I'm with Stupid (29 page)

When William returns with the coffee (surprise! No cognac to be found at the dinky corner store), Manuel peers at him from behind his newspaper. All I can see are two dark eyes steadily narrowing their focus. He slowly lowers the newspaper to reveal a frown. “I’ll need my coffee transferred out of that unsavory container and into something porcelain,” he says, referring to the foam coffee cup. William pours the coffee into one of his
I LOVE NEW YORK
coffee mugs. Its handle could fit the hands of ten children around it at once. He presents it to Manuel, who calls the mug a trough, but he takes a sip from it anyway. He promptly spits the coffee back out into the cup as if he were a fountain. “This is not Colombian roast,” he cringes. William explains that it’s all they had. “This is too acidic!” Manuel protests. “It will upset my stomach and I could get an ulcer. It will never do.” He again claps his hands three times. “Let us continue then,” he says. “We may now move on to my birth. It is the story of a life crowded with lore and supposition.” William begins slapping the keys. Slap, slap, slap. “My birth”—Manuel crosses his legs—“was a joyous occasion for every member of my immediate and extended family, not to mention my servants, who on that day admired the camel riders from an appropriate distance. A masquerade, the most lavish, regal affair imaginable, was hosted in my honor. Every guest was required to arrive dressed as someone else. Gratitude and exuberance mingled with the plate spinners and cancan girls. My father’s trusted colleagues, influential men with impeccable pedigrees, arrived to pay their respects with toasts of Veuve Clicquot. I was ushered into a world of relentless living. I was fed my first morsel of caviar off my mother’s pinkie. I was presented with the best the world had to offer and I accepted the warm invitation wholeheartedly. But with this life of leisure came unmitigated responsibility. And that night, as my father, still wearing his masquerade mask adorned with gold feathers, cradled me in his arms under the stars, as he lifted my smooth body upward, toward the constellations, I understood what a burden my life would someday be. I was to inherit everything, more treasure than could be looted from a pirate’s ship, as much money as there were lighted specks in the heavens, and this realization made me melancholy . . .”

William looks up from the computer: “I’m sorry, Bob, how old did you say you were then? I didn’t get the date down.”

“One day old,” Manuel clarifies. “I remember everything.” William keeps typing. He was just checking. He’s a fact checker. Good for him.

“As I was saying,” Manuel continues, “I was dejected past consoling. I thought to myself, Can I ever live up to the responsibilities that come with my last names? Will I ever measure up to my forbearers, audacious warriors who fought in the Mexican War? Will I ever be good enough? And the answer, of course, was yes, I would. I am. Etiquette, deportment, chivalry, compassion to castoffs and lepers, the essence of my being encompasses . . .”

William is in the middle of telling Manuel to slow down, he’s a fast typist but not that fast, when Libby and Max walk in. Max is holding a bottle of wine. “So what did he say about his fa—” Max begins. He goes quiet when he sees Manuel. He and Libby turn back around. They’ll be back later. I know Max is curious to learn Manuel’s father’s whereabouts, not to mention why Manuel has christened himself Bob, but he was hoping, as I was hoping, that Manuel would be gone by now, leaving only gossip behind. I pull my friends by their collars and take the bottle from Max. “Get in here,” I order. “Especially you, maxi pad. This is all your fault, if I need to remind you.” He takes a seat on the couch and points at William. “Only he’s my fault,” he says.

While I open the wine, Manuel stands and urges Libby to have a seat next to him. She sits on the floor instead. He grabs his newspaper, removes the want ads, and carefully lines the floor with them. He plops down beside her like a puppy who has yet to be housebroken. “I will sit on the floor as well,” he explains. “I agree that it is more quaint.”

I ask if anyone wants wine. William shakes his head no. Manuel demands a glass only after hearing that Libby is having one. If she weren’t here he’d be throwing it up all over the floor and making William do the mopping. I pour three glasses—one for me, one for Max, and one for Libby—and tell Manuel to get his own, it’s on the counter. He gets up, groans about the quality of the wine after reading the label, then pours some and sits back down. He asks how she’s doing. “I’m fine, babe,” she says with a sigh.

“I feel wonderful myself,” Manuel admits. He peers inside the glass and notifies William that there’s a stray piece of cork floating inside. When William starts to get up I order him to stay put. Manuel has his own legs. They’re short but they’ll do. Manuel stands and moves over to the counter, the newspaper he was sitting on still attached to his ass. “I was just about to tell the stenographer about my plans to retire someday with you in Acapulco,” he says to Libby over his shoulder. He gets a fresh glass and fills it with wine. Libby takes the opportunity to move to the couch. Manuel turns around. He begins talking to the spot on the floor where Libby should be. “Libby?” he asks. He sees her on the couch. “There you are,” he says. He walks to the couch and squeezes in next to her, pushing William the stenographer off the couch. As he falls to the floor, William clumsily grabs, for support, the newspaper stuck to Manuel’s ass. It rips in half.

Max asks Manuel to tell us about his father. Manuel recommends that he read the intriguing book where everything will be chronicled. In the meantime he’d like to talk to Libby. “Acapulco,” Manuel continues, “is a Shangri-la, an infamous cliff-diving destination. I want to return there with you on my arm.” He assures Libby that she will adore it and mentions how much he loves to Jet Ski around Acapulco Bay. “We will spend our days shopping, our nights luxuriating at waterfront cafés, indulging in premium liquors while cheering the bungee jumpers for which Acapulco is renowned.”

Max interrupts to ask if Manuel’s days of frolicking can continue now that he’s a waiter at a Roman Catholic–themed restaurant. Manuel corrects him: Life has just begun and this is merely the second phase of a work in progress. He compares himself to a wet painting by Renoir, then promises Libby that he will teach her to speak Uralic, the language of Russian reindeer herders. When, one hour later, he begins to serenade her with a version of Ave Maria, sung in Latin, Max gets to his feet and heads for the fridge. He removes an armful of beer bottles and sits back down. He opens one and holds the rest in his lap. Manuel, for whatever reason, takes this as a cue to leave. He checks his Rolex and gets up. “Don’t forget me,” he says to Libby, “I’ll be back tomorrow before the dinner shift to continue the tumultuous story of my life.” He blows her a kiss and says adieu. Tomorrow, good. At least I won’t be here. I’ll be at the deli again. I told my parents when we were at Leona’s that I would work. The deli is having a sale to commemorate the anniversary. It’s the first sale in its history: five dollars off each hundred dollars spent, one day only. William shakes his head. “Tomorrow won’t work, Manuel,” he says. “I was invited by Mrs. Sienkiewicz to Polonia deli! I’m going to check it out!” He smiles at me. I stare at him. My mother is a piece of work.

As soon as Manuel leaves Max asks what we uncovered about the dad. Well, not much. Manuel was too busy telling us about the day he was born. Max is crestfallen: He wants to know what Manuel is hiding. When his cell phone beeps to signal the arrival of a text, he moans. I ask what’s up. “Phillip just gave me a list of items he wants me to wear on our date.” Libby turns on the television, then lies down on the floor and starts making snow angels—well, dust angels, actually. Max stares at his phone. “Where the hell am I going to get spurs?” he asks. I point out that it could be at the same place he got his turban and police uniform. What goes around comes around.

William slaps his fez on and turns to face the group. “Do you mind if I do some more work on my book about the political situation in Monaco?” he asks. I tell him to go right ahead. We can move the party over to Libby’s place.

Max turns to Libby and tells her he’s going to sleep over tonight. “Okay,” she says.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why?” he asks, putting away his phone.

“No.” She examines her nails, then softly says to herself that she needs a manicure.

“Because,” he tells her anyway, “I have a paranoid fear that Phillip is going to break into my pad and jump me while I sleep.”

“You, paranoid?” I laugh.

“Have you seen the guy?” he rhetorically asks. “Seriously.”

“Great, then,” William says. “If you’re all going next door I can really get some work done. I have a lot to do.” More than you know, I think, and turn off the television. “Oh, you can leave it on,” he says. “I may put on
MacGyver
just to have some background noise.”
MacGyver
? I hand him the remote. I can already tell that tonight’s writing session will involve less writing and more channel flipping in search of canceled programming.

Polonia is already packed when William and I arrive at 10 a.m. There are huge signs on the walls:
SALE! ONE DAY ONLY!
The mood is celebratory. Among the patrons are two nuns from the local parish, St. Stanislaw, heavy crosses on chains around their necks.

“I like this place!” William says. My father makes his way through the crowd on crutches while struggling to hold on to a flask of vodka. Customers pat him on the back as he passes. I give him a kiss and ask what he’s doing with the vodka. It’s the morning. He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls a shot glass, which he hands to me. A customer brought the vodka as a gift, he says; William and I both have to try it. This is an old-school Polish moment. He dribbles a few drops into the glass and I tip it back. It’s like drinking gasoline. I hand the shot glass to William. My father pours way too much. William tips it back reluctantly and coughs. “That’s strong,” he says.

“It’s Polish holy water,” my father says, laughing. “Take it like a man.”

He seems happy to be in his element. For a while there my mother would not let him come in; she didn’t want him to overexert himself. I spot her across the store. She waves and hurries over. She and William hug like they are in love while the female customers eye him indecently. When a few approach my mother introduces him. “This is my daughter’s
friend
,” she says and lifts an eyebrow.

“Oooooooh,” they respond. I almost have to manually lift the corners of my mouth to show how overjoyed I am.

I leave William and my mother to chat. For some reason they have more to talk about than we do. I overhear a woman tell my father that his son’s Polish is excellent and that it’s nice that he raises his kids to respect their roots. I make a note not to open my mouth in front of her.

In the back room I put on my smock and head behind the counter. I say hi to Henryk, who is fielding three orders at once, and take my place facing the masses. This work does not get easier. Like last time, I am slow on the uptake. When I forget where something is in the deli case, or what something is, I scream to Henryk frantically and he calls out instructions.

At one point my mother drags William behind the counter to give him a feel for deli work. She gives him a smock and a paper hat, which he dons proudly. “Who’s next!” he jokes and waves his arms like a cartoon character as my mother stands next to him and smiles.

A hush falls over the store.

And then the place goes wild as every single female customer moves over to his station, including the nuns. They all stand in front of him. “I’m next!” they scream, waving grocery lists and purses and empty shopping baskets, indiscriminately hitting one another in the head. “Sausage!” one screams, giving the others the same idea.

William doesn’t last long behind the counter. His mere presence is too distracting. After William takes his first order, my father shoos him out of there—“I’m losing money if he’s taking all the orders,” he says. “Besides, I’m not paying an extra head.” Just in time, too, because Manuel walks through the front door in a fedora as William is removing his paper hat. I ask what Manuel is doing here.

“He didn’t want to lose any time working on his book so I told him to meet me here,” William explains. I roll my eyes. One-night stands are the devil’s work; keep it in your pants, kids. “Should I tell him to come behind the counter? There’s not much room for us in the store.” I answer that they can go to the stockroom.

While leading them to the back I stop to greet my grandmother, who showed up with a friend who has red lipstick on her teeth. “This is my granddaughter,” she tells the friend as I give her my hand. “She’s being courted by an African native as tall as a brick house. I had dinner with him recently. He wore all kinds of tribal regalia. Funny hat and everything you’d want.” My grandmother doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe she doesn’t care—that William is standing right there.

Everyone love wooden crates? Hope so. In the stockroom I set William and Manuel up with three of them; two are their chairs and the third is their desk. Manuel wipes down his crate with a white handkerchief before sitting down. William sits opposite him. His legs are so long that his knees are practically touching his nose. Manuel takes off his jacket, loosens his tie, and rolls up his sleeves. “Let us begin with my axioms for living a rewarding life,” he says to William, who nods and leans in. “There are two hundred in all. The first . . .” Manuel stops. “How are you writing this down?”

William looks around. “Right,” he says. “I don’t have the computer.” He looks at me. I tell him to hold on. I find a notepad and pen in my father’s office and bring it back. I hand it to William. Enjoy.

“Now then,” Manuel starts again, “because I expect the book will run to ten volumes, not including the appendix and extensive footnotes, I’m going to need your undivided . . .”

I tiptoe out of there and return to the front to find that Libby and Max have shown up. Max is talking animatedly to one of the nuns as Libby inspects a shelf of imported Polish cookies while Josh, our leopard-print-thong-wearing employee of the month, evidently on his break, and sucking a dill pickle, watches her. As I walk over to say hi I hear Josh ask Libby if she has a car. When she shakes her head no, he takes a generous bite of pickle and wanders off.