Honeymooners A Cautionary Tale (41 page)

Jim answered almost before
the phone rang, and Ralph began rattling along a mile a minute,
afraid to let Jim get a word in edgewise. My back is up against the
wall down here, old Jim. Down to my last dime, the rattletrap is on
its last legs, two weeks behind in the rent for this fleabag room,
my mom needs an operation or she’ll be legally blind in weeks, and
what if she croaks, what then, I ask you? I can’t bury the old bat.
Who knows where Alice Ann has run off to. Or with whom. The wolf is
at the door, old Jim, not to mention the sheriff. I’d run away from
home if I had one, old Jim, Ralph rattled on and on in that public
place, that hallway pay phone, with old men eyeballing him as they
passed in the narrow hallway, a couple of the old farts even
stopping to listen in on Ralph’s lament, and one old coot came up
behind Ralph to wait for the phone, jabbering loudly to himself,
drooling, rolling his milky eyes, waving his cane
wildly.

Old Jim, what I need down
here is a helping hand, Ralph rattled, trying to keep his back
turned to the insane old shit, whose spittle Ralph could feel
spraying the back of his neck, saliva infected with old age and
hopelessness. —A helping hand, old Jim, until my ship comes in.
Jim, I am currently up a creek of shit with no paddle. What? Say
what, old Jim? You’ve been trying to run me down? For what? A
party? For me? A birthday party for me? You’ve got to be kidding. I
didn’t even remember I had a birthday coming up, old Jim. I am
welcome in your home with open arms? You are rolling out the red
carpet? You’ve missed me of late? You forgive me my transgressions?
Old Jim, don’t take this the wrong way, but what’s the catch here?
Who do I have to kill? Do I have to perform unnatural acts while on
my knees? Well, I’ll do it! Whatever it is, I’ll do it. You name
it, old Jim, and I’m your man. What, old Jim? Your ship? Your ship
has come in? You sold your what? You sold your new novel? You sold
your new novel for how much? Dear God, old Jim! Dear God in heaven!
Yes, I’m on my way, yes, I’m leaving in two shakes. Say what, old
Jim? Come up and stay with you guys for as long as I want? A roof
over my old woolly head for the rest of my natural life if it comes
to that? Grow old with you guys if it comes to that? Holy moly, old
Jim, I’m out the door down here. Which may be a little tricky, as I
owe back rent and the manager is a sly, evil old coot and pretty
frisky for a paraplegic, but I’m on my way, old Jim. Old Jim, how
much was your advance again? Dear God, old Jim! I’m really happy
for you, old sport. I’m happy for you and happy for Lindsay. You
guys deserve it, by golly. Okay, here I come. I’ll be knocking on
your door before you know it, old buddy, Ralph said, and hung up.
Ralph barely managed to dodge the cane- wielding, crazy old coot
who pushed past him to grab the phone and, without inserting a
single coin or pretending to dial, commenced a conversation with
J. Edgar Hoover.

Ralph sat on the edge of his
bed and fired up one of his last three cigarettes. Jim had sold
that silly teenage hoodlum novel to Harcourt Brace Jovanovich for
how much did he say? That was a lie of, course. Jim had sold his
novel, no doubt. He couldn’t get away with a lie like that.
Something like that would be too easy to check out, as Ralph was
certain any number of Bay Area authors were doing right then.
Wonder how much that old pirate did get, though. Ralph threw
whatever of his clothes he could find fungus- free into that old
yellow suitcase of Alice Ann’s, along with four rolls of toilet
paper and three tubes of toothpaste left over from his home visits.
He was happy for old Jim, he was. Ralph picked up a pillowcase and
looked around the room. There wasn’t a thing worth taking in that
sorry dump. Ralph put the pillowcase in the suitcase and closed it.
And he was happy for Lindsay. He was. Ralph wrapped the rope around
the suitcase twice and tied it tightly. He was happy for them both.
Ralph heard the sound of another plane landing or departing, and he
imagined himself on it, at the end or beginning of some flight
pattern of the future. Ralph cracked his door and peered into the
dark, narrow hallway. The old coot was still raving to J. Edgar
Hoover about the Commie in room 34. Clutching his suitcase under
his arm, Ralph scurried down the hallway toward the burnt-out exit
sign above the door to the back fire escape. Many years later,
Ralph Crawford and his second wife, a woman whom Ralph considered
to be the person who had finally saved his life, would have to
catch an early-morning flight from Buenos Aires back to the States,
after a combination vacation and reading series Ralph had presented
as a part of a cultural exchange program under the auspices of the
State Department. As Ralph and his second wife passed through the
early-morning airport, they noted how still and deserted it was,
and his second wife, who was a celebrated poet herself, commented
that for all its bright lights and shining floors, the deserted
airport had the aura of a place of mourning.

As the plane taxied down the
runway in a light snow, Ralph, whom flying gave the willies, wished
to himself that his second wife had not used that bummer word
“mourning.” As the plane lifted off to return Ralph and his second
wife to their rich, full, famous lives in America, Ralph turned in
his seat for one last look at the lovely lights of Buenos Aires,
where they had enjoyed such a fulfilling time together. Ralph then
settled back in his seat and closed his eyes, hoping to grab a nap
on this first leg of the long trip back. Ralph began to drift off,
letting his mind wander, as he listened to the easy drone of the
plane. But then Ralph’s mind started jumping around wildly and
landed in the past. Suddenly Ralph shot up in his seat and looked
about the cabin in utter panic.

Living for the
Record

1

Sure, Jim had billed the
party as being in honor of Ralph's birthday, but Ralph got the
real picture fast enough. Jim was using Ralph's good name and
highly successful book of stories as bait. Jim had invited about
every author of note in the Bay Area to the party supposedly for
Ralph, and Jim was sucking up to them all shamelessly. Jim was
turning this gathering of just about anybody who was anybody in the
Bay Area literary scene, supposedly on hand to celebrate Ralph's
birthday, into a sort of coming-out party for his own new book and
himself.

At one point Ralph overheard
Herb Gold, who was escorting two cute albeit it very young chicks,
tell Jack Hicks that Jim had confided to him that Jim's book
advance had been in the six- figures range, which was double the
amount Jim had lied to Ralph about in the first place. Ralph
watched Jim as he held forth over where he had strategically
positioned himself beside the dining-room table, which was groaning
under succulent mounds of food that looked catered, where many of
the Bay Area’s noted authors were grazing like cattle.

Jim had his arm around
Lindsay, who looked absolutely ravishing in this flowing,
flowery-print affair, silky green and off her creamy shoulders,
which glistened in the candlelight. Jim had not let Lindsay out of
his sight for a moment all evening, the poor woman. In fact, Jim
had made sure Ralph and Lindsay were hardly ever alone together in
all the past week Ralph had stayed there. Sure Lindsay looked
lovely that night, but Ralph could see beneath that. To Ralph’s
eagle eye Lindsay looked stricken, miserable, breathless in Jim’s
bear hug of attention, even though she was trying bravely to hide
it with all that laughter and feigned gaiety.

Ralph wandered out to the
kitchen, where he found some of the Stanford crowd, including Dick
Scowcroft, a funny, courtly man who had been his and Jim’s dear old
Stanford teacher. The wall phone, which was difficult to hear above
the din, was ringing. Finally, Dick Scowcroft turned around and
lifted the receiver and waved it at Ralph, saying, I bet it’s for
you, Ralph. Ralph said, Oh no. It couldn’t be. Dick put the
receiver to his ear and said, Hello. What? Oh my gracious, Dick
said, and then he handed the phone to Ralph again, saying, Oh yes,
I’m quite certain it’s for you, Ralph. Ralph took the receiver and
put it to his ear. Hello, Ralph said. The voice on the other end, a
voice Ralph vaguely recognized, said, As I was saying, you
faithless, fetid flotsam of a betraying asshole. Ralph said, You’ve
got the wrong party, I believe. But the angry voice bellowed on.
Just wanted you to know, you cocksucker, I know all about the
hot-to-trot affair you’re having with that bitch boner- breath Mary
Mississippi. And what I mean to do is revenge-fuck you, pal.
Revenge fucks are the absolute best fucks in village life. And I
got some payback blowjobs coming, too, motherfucker. Lindsay is a
class-act lady and she don’t deserve your vile shit. And when I rat
out your worthless act, I’ll bet she’ll agree with my revenge-fuck
theory. Adios, pigshit, the voice said, and hung up. Goodbye, Ralph
said, and hung up the receiver.

At last Ralph saw Lindsay
without Jim. She was making her way amid the crowd up the hallway
toward the kitchen carrying a tray full of empty beer cans. Ralph
stepped into her path. Hi there, Ralph said. Lindsay said, Well,
hello, birthday boy. Having a good time? Ralph said, I’ve got to
tell you something. Can it wait? Lindsay said. No, it can’t, Ralph
said. Lindsay and Ralph were nearly shouting to be heard over the
noise. Well, Lindsay said, cupping her hand around her mouth to
Ralph’s ear, shoot. Cupping his own hand around Lindsay’s ear,
Ralph said, Look, I love old Jim. But the fact of the matter is, I
love you more. I hate to do this, rat old Jim out, that is, but I
just heard something you ought to know. Lindsay said, What are you
talking about? Ralph said, I’m talking about the feet, which I
heard on good authority, as it were, that Jim is carrying on with
some woman. Apparendy it’s the talk of the town. Lindsay said, Is
the woman’s name Mary? Why yes, Ralph said. Ralph, would you do me
a favor and do some picking up? Lindsay said, and held up the tray
of empty beer cans she was carrying. If I don’t stay ahead of the
mess, I’ll be in deep shit tomorrow. Do you mind? No, Ralph said, I
don’t mind. Thanks, hon, Lindsay said, and wove her way on down the
hallway.

As the noted Bay Area
authors sang “Happy Birthday,” Jim carried out Ralph’s cake, German
chocolate with chocolate icing, Ralph’s favorite, which Jim had
baked with his own bare hands, as he announced to the world at
large several times. To the noted Bay Area authors’ glee, Ralph
huffed and puffed himself blue in the face attempting to blow the
candles out. The noted Bay Area authors were greatly amused when it
finally dawned on Ralph that they were trick candles, impossible to
blow out. Ha ha, Ralph thought, as he hacked and coughed in an
attempt to catch his breath and hopefully not faint, which he
really felt he might do. Then when the general laughter had died
down, Jim, wiping tears of amusement from his eyes, announced that
he wanted to make a little toast in old Ralphie boy’s
honor.

He wanted to take this
opportunity, Jim said, to thank old Running Dog Ralph Crawford for
all the little words of encouragement Ralph had given him during
those dark, discouraging days Jim was struggling to complete his
new novel, soon to be published by Harcourt Brace Jovanovich. Stay
the course, Ralph had suggested to Jim, when Jim was feeling
defeated. Never say die, Ralph had recommended. All’s well that
ends well. The end justifies the means. It’s not over until the fat
lady sings. Yes, those kind cliches from old rotten Ralph had meant
a lot to Jim in his hours of creative struggle, and in many ways
Jim had old Ralph to thank for the big-bucks sale of his new novel
soon to be published by Harcourt Brace Jovanovich.

Here, old dog, Jim said, and
handed Ralph a knife, it’s your cake, so you get to do the honors,
boy. Led by Jim, the noted Bay Area authors hooted and laughed
uproariously at Ralph’s expense as soon as the knife hit that hard
object buried in the heart of that cake Jim had baked with his own
bare hands. Where you’re going, old Ralphie, Jim said as he drew
the file from the cake and cleaned it off to present with a great
ceremonial flourish to Ralph, you’ll want to employ this little
item as soon as possible to break out, hopefully before your sexual
orientation gets totally turned around. Ha ha, Ralph thought. So
the whole room of noted Bay Area authors knew the status of Ralph’s
legal problems. Wonder who spread that sorry news around. Ha ha.
Although, Jim informed the room full of smirking noted Bay Area
authors, there was probably no way our birthday boy here could make
good his escape in time to avoid at least one serious (how shall we
put this in polite company?) tush-tapping. But what’s a little
buggery really in the great scheme of things? If Oscar Wilde could
survive behind bars and even transform funny fornications into high
art, then so could the birthday boy.

Ha ha.

Ladies and gentlemen, Jim
said at this point, and pretended to play an invisible trumpet
fanfare, then bowed and with great sweeping gestures said, I wish
to present the birthday boy’s beloved ball and chain, as Alice Ann
walked slowly toward Ralph through the parting crowd of noted Bay
Area authors. In spite of himself, when Alice Ann leaned up to kiss
his cheek, Ralph flinched. Happy birthday, Ralph, Alice Ann said,
and took Ralph by the hand, to the applause and cheers of the noted
Bay Area authors.

Although she and Ralph had
not had a civil word for each other in over a month, Alice Ann
informed the noted Bay Area authors she was on hand this special
evening to give Ralph his birthday blow job, a tradition in their
long marriage she was loath to break, especially because it might
be the last blow job he received, from a woman anyway, for quite
some time. For, unfortunately, she had some bad tidings for the
birthday boy. It was bad news that Alice Ann felt they, she and
Ralph, should share with Ralph’s many friends and fans, for he
would be needing their support and understanding in the hard days
to come. She, for one, planned to stand by her man, for better or
worse, as she had promised to do those many years ago. Upon her
arrival home from work earlier that very evening, Alice Ann had
found a telegram from Ralph’s attorney- of-record, who was
representing Ralph in his current difficulties with the state of
California, which, as everybody knew, was prosecuting Ralph for
fraud and perjury and general bad citizenship, among many other
misdemeanors and possible felonies. She had immediately contacted
Ralph’s attorney, who claimed that because people rarely answered
the phone at her house he did not feel he was in any way at fault
or remiss for informing Ralph at such an eleventh hour that he,
Ralph, was due to appear in court to face the music tomorrow
morning, and perhaps Ralph would be wise to bring along a
toothbrush.