by Ben Rehder
I stuck the car in the garage, had lunch, and toyed briefly with the idea of getting a receipt for Marvin. I rejected the notion, and strolled out at ten to one to take up my position on Third Avenue.
Where nothing happened. Nothing. And I thought yesterday was bad. Yesterday was a dream compared to this. I stood on the sidewalk, hands in my pockets, blowing out frosty air, and jumping up and down trying to keep warm, and nothing happened at all.
Except my beeper went off like crazy. It was as if Wendy/Janet were trying to make up for not beeping me all morning. They beeped me again and again. Four times, on four separate occasions, for four separate sign-ups.
There was a pay phone on the corner and it worked, so I had no problem calling in. And it wasn’t more than fifty feet from the entrance to the building, so I could keep my eye on who went in and out.
But I had to write the assignments down in my notebook. And I had to get the addresses and phone numbers right, which requires concentration, particularly when dealing with Wendy/Janet. So, vigilant as I was trying to be, I couldn’t help feeling I might have missed something. Particularly since the last beep was right around five o’clock.
I was careful during that one. I swear I kept my eyes on the door the whole time, even while I wrote down the numbers. Because the woman hadn’t shown up all day long, it was time for her to leave work, and I was damned if I was going to miss her going home.
And I didn’t. I’m sure I didn’t. I got off the phone as fast as I could and I hustled back down to the doorway and I waited for Monica Dorlander to come out.
And she didn’t. The whole world came out of that building, but not Monica Dorlander. And as the minutes ticked by, and as the stream of people leaving work trickled down to a precious few, I began to have severe doubts again. Could I possibly have missed her?
Five-thirty brought a fresh flood of departing business types, Monica Dorlander not among them.
Five thirty-five that rush was over.
Five forty. No one.
Hell. Was she working overtime? Had she not gone in today? Was she at a sales meeting somewhere else?
Or had I missed her during the goddamn phone call?
I hurried back to the pay phone. There was a woman using it, but I figured she couldn’t talk long. Not in this cold.
She did. Five forty-five. Five fifty. Jesus.
The woman finally hung up.
I grabbed the phone, dialed 411, asked for a listing for Artiflex Cosmetics. I got the number, wrote it in my notebook, still watching the door to the building. I dropped a quarter in and dialed.
The phone rang five times. Shit. They’re closed. Then there was a click and a rather harried voice said, “Artiflex Cosmetics.”
“Monica Dorlander,” I said.
“Gone for the day.”
I hung up the phone, stepped out in the street, and hailed a cab.
I was in a foul mood riding up Third Avenue. Gone for the day? Of course she was. I’d missed her. Or had I? Gone for the day. What did that mean? That she’d been at work and left, or that she hadn’t been in all day? Shit. Why couldn’t the woman have said, “She just left,” and then I’d know. Gone for the day.
I paid off the cab and took up my position in front of Monica Dorlander’s apartment building.
And wondered what the hell I was doing there. Before I didn’t know if Monica Dorlander was at work. Now I didn’t know if she was at home. Yesterday I’d tailed her here. Today I was just here. Watching an empty nest?
It was too much. Nothing was going right. My first job, and everything was falling apart on me. It seemed as if events were conspiring against me to convince me that I was indeed incompetent. I needed some small reassurance. Some crumb.
I went to the pay phone on the corner and called 411.
“Could I have a listing for Marvin Nickleson—N-I-C-K-L-E-S-O-N—on East 83rd Street?”
A pause, then: “I have no listing on East 83rd Street. I have a Marvin Nickleson on East 14th Street.”
“No. East 83rd.”
“I have no listing at that address.”
“How about M. Nickleson?”
“No sir.”
“How about Monica Dorlander, same address?”
“I have an M. Dorlander on East 83rd.”
“Would that be 413 East 83rd?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s it. Let me have it.”
“One moment please.”
There as a pause, then a recorded voice came on giving the number. As I wrote it down it occurred to me that while Marvin Nickleson might want a reconciliation, his wife was busily washing that man right out of her hair. She’d already dropped him from the phone listing. In fact, it wouldn’t have surprised me to find out she’d disconnected the old phone, and the number I’d just copied was a brand new listing.
I took a quarter out of my pocket.
And I hesitated. To call or not to call.
Hell. It was cold. I was anxious. What the hell.
I dropped the quarter in and punched in the number.
Two rings. Three rings. Shit. No one home. Four rings. Then, click, “This is Monica Dorlander. I’m not in right now, but—”
I hung up the phone. Great. I missed her at work. She didn’t go home. I’m watching an empty nest.
I was cold, hungry, and pissed off. I would have loved to have hunted up a deli and had a cup of hot coffee and maybe a bowl of hot soup. But then she’d come home and I’d miss her. Worse, she’d come home, change her clothes, and dash out again and I’d miss her. I wouldn’t know where she’d gone. I wouldn’t even know she’d gone.
I couldn’t risk it.
There was a Sabretts stand on the corner. Dinner for one, compliments of Marvin Nickleson. I wondered what the vendor would say if I asked him for a receipt. I ate the hot dog, washed it down with a can of soda. It was so cold I was afraid the can would cleave to my hand. It didn’t.
I threw it in a trash can on the corner, a bonanza for some lucky bum who’d happened to catch my article on recycling.
I walked back the half-block to the entrance to Monica Dorlander’s apartment building, which I had been watching all the time. I stood across the street and watched some more.
And nothing happened. A big fat zero. People went in, and people went out, but none of them were Monica Dorlander and I couldn’t have cared less.
A police car pulled by slowly. It seemed to me the cop in the passenger seat was eyeing me suspiciously. Of course, it always seems that way to me, no matter what I’m doing. I have a built-in automatic guilt response to cops, perhaps as a residual effect of growing up in the sixties.
The car did not stop. The light did not flash on. The cop did not stick his head out the window and demand to know what I was doing. The car pulled on slowly down the street and turned the corner.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Then wondered if the car was just going around the block to see if I was still standing there when they went by again. I realized that wasn’t even a remote possibility. More like a superparanoid delusion.
I acted on it anyway. I walked slowly back to the corner. I kept an eye on the building entrance as I went. I needn’t have bothered. No one went in or out.
The police car didn’t come back either. There was no reason that it should. I didn’t look like a mugger or a rapist.
I went to the pay phone on the corner, picked up the receiver and dropped in a quarter. I pulled my notebook out of my pocket and called Monica Dorlander’s number.
Same old shit. Two rings. Three rings. Four rings. Click.
And a voice said, “Hello.”
I hung up fast.
Son of a bitch. A voice. Not a recording. A real voice. A real person.
Monica Dorlander was home.
It wasn’t fair. I think I’ve said that before. Probably many times. But that was how I felt. That was the operative phrase to describe this damn case I’d gotten myself roped into. It simply wasn’t fa
ir.
I’d been watching the building. Even through my sumptuous repast of hot dog and diet soda, I had been vigilant. From the time I’d called Monica Dorlander and gotten a recording to the time I’d called Monica Dorlander and gotten her actual voice, I had been watching the front door, and I could almost swear she hadn’t gone in and here she was home.
The operative word, of course, was almost. The tiny seed of doubt. Could I have missed her? Could anyone have missed her? All six feet of her? Not likely. So what happened?
There were several logical explanations. She was in the shower the first time I called so the answering machine picked up. Or she was one of those people who likes to listen to see who’s calling before she decides if she wants to answer the phone. But then why would she have picked up the second time? Or maybe the first time the phone rang she’d been visiting a neighbor’s apartment. That started a train of unsettling thoughts. Shit. What if the man she was seeing lived in her building? Not an altogether impossible occurrence. In that event, I’d never find out who he was. Not unless they were stupid enough to leave together. Which, if she were being discreet, Monica Dorlander would never do. Because in that event, as Marvin Nickleson had pointed out, he’d be able to get all the information he needed just by pumping the doorman. So if she was seeing someone in the building I was shit out of luck.
Damn. Minutes ago I’d been upset because Monica Dorlander wasn’t home. Now I was upset because Monica Dorlander was home.
There she was, and here I was. And here I was destined to stay, freezing my balls off until nine o’clock tonight.
Unless, of course, she went out. Which she didn’t. And by eight o’clock I figured she probably wouldn’t.
I went to the pay phone, called my wife, and told her nothing was happening and I’d probably be home soon. She was glad to hear it because she was running out of sanitary napkins and wanted me to pick some up on the way. I assured her I would, hung up, and resumed my vigil.
And of course nothing happened. When nine o’clock rolled around, I packed it in and took a cab back down town to pick up my car. Not to mention a receipt for Marvin Nickleson.
I drove uptown, found a parking spot on West End Avenue, and walked over to the Suprette on Broadway to pick up some groceries and ice cream.
And sanitary napkins.
Damn.
Pardon me, but am I the only husband who hates buying sanitary napkins? I mean, it would be different if I could walk in the store, grab a box of the damn things, plunk them on the counter, and hand the salesgirl the money.
But it’s not that easy.
I walked into the store, found the right aisle, looked at the display, and, as usual, my eyes began to glaze over.
You see, there’s not just sanitary napkins. There’s all kinds and all brands. And there’s only one kind that’s the right kind, and I’m damned if I know what it is. All I can ever determine is, the right kind is the one I didn’t buy.
You see, there’s maxi-pads, and there’s mini-pads. And there’s super maxi-pads, and super mini-pads. And ultra-thin maxi-pads. And ultra-thin mini-pads. And small maxi-pads, and large mini-pads. And vice versa.
And there’s different brands. And different brands have the same or similar designations. Only they mean different things. Ultra-super-mini-pads.
I stood there staring at the vast array of boxes, wondering which one is it? Or which one did I buy last time? If I could remember that, I would at least have a clue—I would know that that one was wrong.
Because they’re always wrong. Because as I stand there staring at the boxes, the one thing I know for sure is, whichever box I finally happen to choose, when I get it home, Alice will look at it and say in a totally flat voice, “Oh. You bought _____.”
And if I say, “Well, what kind should I have bought?” she won’t answer me. She’ll just smile slightly, and say, “Oh. It’s all right.” Because if the truth be known, the fact is there’s so many damn styles and brands, she doesn’t know either.
The thing is, I know this is going to happen. And as I stand there, looking through the boxes, all of this goes through my head. And it all just makes me more frustrated, embarrassed, and indecisive.
Indecisive. That’s the key. Worse than Hamlet. To buy, or not to buy? Ultra-thin, or not ultra-thin?
And the worst thing about it is, the longer I stand there vacillating, the greater the chance some clerk is going to come up to me and say, “May I help you, sir?”
At which point I just want to vanish into the floor.
So I want to make a quick choice. But it isn’t easy. Even if I make a stab at the size and brand, there are other considerations. For instance, there’s scented and unscented. Here I have a clue. I know Alice wants unscented. After ten long years of marriage I have hammered that one out. But it’s not that easy. As so often happens, here I am, standing in the store, staring at a box that I have narrowed down to be the most likely feminine napkin my wife might want. But it doesn’t say anything on it. It doesn’t say scented. And it doesn’t say unscented. And no other box of that brand says scented or unscented, either. So which is it? Which concept is this the negative of? In other words, if I were to find the opposite box in this style and brand, which this store, of course, does not carry, would that box say on it scented or unscented? After long years of trial and error, I still have no idea.
Am I alone in this? If not, I’d sure like to know. I’d like to know if other husbands feel the relief I feel when the elusive box has been finally selected and purchased, and, if not totally appreciated, at least accepted into our house. The relief at knowing the crisis, at least for the time being, has been averted, and that I am once more off the hook and can relax and forget about the whole sordid experience.
Until next time. When the box runs out. And Alice, sweet Alice, is taken totally unawares by her own period, and I am sent out to do battle again.
8.
ALICE WAS HUNCHED OVER the keyboard, typing furiously when I got home. I know she heard me come in, ’cause she said, “Hi,” though she didn’t glance up. I said, “Hi,” to her back, went into the kitchen, set the bag of groceries on the table, and came back into our dining room/office.
Alice was still typing. She typed another few lines, then began pressing the function keys that fill me with such trepidation. Words and numbers flashed across the screen quicker than I could read them. One final key, pressed with a bit of a flourish, and Alice said, “There.”
She looked up at me. “Hi. I got something for you.”
“Oh?”
She riffled through the pages on the desk, pulled out one, looked at it, and handed it to me.
“What’s this?” I said, taking it.
It was the sort of stupid thing people say to each other in conversation. I could tell by looking at it what it was. On the top of the piece of paper were the words, “STANLEY HASTINGS DETECTIVE AGENCY.” They were large and printed in an elegant script. Underneath, in a more discreet standard type, were the address and phone number of my office. Underneath that was a double line.
Just because a thing is stupid doesn’t mean you don’t say it.
“What’s this?” I said again.
“It’s a letterhead. I got a new program. IBM Printshop. I made you a letterhead.”
I frowned. “What do I need with a letterhead?”
“For your work. You got a job. You may get more.”
“What?”
“This Nickleson guy—you have to bill him, don’t you?”
“He’s paying cash.”
“Cash or check, he’s paying. And he’s gotta be billed.”
“You don’t understand. This is highly confidential. He doesn’t want any record of this.”
“No, but you do. You’re doing work, and you have to be paid.”
“I’m being paid.”
“Not today.”
“No. Tomorrow morning.”
“Right. And you have to keep track. Yesterday you were
into overtime, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“So he owes you for that. Plus for today. And you have expenses.”
“Yes, but—”
“But what?”
“Marvin Nickleson wouldn’t want—”
“Oh bullshit,” Alice said, coming out of her chair. She snatched the paper out of my hand and crumpled it up. “If you don’t want it, you don’t have to have it. I try to do something nice for you …”
“And I appreciate it. I—”
“No you don’t. You’re so defensive. So negative. ‘Marvin Nickleson wouldn’t want.’ Fuck Marvin Nickleson. You gotta give him bills. If he doesn’t want ’em he can tear ’em up, burn ’em, flush ’em down the toilet. What difference does it make if your name’s on a bill you show him? He knows you’re working for him.”
She was right. That’s one of the big problems with my wife. She’s often right.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ll use them.”
“You don’t have to.”
“No. I wasn’t thinking. I need them.”
“Don’t humor me.”
“I’m not humoring you.”
“Yes you are. You don’t need them. You just realize it won’t hurt to use them.”
I looked at her. “What’s the matter?”
“What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” Alice took a breath. “It always happens. You get so caught up in what you’re doing all you can see is your point of view. I got this program, and it occurred to me maybe I could do something with it. Letterhead. Fliers. Resumes. And this is nothing. You should see the stuff this thing can do. And maybe if I spread the word and put out signs, I could get some work out of this.”
She snatched up the crumpled paper from the desk. “This thing for you is nothing. It was kind of a test run, so to speak. And what kind of a reception do I get? I can’t even sell my own husband, who’s getting it for free.”
Despite myself, my eyes twinkled slightly.
She caught it. “No double entendre intended.”
I put up my hands. “All right, all right,” I said. “Hey, listen.” I took her by the shoulders. “I’m very sorry, but you have a big problem. Your problem is you married a moron.”