she had a feeling, “I’m gonna make a fortune” off You-ey. Well, during the phone call, she kept saying “we” instead of “I.” Horton confirmed that we can keep the money. And we have to wait for the check to clear. One little word change and I didn’t feel threatened anymore. We were in this together, and why not?
I’m justifying myself here, and it’s totally ridiculous. Jesus. To start doing an archeological dig into every thought or emotion I have is so pointless.
Let’s not groom fleas here.
I felt good. Let’s accept that and drop it. Okay?
Actually, after my next three patients, I mentally added up how much money I’d made from office visits that day. It felt a little paltry next to the numbers Alyse was throwing around. It didn’t bug me. A nano-second of a twinge, and that was all. I felt good.
The skies were clearing.
Before leaving, I put in a call to Graydon at Newsday. He told me his piece on the horseradish company would run the next day and that his editors had been pretty thrilled with it.
“Well, that’s great,” I said. “Maybe you’ll get a Pulitzer.”
“Maybe.”
I’d been kidding when I said that, so Graydon’s saying “maybe” was pretty surprising.
“If I win, I’ll be sure to send you a bottle of Champagne or something.”
“If you win a Pulitzer, you owe me at least dinner and Champagne for me and my wife.”
“You’re right. I thought I’d try to lowball you.”
Of all the stuff that happened, one of the more enjoyable things was the give-and-take I had with Graydon. We had a really good rapport. After telling me You-ey would definitely be arraigned the next morning and that some of the people at the DA’s office were thinking the case was pretty shaky, Graydon said to me, “You know, I have a theory about this case.”
“Really?” I said. “What’s your theory?”
“I haven’t really thought it through very much yet, but I was thinking maybe you threw the bottle through the window.”
Maybe our rapport was too good, I thought.
Commie, knowing me, you have to assume I totally panicked when he said that. Not my pee-in-my-pants panic, but pretty damn close, right?
Wrong. Calm as can be, I said, “Hey, that’s a fantastic theory.”
To which Graydon said, “I’m half-serious.”
To which I said, “I can see why. It would be a perfect crime. Who’s gonna suspect a Jew of anti-Semitic vandalism against a store owned by a big Jewish macher?”
“Macher? What’s that?”
“Oh, it’s Yiddish. It means a guy who’s a big deal. Something like that. Yiddish is tough to translate. On the other hand, the macher and his daughter are my long-time patients, and I didn’t steal anything from the store. So, I think your problem is motive.”
“Yeah, I don’t know why you would have done it. And, if you did, I’m not exactly sure why you’ve been doing all this stuff to clear that You-ey guy.”
I exhaled in a way that sounded as if I were disappointedly agreeing.
“Like I said, I haven’t really thought it through.”
At that point, I wanted to quit while I was ahead and get off the phone, but I also didn’t want to sound suspiciously abrupt, so I said, “Well, I watch a lot of Law & Order, so I pretend like I know about this stuff. So, I’d say, next time you face a situation like this, you should think things through more before confronting your suspect.”
To which Graydon said, “Yeah. The theory hit me because you seemed more interested in the case than the average person. But I like you, so I took the lazy route and thought I’d just throw it out there to you and listen to hear if you went speechless or, you know, puked.”
“I haven’t puked in, like, fifteen years.”
“Well, I guess I should apologize for even thinking it, but, then again, you went with my theory so happily, I get the feeling you enjoyed it.”
“You’re right. No apology necessary. In fact, any other theories you want to run by me, don’t hesitate.”
“Thanks. How are your wife and kid?”
“Kids. We have two. They’re fine, but this was a rough day. My oldest friend was hit by lightning yesterday and now he’s in a coma.”
“Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, it’s horrible. I don’t want to think about it.”
“I bet.”
Sounding reluctant, I said, “Well, I guess I should be going. It’s Hanukkah tonight so the kids are going to want me home.”
Graydon wished me a happy holiday.
Click.
It was pretty surprising that, on a whim, he came up with me as the perp, and I guess I was pretty lucky he didn’t have much confidence in the theory. But that wasn’t what I thought about after we hung up. Instead, I thought about the number of times that I’d told people that “my oldest friend was hit by lightning.” There’s no denying I was using your tragedy to get sympathy or to soften people or to swerve out of dicey conversations. Even though I felt you wouldn’t mind, it still seemed a little skeevy. I did the same thing in the weeks, or even months, after my father died, and I decided he wouldn’t have minded either. My father would have said, “Hey, I’m dead. If you can benefit from it, be my guest.”
One time at basketball, a few of us were talking about all the post-traumatic stress victims coming back from the war, and one of the two guys I didn’t really like in the game said something like it’s impossible to kill someone and not be traumatized, even in war. So, I said my father told me he shot a few guys in World War II and never regretted it for a second. It wasn’t true. I just wanted to nix the guy’s point because he got on my nerves.
One nice thing about the dead—you can misquote them with impunity.
IX.
Did I ever tell you about my father in the war? I don’t have much time, but in the short strokes: My father was there for the invasion of Normandy on D-day. He was on one of the LST boats, and he got so seasick that he couldn’t get out of the boat. All the other guys charged the beach while my father lay nauseated on his back. The guy who was at the helm of the boat had been killed, so it just floated there. My father was lying so still, with his eyes closed, that he figured the Germans thought he was dead. When he finally picked up his head, I guess he was in calmer waters because he had his equilibrium back and was able to get out and hit the beach.
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