HOPE FOR CHANGE... But Settle for a Bailout

by Bill Orton

  “... yeh...,” said December.

  “… well…,” said Ed.

  “So,” Larry recapped, “she’s out so she wouldn’t have to deal with the ‘ick’ stuff of vertigo.”

  “Correct,” injected the doctor. “Avoid the ‘ick.’ ”

  “... no ick…,” said Ed, in a deep whisper.

  “Your grandmother is avoiding the truly icky effects brought on by a virus. Vertigo generally does not do long term harm, but if she were to suddenly overcome and lost her bio-navigational sense of order, that could lead to a very bad outcome.”

  Larry turned back to Emma. Dr. Bosch stepped closer. “So how long will she be out?”

  “If she continues working past this virus,” said the doctor, tentatively, “let’s hope soon.”

  Larry outstretched his hand and, before it neared Dr. Bosch’s own hand, Larry stopped, retracted it, stopped, and then pulled his hand back fully. Larry thanked her. The doctor departed.

  .

  My phone flashed “L V D B.” Only the fourth or fifth call this week from Larry. Not a bad week. “Larry, what?” I said.

  “Copenhagen? Remember?” said Larry.

  “I was supposed to tell you the word ‘Copenhagen,’ ” I said, looking onto one of the note cards on which I jot notes after Larry’s calls. There, the fifth of seven bullet points, were written the words, “Copenhagen / ask? remind?”

  “I’ll want doctors or nurses or skilled care providers,” Larry told me.

  “What?” I said. What the hell is he telling me?

  “Please arrange for six, total, who will cover three shifts,” said Larry, sounding as though he was buying bread. “I know it’s a lot, but, maybe the Royal Ballet can recommend someone, or the Queen’s Office, or someone like that. She is the daughter of a Principal Dancer. Danish, though; not Norwegian or Swedish.”

  “Was that what you meant by Copenhagen?” I said, crossing out the word on my notecard.

  “Not was,” said Larry. “Is. Please, Lawrence, it’s really important. Whatever it costs, we can spend it all, but please, okay? Copenhagen?”

  I underlined the crossed-out word. “Sure, Larry.”

  “Thank you, Lawrence,” said Larry. “Fast, okay? Please?” Larry hung up.

  I pressed the red button on my cell, so I could watch Larry’s initials disappear from my phone. It always feels good watching Larry go away. It made me think of the joke my dad would tell, of the man who purposely bought shoes two sizes too small, and when asked, he would explain that he worked a dead-end job and came home to an empty apartment, so the one pleasure he had was taking off his shoes every night. Is big money – even triple what I was making – enough to keep taking twenty or thirty calls a week from Larry van der Bix?

  .

  “Beautiful girl,” Ed said to December, “can I ask you something, and you might think it’s a little personal….”

  “I really don’t wanna talk about questions, Ed, okay?” said December, her voice rising from under the brim of her hat.

  “Well, more an observation, but someone hurt you up bad,” said Ed, as he sat still, holding Emma’s hands, as he had been since before December entered. “Are you in any pain?”

  There was silence from under the hat. “You have big hands,” said December. “Nice hands.”

  “It’s good being nice,” said Ed. “Not enough niceness going on.”

  The hat remained still.

  Ed continued holding Emma’s hand as Larry watched monitors and December sat quietly. No one stirred during nurse visits, and neither Ed nor Larry ever let go of their grip on Emma.

  Larry’ s phone flashed “Idiot Director” and Larry put the phone on loudspeaker.

  “Hal-lowww…, Tres, Tres von Sommerberg, from Denmark,” said the voice.

  “Yeh, the director, I know,” said Larry. “Do you know any doctors? You know, like a Danish version of Doctors Without Borders; someone who could come out for like a month, or two… all expenses paid and salary… all that....”

  “Oh, well then,” said von Sommerberg, “just some oral surgeons, but doctors? Maybe Lena does… maybe.”

  “Ask her, would you?” said Larry.

  “I was calling about the movie,” said von Sommerberg.

  “It’s not good news,” said Lena.

  “There is no movie,” said von Sommerberg. “There. I said it.”

  “The Royal Ballet will archive our work and we retain exclusive first-use of the raw material for 24 months,” said Lena.

  “Oh,” said Larry, not shifting from monitor scanning and hand-holding. “Um, hey, sorry, you know. It’s not gonna kill you, is it?”

  Lena laughed. “You Americans are so dramatic.”

  “For me, it’s not so bad,” said von Sommerberg. “In the Dogme95 style, the director does not receive a credit, so for me, well, who would know? It’s not like we’re sounding a horn, you know?”

  “And Larry,” said Lena, “Larry?”

  “Yes, Ms. Martins?”

  “Please, would you tell Miss Lewis a big, big hello from me? She will be viewed in the archive, perhaps even by Her Majesty.”

  “Okay,” said Larry. “I will, Lena. Sorry about the movie.”

  “And the Royal Ballet, Larry,” said Lena, “someone from the ballet will seek out Emma.”

  “Yeh, okay,” said Larry, “that’s good… bye,” and he pushed the red button, ending the call.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Potatoes in the Pilothouse

  Larry clamped a red-&-green navigation lamp to the bow of the Whitehall, as I sat in the rowboat. “Why do you use clamp-ons?” I asked, watching Larry screw a white lamp onto a thin metal pole mounted to the stern.

  “Calvin’s bastards go to war with me over every rowboat I’ve ever had,” said Larry, reaching into his pocket to pull out a brass ring. He knelt and picked up one of the four oars, sliding the ring onto the oar and handing it to me. I slipped the peg of the oar ring into a mount to my left and, when Larry handed me a second oar, into the mount on my right. Larry slid rings onto the two remaining oars, which he left on his grandmother’s dock as he stepped carefully into the boat. When he was seated, he reached for the oars, mounted them into their hardware, untied the boat from its cleat and pushed off.

  “Why are we doing this at eight at night?” I asked.

  The Whitehall drifted lazily into the middle of the wide slip that could easily berth an enormous craft, but which held only Larry’s 14-foot rowboat. Larry dipped his oars into the water and pulled, moving silently into the straight that separated Treasure Island from the Peninsula.

  “Helps me think,” said Larry. “Everyone is over there and I can be here, safe, away from them.” He waved across the bay, to the dock from which Italian-style gondolas took couples and groups on picturesque tours of the Naples canal, and beyond that, to the thatched-roof beach shack, with its holiday lights glowing around the bamboo bar and the sounds of laughter drifting across the water.

  As Larry rowed, I looked onto the water, at the long, wiggling silver reflection of the full moon. If I was trapped, at least I had a warm jacket.

  “Keep your oars up, Lawrence,” said Larry, as he rowed, facing me as I sat at the rear. “I don’t want to go fast… I just wanna row.” He took the boat to the middle of the bay, towards a tall, white buoy. When he got alongside the buoy, he made a 90-degree turn and continued rowing. “Ed had a scandal, you know.”

  “What?” I said. “What do you mean, he had a scandal?”

  Larry kept up his rowing. The water rushing over the oars came up silvery-green as Larry rowed the Whitehall into the river of silver light. upon the water wiggled under the spell of the oars.

  “When I said to Ed that you had something on him,” said Larry, rowing without breaking rhythm, “he said, ‘oh, he probably just wants to tell you about the scandal.’ ”

  “What scandal?” I said.

  “Just a sex and drugs thing, Ed told me,” said Larry. “
Something about entertainment clients.”

  “O… k-a-y…,” I said, not sure where to go with this. “Do you wanna dump the guy?”

  “No,” said Larry, as we approached the entry to the Rivo Alto Canal that circled its way through Naples Island. “Sort’a makes me feel more comfortable with the dude. Just thought you would want to know.” Larry turned the boat so he was pushing the oars to move, with my end of the boat now at the front. “Oh, and Emily’s got a lot of family stuff going on, so we might not see her much.”

  “Larry, we really don’t have that much to do right now,” I said. “Your money’s safe. You have liquid capital. And it doesn’t seem to have changed you, so….”

  “You know Lori almost went to the Olympics?” Larry asked.

  “Lori what?” I said, astonished. Why is it that every time I hear her name, I’m both happy and torn up into little pieces.

  “W’ull, it wasn’t the Olympics, but she came in fourth. She needed to be first or second.”

  “Where? When?”

  “Last weekend… the… uh… western regional trials to qualify for the national thing,” said Larry. “Oh, and I’m gonna give you a receipt for five hundred from Ralphie and he’ll come by asking for three months pay to be my driver.”

  “… Ralphie?”

  “Yeh, the driver.” Larry turned the boat easily and aimed us towards Treasure Island, looking over his shoulder several times to gauge position. “We agreed to $1,750 a week.”

  “Seven thousand dollars a month for a car!” I yelled. “Are you crazy?”

  “It’s okay,” said Larry, lifting his oars oat of the water and letting the Whitehall slowly drift into his grandmother’s enormous slip. “He’s got a Lincoln. With a fridge. He’s gonna put in a safe, too, so I guess you’ll get your vault, Lawrence.”

  I was stupefied, but at least Lori wasn’t kicking my shin. “Ralphie….”

  “Yep,” said Larry, rowing a tiny stroke at a time, to bring the rowboat in towards the dock. Larry dipped just one oar in the water for small circular motions, to control the drift to the dock. When we drew close, Larry grabbed a cleat, pulling the Whitehall to the dock and tying it off.

  “The Olympics,” I said softly, not disbelieving, but amazed. On a good day, I knew Lori could take any competition. She’s as strong and disciplined as anyone I’d ever known. During our marriage, when she’d go for long swims in the Belmont Olympic Pool, I would sit in the bleachers, watching her swim for as much as an hour at a time, just for that glimpse of her stepping from the water, like a goddess rising from the foam. Records she set at Wilson still stood fifteen years later. She once showed me a photo of her at 13 with the gray haired woman who coached her and in the photo, Lori’s face showed awe and intense responsibility as she held her coach’s gold medals.

  “The Olympics,” I said again, softly.

  .

  “So, uh, yeh,” said Larry, stirring his coffee.

  Ed, in a crisp tee shirt and baggy shorts, had a steaming egg roll in his fingers. “Hot! Hot!” he gasped after the first bite.

  “Larry mentioned something to me,” I said, holding my coffee.

  “Oh, the sex-and-drug thing?” said Ed, dipping his egg roll into sweet and sour sauce.

  “Those smell really good,” said Larry.

  “Want one, man?” asked Ed.

  “No, no, I don’t wanna....”

  Ed pushed the box of two remaining egg rolls towards Larry and stood up. “No worries, dude, I’ll get me more.” Ed walked around the corner.

  “Larry!” I fumed. “Bad timing.”

  Larry picked up an egg roll.

  “You only get one chance to see a person’s true reaction to a bombshell, and now Ed has time to compose himself and figure out the next thing he’s gonna say.”

  Ed returned.

  “So how’s ‘Lonely Island?’ ” asked Larry.

  “Man, that shark!” said Ed, laughing. “Good add. They honestly all look freaked.”

  “So what’s the scandal?” asked Larry, quickly.

  Hearing a number called aloud, Ed stood, “My number, but I’ll be back. I’m not running away.” A few seconds later, Ed returned with two boxes of egg rolls and several sauce containers.

  “What do we need to know?” I asked.

  “No one was arrested, no one got hurt, no one lost money,” said Ed. “Just had some wacked out entertainment clients who wanted me to score and party ‘em up.” Ed pulled off the top of the first egg roll, repeating the bared teeth exclamation. “Hot, hot.”

  .

  Larry stood near the front railing of his grandmother’s balcony, with a metal bucket of tiny yellow potatoes sitting open on a director’s chair next to him. Below, two teens walked slowly onto the dock where Emma’s slip lay empty, save for the Whitehall. Larry loaded a potato in one hand and several in the other and cocked his arm.

  Seconds later, a yellow spud sped across the distance, smacking a teen in the back of his neck. A second and third potato caught the other teen on his chest and shoulder, and a fourth spud hit the first teen again, as they scrambled off the dock, flashing middle fingers upwards as they ran.

  .

  ‘Oh, this is really nice,” said Emily, wrapping a wide shawl around her shoulders as Larry spun the Whitehall, maneuvering so that the rowboat moved slowly into the Rivo Alto canal. Docks on either side of the canal held a plethora of electric pleasure boats, speed boats and motor cruisers of varying sizes, sailboats and, beyond the final bridge, the giants. “Thanks for suggesting this, because it’s been really crazy at home. This helps a lot.”

  “Like, what’s going on?”

  “Oh, just my mom….”

  “Who has a store…,” said Larry.

  “… furniture now. Antiques,” said Emily. “She’s pretty deep in debt, and me and my brother and uncle, we figure we’re just not going to get our stake back, since we’re not seeing anything to replace the cash she needed for estate sales… and forget my stake, you know, one day she’ll have nothing to pass down. Nothing. And so what was it all for?”

  .

  Larry cranked the Victrola, as Emily sat in a wing chair along the front wall, looking to the Thorvaldsen. “That’s amazing you have a piece by Bertel Thorvaldsen. How did you even get that?”

  “W’ull, it wasn’t me, but I suppose I could probably buy another one,” said Larry. “It was my grandmother’s mom... she was really big as a dancer, real famous in Denmark, danced for the King, had lots of visitors here in California. I think it was a friend of her dad or uncle that brought the statue from Italy and travelled on the boat and then the train that carried the Thorvaldsen here.” Larry dropped the needle onto a disc of Enrico Caruso, producing crackling, popping hisses underneath the sounds of an orchestra and a voice that carried across the ages, across technology, each sweet note filling the studio.

  Emily finished her cup of coffee and set the cup and saucer on her thigh. “Thanks, Larry,” she said. “I needed this. You’re really a good guy. I hope your grandmother comes home soon.”

  “Yeh,” said Larry. “Me, too.”

  .

  Ed sat in the middle of the Whitehall, facing Larry, in the stern, who was doing all the rowing. Ed sat poised with a notepad and pen.

  “Okay,” said Larry. “Ewa Sonnet....”

  “She’d take a meeting, her contact said. Preferably New York or Paris.”

  “Miriam Gonzalez.”

  “Her person said to stop calling.”

  “Anekee,” said Larry, pushing forward in a circular rotation, moving the rowboat ahead.

  “Still waiting to hear.”

  “Odalys Garcia?”

  “Her agent said yes to an initial meeting,” said Ed. “She is open to film. Depends on script.”

  The rowboat narrowly missed banging into the center lane buoy at the mouth of the canal, leading out onto the straight between the Peninsula and Naples. “A movie with Odalys Garcia,” said Larry, absently. “W
ho wouldn’t wanna see that?”

  “Most chicks,” said Ed.

  .

  Lori covered her face with a towel while adjusting her position on the lounger on Emma’s balcony. “Bix, has December spent any time over here?”

  “Actually, I haven’t seen her since the hospital.”

  “I haven’t either,” she said, reaching for her glass of water with lemon. “Just thought, maybe she’d... you know… like… call.” Lori sipped her water and set the glass onto the table.

  .

  Larry rowed hard. The Whitehall, with its keel and wide bottom, flew across the water, as he looked over his shoulder, to gauge position. Behind him and closing from the distance was an enormous, gleaming motor yacht crossing the bay in his direction. Grotesque in its enormity, the boat hypnotically pulled Larry’s focus towards it.

  As it drew near, the boat climbed into the sky as Larry, in his 14-foot rowboat, craned his neck to look up, to the very top, and in the pilothouse there stood a smiling, deeply-tanned, bare-chested man with graying hair, one hand on the wheel and another holding a beer can.

  With Larry mesmerized, the wake from the motor yacht caught him by surprise. It took a moment for Larry to steady the Whitehall, as he watched the man and his machine motor past. The shirtless man drank from his beer, looked down towards Larry, smiled and waved.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ring the Golden Bells

  “So here’s what I worked out,” Larry told me, as we walked in the front door of his apartment. Inside, there was the heavy smell of stale clothes and food long ago lost in clutter.

  On the long wooden dining table, heaped with newspapers, books and magazines, was a golden metal object rising through the mountain of papers.

  It was a cash register. It could have been a hundred years old.

  The round keys gave it the look of a typewriter, but with numerals and a few function keys. Larry eagerly stood next to the register, his hands tenderly caressing it.