The Doorman

by William Schrader

  "Maybe," Myrtle admitted, "but I still don't like it."

  "That's your problem," Mabel told her. "You're too kind. You know what they say: nice guys finish last."

  "They certainly do," Myrtle said with a smile. "They certainly do."

  *

  Oscar was happy. It was partly Myrtle. Things were going so well. True, she still wouldn't marry him but he was confident he could win her over. You just have to woo her, Pastor Wilcox told him. Take her out on a date. Something romantic, like miniature golf. That he approved, albeit grudgingly, of the relationship was a major relief to Oscar. And he had a job. It wasn't the Palace - nothing could be - but at least he got to be around animals. Now he could go back to church and hold his head high confident he was contributing to society by cleaning poop from cages.

  But the big thing, the one that really made him happy, was Barkie: he had saved him from the dognappers. The studio was bound to be pleased. Sometimes, while scrapping shit from a cage, Oscar would let his mind wander and he saw himself being awarded a medal. It would have to be secret of course so as not to encourage copycat criminals. Just a small ceremony, at the Palace preferably or somewhere equally classy: Dino's say or Motel Okay. Surrounding him were his friends, old and new: Dale and Ralph and Louise and Camila and Myrtle and Mr. Johnstone and even Pete - and as the production assistant pinned the medal to his chest they all burst into applause. The thought made him giddy.

  Now all he had to do was come up with his payment. He considered asking Myrtle for the money but was reluctant since she had refused him once already and didn't want to risk upsetting her. Maybe Mr. Hofmeister could help.

  "An advance!" the pet shop proprietor exclaimed. "What are you, a communist?"

  "Certainly not!"

  Oscar didn't know much about politics but he did know that communists were bad. For one thing, their movies were boring, all about workers laying bricks and stuff like that. Not that he had seen any. Such films never played at the Palace. Only at the university. Where, according to Pastor Wilcox, people reveled in sin by watching foreign films. Oh sure, they called it art but he wasn't fooled: what was European but a euphemism for nudity? Besides, they had banned The Incredulous Journey, dismissing it as sentimental bourgeois nonsense. There was just no reasoning with people like that.

  "Then why do you want something for nothing?"

  Mr. Hofmeister was as conservative as they come. According to him, the death penalty was insufficient. They don't suffer enough, he'd say, and lamented that the lash had been outlawed. One of the few failings of democracy, he believed, was its kindness to criminals. Was it a coincidence that human rights began with the guillotine? He thought not.

  This also applied to his employees. Anyone who called in sick was a red. And what were paid holidays but a license to loaf? Health and safety were all very fine and well but someone had to clean the cages and masks cost money. That you might get a debilitating injury was just something you had to accept, especially if you wanted minimum wage.

  The world was no better. All this talk of detente was coddling the reds. No wonder they had taken over half of Europe. Not the good half of course, the one with old buildings and rude waiters and cheeses that smell bad. Just the big boring parts, full of peasants and potatoes. Lord knows why the Germans had wanted that but they had and now everyone there was saying nyet.

  Not that they were planning on stopping there. It was just a hop, skip and a jump over the North Pole, the arctic tundra and the boreal forest to Kastasoon but he would be ready for them. Unlike most people, who had either lost their edge or gotten lazy, Mr. Hofmeister was ready for the apocalypse. Against his wife's advice, he had built a bomb shelter beneath the gazebo and stocked it with such essentials as beef jerky and beer. Many of his happiest moments in fact were spent down there, chewing on jerky and waiting for the end of the world - which, oddly enough, was very late in coming. What was the point of having nuclear weapons if you weren't willing to use them? Surely the Soviets understood that.

  "Not nothing," Oscar explained. "A loan. I'll pay you back."

  Mr. Hofmeister's frown deepened. The world was full of people who needed money but very few deserved it. What most in fact deserved was a kick in the pants. The worst were those who said they didn't care about money and then asked for some. Occasionally, late at night, he had dreams of walking alone down a dark street, his pockets bulging with bills, when, suddenly, out of nowhere, a gang of greasy hippies accosted him, thrust their hands into his pockets and stripped him of his cash.

  "A loan," he repeated, equally unimpressed. "What for?"

  Oscar told him about Jimmy and the thousand dollars he had borrowed, but not about Barkie or the dognappers.

  "A loan shark? We can't have gamblers here. You might steal something, some pet food say and sell it on the sly."

  Oscar assured him he would never do such a thing.

  "How do I know that?"

  Good point, Oscar thought. And so, to prove his honesty, he offered to take a pay cut, which Mr. Hofmeister rapidly accepted.

  "Just don't tell the others," he said. "Or they'll all want one."

  *

  As the date of his payment approached, Oscar wondered how he would make it. Maybe he would have to tell Myrtle after all. Pondering his predicament, he spotted a penny on the floor. Of course! Pete's money. Scattered around the house was some cash, not much, coins mostly and a few small bills, which Myrtle left for him as a sort of incidental allowance. It's not stealing if I pay her back, he thought. All he had to do was keep track and replace it when he got paid. With luck, no one would even notice. Myrtle would think Pete took the money and Pete would think she had stopped putting it out for him. Deep down Oscar knew it was wrong but what could he do? Not paying your debts was also wrong.

  Unfortunately, all he could find was twenty-two dollars, which Jimmy graciously accepted as a late fee. Now you owe me eleven hundred, he said. And the vig is a hundred and ten. Oscar had never heard of compound interest before and struggled with the concept. How could he give someone money and yet owe them more? The same thing happened the following week. If anything, things were worse since Jimmy seemed a bit upset by Oscar's repeated failure to make his payment. You're going to have to do better than this, he said. Or else. The next week Oscar got paid and gave him some of his salary. All of it, actually. Not only were the wages at Pet Purfect lower than those of the Palace, working part-time further reduced his income. Who knew that cleaning cages could be so unrewarding? All he was able to do, in fact, was make his payment. But, for some reason, the interest not only remained but grew. And so he found himself falling further and further behind.

  *

  Myrtle was confused. Her glasses, which she had recently put down, were missing.

  What did I do with them? she wondered, fearing, not for the first time, that she was starting to go senile. They were right here.

  Searching around, she found a piece of paper, clearly written by Oscar, titled myrtle's money and her heart sank.

  Why, she wondered, do they all turn out to be bastards?

  *

  To his credit, Oscar did not deny taking the money. On the contrary, he immediately broke down, confessed and, tears in his eyes, asked for forgiveness. Not so fast, Myrtle replied, and demanded to know what he had spent it on. Her first thought was that he had bought more dog porn but unfortunately, the truth was far worse: he had borrowed money from a loan shark to pay that idiotic ransom. That was the moment Myrtle realized it was hopeless and that, no matter how nice he was or how much she liked him, he was only going to bring her grief. She had been in a lot of bad relationships, often longer than she should've, and knew from experience the sooner you cut the cord the better. Tears were shed and sad words spoken but, in the end, Oscar agreed to leave as soon as possible.

  Fortunately for him, Mr. Hofmeister doubled as a slumlord. Above his pet shop were several small windowless rooms which he rented out to recovering alcoholics, not all of
whom had willingly given up the bottle. Several, in fact, were there by court order and their welfare cheque went directly to Mr. Hofmeister who not only took the bulk of it for rent but also charged them a small but far from insignificant management fee and then doled out the rest as a weekly allowance. I'm helping them get back on their feet, he would say, and took pride in the fact that most of his tenants preferred it to prison.

  Once inside, Oscar failed to find the bed.

  "It's behind this wall," Mr. Hofmeister said, and pulled it down as proof.

  Splattered with stains, it filled the room like a swollen tongue. The kitchen was a hotplate, its single burner paved in grease. Dirty dishes filled the sink, garbage sprawled out of an overturned can and beer bottles, stuffed with cigarettes, clustered uncollected.

  "Sorry," Mr. Hofmeister said. "It's the dead man's room."

  *

  "Glad I caught you. Been meaning to introduce myself. Wallace F. Tisdale. The F is for Frank. Like to think I am. But you can call me Wally. Everyone else does. Consider myself a sort of welcome wagon. Always meet the new guys, give them a few tips on how things work around here and help them feel at home. Just my nature. Most guys, they don't bother. Just sit in their room and get stewed. Not that it's allowed. The owner has rules about that. Too many fights. And fires. And guys screaming in the middle of the night. Still, guys do it. But you don't look the type. No Wally, I thought, soon as I seen you, this guy's a gentleman. Quiet. Reasonable. Generous. What's your story? Married? Didn't think so. Don't look it. Got that never been tamed look. Just like me. No matter. Better off that way. Less to regret. Working? Glad to see you're still able. A lot of guys... well, they're past it. Drunk half the time and crazy the rest. Had a lot of jobs myself. Always thought I'd end up somewhere but it never happened. Just kept moving. Prefer to see that as a positive. The sign of a curious nature. Pet Purfect, eh? I've been there. Did some temp work for them once. Nice place. Good lunchroom. Hotdogs every Wednesday. Was tempted to stay but... you know. Not sure they'd take me anyway. Too old. Funny thing that. When you're young, it's all right there in front of you like a smorge. Only thing is, you're not hungry. Too busy dancing with the girls and having a good time. And then, round midnight, when the party's almost over and you're starving, you go to the table but it's too late. All gone. Just a few broken crackers and some stale salami and you wonder, where did it all go?"

  *

  Pete felt bad. He had both drunk and smoked too much. By all rights, he should be puking and it was more than possible that he might yet have that pleasure. The problem with starting early, he realized, is that by the time everyone else gets there, you're too wasted to talk. Not that there was any particular anyone. He just went to the bar and talked to whoever was there. It was one of the many advantages of not having friends. You didn't have to make plans. Being a student also had its advantages: unlike workers, upon whom sobriety intruded a good third of the day, you could start drinking the moment you got up - assuming that is, you didn't bother with such trivialities as classes. Some people, and Pete was one of them, even considered it romantic to skip classes and fail tests. Success is for squares, he would say, and was proud of the fact he didn't have a future. You can't fail if you don't try. There was even literary precedent for it, all those books about lonely losers that college kids ate up. Posers, he thought, sneering silently, convinced that, of his cohort, he alone was one of the authentic few. And yet...

  Something wasn't right. He had begun the day by celebrating his success in wrecking his mother's romance but now felt almost remorseful. They had certainly deserved it but his mother's tears and Oscar's absence made him wonder if he had done the right thing. Maybe he should've just let them be. Myrtle would've tired of him eventually and maybe, in time, they could've gone back to being friends. But he was gone and it was too late. Lifting his head from the bar, Pete looked around for a friendly face. A pair of cute college girls stood a few feet away. One of them smiled at him. He smiled back.

  "Don't bother," the other said. "He's gay."

  *

  Finished, Oscar deposited his dish in the sink.

  Moments later a timid knock echoed about the room. Getting up from the edge of his bed, he opened the door. It was Pete. In his hand was a half-drunk bottle of wine which he awkwardly offered as a housewarming gift. Oscar let him in.

  "Nice place you got here," he said, regarding the room with evident approval. Small but self-contained, it was a hovel one could call home. The perfect place to hide out from humanity or write a book that would shake society.

  Just then the sink backed up, engulfing the dish in a sudden pool of sewer vomit.

  "Maybe we should go out."

  *

  Pete took a drink from his bottle, which was now almost empty. Hidden behind some trees, the two men were sitting in a park, Pete drinking and talking and Oscar doing neither.

  "I know you're sad now," he said. "But you'll thank me later."

  "For what?" Oscar asked.

  "Breaking you up."

  Oscar was confused. "Break us up? How?"

  "I had that guy call you. About the dog."

  "Barkie?"

  "Yeah."

  Oscar was shocked. He knew that Pete disapproved of their romance but to deprive millions of children of quality entertainment by dognapping their hero... He stood up.

  "Where are you going?"

  "Home."

  "Oh, come on. Don't be like that."

  "Pete..."

  "Yeah?"

  "I don't want to be friends anymore."

  "Fuck you!" Pete yelled as, leaping up, he threw his bottle into a bush. "You fucked my mom and I forgave you and now this?"

  "Sorry."

  "Fuck you!" he repeated, and walked away.

  *

  What a day! So beautiful. And to think he had almost spent it sitting inside with that fat woman who fed him dusty rocks. Thank God for Jehovah Witnesses. And salesmen and deliverymen and anyone else who came to her door. Was usually pretty careful but made a mistake today and he went for it. Since then he had had a great day, chasing cats and eating garbage. Now if he could just find something to fuck. A poodle! Go! Go! Go!

  HRRRRRRRRR!

  Clancy looked up. A car! Right in front of him! Forgetting the poodle, he tried to turn - too late!

  Oh no, he thought, as it slammed into him. The fat woman. She was right.

  *

  Stuart's first impulse was to keep going, like that time he hit a pole on his way home from Snarky's. But then he saw a young man in tears approaching his car.

  Fuck, he thought. Just what I need.

  "It was an accident," he said. "He ran right in front of me."

  "I know," Pete replied. "I saw."

  Stuart felt relieved. The guy wasn't angry. And he was in the clear guilt-wise. All he had to do was show a little remorse and he'd be out of here. Ten minutes max.

  "I feel awful. Is there anything I can do? Push him to the side or something?"

  "What?"

  "Shit, sorry. Just making things worse, I know. Here," he said, reaching into his wallet and pulling out a twenty.

  "What's that for?"

  "Your dog."

  "You think you can buy me off with a lousy twenty?"

  "No, no, it's just... how much do you need?"

  "Two hundred should do it."

  "For a dog?"

  "For Barkie," Pete replied, and wiped the tears from his eyes.

  *

  "Courier."

  Oscar opened the door. A bald man in a drab uniform stood scowling before him; stretched by his stomach, his shirt sported several slits, one of which opened up over his bellybutton, revealing an oasis of hair.

  "Sign here."

  Oscar did so. "What is it?"

  The courier looked surprised.

  "How the hell would I know?"

  Oscar sat on his bed and opened the box. Inside was a note.

  Fuck you, it read. The blame is yours. Go
odbye.

  Oscar pulled back the tissue paper. Beneath it was a big black paw, its matted fur stained with blood.

  *

  Jesus, Wally thought. Talk about weak. Half a dozen drinks and he was passed out like a teenager. No way he was a drunk. Something else must've brought him here.

  He grabbed the bottle and was about to go back to his room when he noticed Oscar's wallet lying on the floor.

  No, he thought, you don't do that. Not to a friend. But then again, he hardly knew the guy. And he was green. He needed to learn.

  *

  "Quick!" Lorne cried. "Call an ambulance!"

  "Why?" Dean asked. "What's wrong?"

  "It's Mr. Hofmeister. He passed out!"

  "Oh, he always does that. Especially on Friday."

  "No, no, I mean it. One minute he's sitting there talking about kitty litter and the next, boom, head down on his desk."

  "Okay, I'll go with him. Michelle, call his wife. And Oscar, you make the deposit. Can you do that?"

  "I think so."

  *

  "Freeland."

  Oscar turned around. Behind him, blocking the exit, was Tony.

  "You missed your payment."

  "Sorry," Oscar replied. "Someone stole my wallet."

  "End of the week Freeland. You know that."

  "I'll pay you double next time."

  "Doesn't work that way," Tony informed him.

  "But-"

  "What's in the bag?"

  "My deposit."

  "Hand it over."

  "I can't."

  "Why not?"

  "It's not mine."

  "So?"

  Oscar hesitated. Then, grabbing the handle, he opened the box and dropped the bag down the chute.

  "Bad choice."