“And it sounds like you might love Boonsri?”
“I know it’s fast. I know we haven’t spent much time together.”
“I suppose love is weird that way.”
They sat silently for a while, listened to Molly Hatchet, sipped their drinks. Someone on an end stool grunted.
“Listen, Leonard,” John said, shooting the rest of his drink, “I’m gonna be out of town for a bit.”
“Yeah?” he said. “Where ya going?”
“Work things,” John said.
“Okay,” Leonard said.
“I’ll contact you when I’m back. We’ll hang again.”
“Sounds good,” Leonard said.
John stood up, looked down at Leonard, furrowed his brow. He opened his mouth, closed it again. Then he reached over, patted Leonard’s shoulder, and left.
John had been different lately—more subdued, reserved. Leonard attributed this to the press, which hadn’t been kind to him. The papers sported headlines like end of an era? and the emperor wears no clothes with pictures of John and the Quigley House, looking bleak and murky. The articles focused on lower sales, potential lawsuits, angry customer testimonials. One said that the “experiment” of full-contact haunts was over, that while people wanted to be startled, they didn’t want to be touched—personal space was actually a thing, it read. Even in such close, terrifying quarters.
Leonard figured it’d all iron itself out—people like John Forrester, just because of the nature of his business, had to endure these types of attacks. He’d come out of it soon. And who knew? Maybe when he did, he’d want some sort of business partner. Maybe that’s what he’d wanted all along. Maybe that’s why he’d been meeting with Leonard this whole time. Maybe he saw potential, promise. Stranger things had happened.
March came swiftly, and Boonsri had yet to respond. He’d written and written, called and called, but it seemed, then, that she’d never even existed: she’d become a spectral conjuring from an exhausted brain. Thailand itself seemed like a fantasy, a recurring dream in which he spent hours cramped on a plane—attempting sleep but failing, suffocating under human proximity—only to land in an over-humid third world, surrounded by the fetid smell of fish and sweat. In this dream, he was forever uncomfortable—sticky, sweaty, claustrophobic—until he saw Boonsri, at which point the unease of foreignness evaporated, and he felt once again solid and robust.
Because Boonsri wasn’t responding to his communication, his Thai dream remained trapped in a state of perpetual ugliness, and he began to find everything about the country disgusting, backward, and ignorant. Why were there areas of such destitution? he wondered, walking around alone in his dream. Why all this gold, why a goddamn palace for a king when, down the street, women and men smiled with black, rotted teeth? Why such lavish temples when the roads were too narrow, the restaurants too dirty, the strays too ubiquitous? Why have filth displayed so openly, the air in Nana Plaza and Patpong saturated with disease and abuse? This place was a cesspool with beaches, he thought. He considered canceling all future trips.
At the Claymont, Leonard’s professional life dangled by a small, crusty thread. The Claymont was hosting a conference for area business entrepreneurs—the Excellence in Ownership (EO) Conference—something they hosted every year, and usually it was easy, just set up the rooms, prepare the meals, direct the traffic, but this year, for the first time in the conference’s history, some members were electing to stay elsewhere and commute to the hotel during the day. The number of commuters wasn’t large—most still wanted the convenience—but that any customers weren’t staying there testified to the hotel’s spirited decline.
On the first day of the conference, he ran into his ex, Mary Kenilworth, just outside the women’s restroom.
“Mary,” he said, his breath catching in his throat.
She looked stunning. Her hair was shoulder-length, shiny, and straightened, and her skin, previously pale and ruddy, looked beautifully fortified: it emitted a slick healthiness that he usually equated with airbrushing. She was trim, bright, confident in pose and expression, and suddenly, inexplicably, brutally, he wanted to be with her again.
“I wondered if I’d see you,” she said, clutching her purse close to her chest.
“You’re part of the conference?” he said.
“Yes,” she said. She looked down the hall.
“I didn’t see you on the guest list. Are you—”
“I’m not staying here.”
“I see.” He bit his lip. “Well, how are you? How’ve you been?”
Mary shook her head. “I’m not going to do this,” she said.
“You’re here for the conference,” he said. “You own a business?”
She ran a hand through her hair. “In Omaha. It’s called Nebraska Fresh.”
“That’s great,” he said, his gut churning. “Congratulations.”
“I gotta get back. Just a ten-minute break.”
“But wait. Maybe, I mean, can we get a drink or something? Dinner?”
She sighed. “No,” she said.
“It’d just be as friends,” he said. “I’ve been in a bad place. I could use someone to talk to.”
“Do you even listen to yourself?” she said.
He closed his mouth.
She hooked her purse around her shoulder. “What you need,” she said, “I don’t want to give you.”
“Okay,” he said, looking at the floor.
“And please don’t make these next three days awkward, okay? Just stay away from me.”
He looked up at her, his throat tingling. “But we weren’t all that bad together, right? We were good.”
“Please,” she said. “Just stay away.” She sniffed, turned, and walked down the hall. Leonard watched her go, biting his lip till it bled and thinking how unbearably unlucky he’d been in life, how the world had piled upon him one enormous sack of mistreatment.
On the final day of the conference, he received a call from Corporate. Brittany Grace, that ever-present whine-drone, told him that she’d spoken to numerous people in the office, that she’d reviewed all of his reports, interviewed his employees, evaluated comment cards, and had concluded, after thorough examination, that his final chance had expired eons ago, and that everyone had decided he was to be terminated, effective the end of the week.
“We’ve appreciated all you’ve done,” she said. “But really, Leonard, you had to have seen this coming.”
He pleaded, choked, cried, promised he would do better, that he was just going through a rough patch and things would turn around, but Brittany remained silent, and when he was finished, she said, simply, “Your desk needs to be emptied out by six p.m. on Sunday.”
“You’re making a big mistake,” Leonard said.
“Goodbye, Leonard,” Brittany said. She hung up.
The conference ended. Polished men and women in suits milled about the hall outside the main conference room. Leonard waded through them until he found Mary, who was talking earnestly with a white-haired woman with a cane.
“Excuse me,” Leonard said.
The white-haired woman looked at him, smiled. “Oh, you’re the manager here,” she said. “It’s been a great conference.” Her voice was throaty, uneven. He couldn’t imagine what sort of business she ran.
“Mary,” he said.
Mary turned to him, frowned. “I’ll call the police.”
“The police?” the woman said.
“They’re gonna fire me,” he said.
“Fire you?” the old woman said. “What for? You’re doing such a terrific job!”
“I just got off with Corporate. I have till the end of the week.”
Mary sighed. “Christ, Leonard.” She turned to the old woman. “I’m so sorry, Leah,” she said.
“Whyever would they fire you?” Leah said, staring at Leonard. “This has been so lovely.”
“I think I can get them to change their minds. After all I’ve done. I’d just need to bounce s
ome ideas around, you know? Just a few ideas. So maybe we could just hang out for a bit? Maybe we could go over some ideas together? Please? Just one cup of coffee?”
Mary shook her head. “What about your best friend, John? Can’t you talk to him? I’m sure he could give you a lot of good guidance.”
“John Forrester’s a fuckwad idiot,” Leonard said, surprised by the energy behind his performance. “I don’t need him. He’s ruined my life, you know?” He thought of Boonsri. He thought, If I’d never met her . . .
“You know John Forrester?” the old woman said.
“Just an hour!” Leonard said. “Come on! Just one hour! It’s my life here!”
“Goodbye, Leonard,” Mary said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I hope you can get things worked out. But I’m not going to spend any more time with you.”
And once again, he watched her walk away, his chest tight, his throat dry. He breathed, remembering Sausalito, her hair damp against his chest, his fingers gripping her left shoulder, her breath released in small, raspy gasps. He remembered the black sky crashing down on the Pacific, the waves foaming and raging against the rocks, the rain pelting from above, weighting his hair to his scalp. He thought: I’ll never experience another moment like that again in my life. He thought: It’s over. It’s over. It’s over.
“I just remembered!” the old woman said. Leonard had forgotten she was still there. “The Claymont hosts Quigley House contestants. That’s how you know John Forrester!”
Leonard looked at her, scoffed, shook his head, and walked away.
“Well, I think you’re doing a great job!” the woman said. “Everything here was so lovely!”
He didn’t reply.
On Thursday, two days after seeing Mary, he wrote another letter to Boonsri. It started:
I’m suffering suffering suffering.
He sent the letter. He cried.
He called Corporate. He yelled, told them how ethically decrepit their organization was. This is my life, he said. Brittany Grace listened to him, offered a few words of encouragement—someone with your skills and talent—but in the end, things remained the same; he would be jobless soon. Sixteen years down the drain. He’d have to start over.
“I’ll sue you for wrongful termination,” he said, defeated. “Don’t think I won’t.”
“Threats aren’t good, Leonard,” she said.
“Don’t tell me about threats,” he said.
He met John Forrester that night. The haunt owner was back, and had called, sounding relaxed, perhaps even happy, on the phone. He’d said, “Let’s meet,” and Leonard had said yes.
Pete’s, that night, was unusually empty. Only a couple men sat on the stools, grudgingly sipping their Bud Lights. The music, Leonard noticed, was subdued, the usual classic rock replaced by brooding alternative, the kind with deep male voices and minor chords. At their booth, Leonard fidgeted with the buttons on his shirt. He’d come to Pete’s directly from work.
“Sort of dead today,” Leonard said, looking around.
“It’s early still,” John said.
John looked fresh, well rested. He rapped his fingers against the table and smiled. Leonard smiled back.
“You were gone for a while, huh?” Leonard said.
“Just to clear my head,” John said. “And it worked.”
“Where’d you go?”
John sipped his whiskey. “Leonard, I heard the news.”
“What?”
“About the Claymont. I’m sorry to hear that. Very sorry.”
“I’m still talking to them. Nothing’s for sure yet.”
“I heard earlier on.”
“You heard what?”
“About what might happen. To you, your job.”
“You knew?”
“The Claymont relies on me for a lot of its business. You think Corporate doesn’t talk to me?”
“Jesus.” Leonard shook his head. “You should’ve told me.”
“It seemed inevitable. I didn’t want to talk about it. Would’ve been unprofessional.”
They sat for a while. John shot the rest of his drink, went to the bar, brought back another round. “Listen,” he said, leaning in, elbows propped atop the table. “Leonard. I need to talk to you.”
“Okay?”
“It’s good. Don’t worry. It’s very good. I think it’ll make this situation better for you.”
“What?”
“Just listen. This will all be good in the end. I promise.”
John told Leonard that he’d gone to Thailand, to Bangkok, that he’d needed space from the American media, which, he said, had pummeled him unfairly. Sitting beneath a green awning with blinking white lights, sipping a specialty martini (chocolate, he said, Godiva), he’d thought hard about Leonard’s troubles—Leonard’s life, he’d thought, had sweltered in that certain pit of unfairness that went hand in hand with relations with the opposite sex, and the trip that John had arranged for him had gone somewhat awry, insofar as love itself, particularly long-distance love, was a case for abundantly complicated awry happenstances, so he felt, right then, as a soft, wet breeze lapped at his cheek, that he must correct the wrong, since Leonard had proven himself John’s only real friend. Certainly, other people wanted to be his friend, John said, laid claim to his friendship, but they all, in the end, wanted something else—money, fame, or, at the very least, proximity to money and fame. But Leonard hadn’t wanted any of those things. Leonard had, like him, only wanted companionship. And so, feeling selfless and warm and kindly, but most of all obligated, John had gone to the Spider. He found Boonsri quickly—Leonard’s description had been on-point, simple. He bought her. He brought her to his hotel, but he didn’t have sex. I’d never, he told Leonard. Never ever ever. Instead, he told her who he was, what his resources were, and how he was a good friend of Leonard Grandton’s. He loves you, he’d told her. He loves you truly and purely and your life in America would be exceptional. He told her how he could make things happen, how he had clout, and how because he had clout he could get things done; he could expedite processes, influence bureaucracies, and if she was willing, if she’d just take this one chance on love, he could take care of her passage to America, at least for a while. Think about it, he’d said. Think about a new life. Think about a caring, loving husband. Think about being surrounded by opportunity every day. Think about it.
“You talked to Boonsri?” Leonard said, his mouth open. “You talked to her?”
“Listen, Leonard,” John said. “You’re my friend. I hated seeing you so miserable without her.”
“You talked to her?” Leonard repeated. “What did she say? You didn’t—”
“No, I told you. I didn’t fuck her.”
“But what did she say?” Leonard said, leaning forward. “You offered to bring her here? You really offered that?”
“I knew your situation,” John said. “I knew what you were dealing with.”
“But John! What did she say?”
John sighed. “It took some convincing. Her family—she’s very close.”
“She told you that? About her family?”
“Leonard, quieter, okay?” He paused. “She said yes.”
“She said yes?”
“She said yes. I’m filing paperwork soon. It’s going to happen.”
“She’s coming here? She’s actually coming here?”
“You’ll need to get your place ready. It’ll be culture shock for her. You’ll need to help her ease into American life. She’s never left Thailand before. She’ll need your guidance the moment she gets here.”
“But when?” Leonard’s heart raced. “When? Is this real? Are you for real?”
John chuckled. “You’ve been a friend. It’s the least I can do.”
“But when? When will it happen? Oh my god. John. This changes everything.”
“Leonard,” John said, still rapping his fingers against the table. He glanced at the men at the bar, turned back to Leonard, lowered his voic
e. “Now, I’m happy to do this for you, but I’d like you to do me a favor, okay? Just a small favor. Nothing huge. I’m getting the paperwork situated as we speak—talked to a few people already about visas and all that. She’ll be fine. But I’d like you to do me a favor. Something small.”
“But when will she be here? Holy shit. I’ve got so much to do.”
“We can talk about specifics soon. It might be a while. These things take time.”
“I’ve already bought a few things for the apartment, but it’s not enough.”
“Leonard,” John said. “This favor.”
“Sure,” Leonard said. “Yeah, of course.”
“I’m going to be straight with you and only you, okay?”
“Okay?”
John leaned back, crossed his arms. “Those media hounds, they’re rabid beasts, you know, but, well, I’ll be honest, some of what they’re saying is true. Tours have gone down. Nothing dramatic, but yeah, it’s happened. People are just going through a phase—you know how it goes. This country is getting too soft. But anyway. I’m doing a special contest, regional, nothing huge, but something to drum up publicity. Anyway, I want to do something different this time.” He lowered his voice further, leaned in. “I want to bring in someone in street clothes. I want to scare my actors and the contestants. It’ll be big, something no other haunt has done. It’ll be closely monitored, of course. Nothing dangerous. But I was wondering, if you’re willing, if you’d be the guy. I’d tell you everything you need to know, where you need to go, who you need to target.”
“Target?”
“It’s a show, Leonard. The people who need to be in on it will be in on it, you get it? I’ll give you specific instructions. It’ll be very easy. You just have to channel your inner actor.”
“The inner actor? John. I’m not really like that.”
“This isn’t some Oscar-worthy performance. Just have to come off a bit crazy. That’s it. Not difficult to do. My cast does it all the time, and really, they’re the most normal people you’d ever meet outside the haunt. One of them used to be an accountant, for Chrissake.”
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