Losing Joe's Place (3 page)

* * *

It was amazing how quickly 1 Pitt Street became home. We fell into a routine: breakfast at the Olympiad, brown bag lunches, various snacks at home, and dinner out. That gave us a chance to explore a different part of the city every night, and soon we knew the bus and subway routes as though we'd been here all our lives.

Ours was a quiet building, if you didn't count Plotnick and his big mouth. Our contact with the neighbors was generally nothing more than a polite smile or wave, and a murmured “Good morning.” We never even got to know their names, as the apartment doors were unmarked, and the landlord took in the mail and handed it out himself, since there were no individual boxes. So we developed our own secret nicknames for our fellow tenants.

Apartment 2A, right across the hall, housed the Stripper, a six-foot-tall lady with a fabulous figure. We figured she'd started out as a dewy-eyed starlet, but now, pushing forty from the wrong side, she was the makeup company's best customer. Plotnick tried to convince us what a high-class building he ran by telling us she was an artistic dancer. But Don saw through this.

“A dancer just dances,” he explained. “An artistic dancer dances without clothes. The more artistic, the less clothes.”

Next to 2A was 2B, the love nest of Romeo and Juliet. They were a middle-aged couple who went to work every morning, took their meals in the deli, and spent all the rest of their time kissing. 2C was us, and our next door neighbor in 2D was the Phantom. We never saw the Phantom, since he never left the apartment. But he was Plotnick's favorite tenant, because he always paid the rent on time.

“He didn't make me one hassle,” said the landlord fondly. He glared at Ferguson and Don. “And he never has houseguests.”

The weird part was, for a guy who stayed cooped up inside his apartment, the Phantom seemed to have a vast acquaintance. He was on the phone with friends all day and half the night. We envisioned apartments all over town, with other Phantoms, all having elaborate social lives without ever stepping out the door.

The stairway up to the third floor was the steepest, narrowest, darkest, and most treacherous climb this side of Everest. Up this cliff, several times a day, ascended a tiny, frail, silver-haired lady who looked about two hundred years old. We called her God's Grandmother.

God's Grandmother was the friendliest person in the building, and had a smile for everyone, even Plotnick. She must have been in better shape than she looked, because she jogged several times each day. It was torture to watch. She fluttered along the sidewalk like a leaf in the wind, and every step seemed like it would be her last.

Another denizen of the third floor was the Ugly Man, who really wasn't all that ugly, except that he had only one thick, black, bushy eyebrow, which stretched all the way across his forehead. His beady little eyes peered out from under it like a rodent hiding in a hedge. He was the least congenial tenant, and always seemed to be muttering obscenities under his breath. My mother couldn't have washed his mouth out with soap. She'd have had to go for the Drano.

Maybe the Ugly Man was in this lousy mood because he was in love with another neighbor, Wayne Gretzky's Sister. We named her that because she looked exactly — I mean — exactly like a female version of Don's hero, Wayne Gretzky. We didn't see much of her but, when we did, she was usually studiously ignoring the Ugly Man.

That left the quietest tenant of 1 Pitt Street, a man we called the Assassin. He was kind of a mystery — a guy in a crummy third floor walk-up, who wore fifteen-hundred-dollar suits and Gucci loafers. He had a waxed mustache, and the coldest eyes you've ever seen. He came and went at odd hours, and always carried a thin black attaché case — perfect size for a machine gun. Even when we found out he was a librarian, we kept up his nickname. He looked like Death, swift and professional.

Last, but not least, came Plotnick himself, who lived in a large apartment on the first floor behind the deli. If nothing else, our landlord was fair. He was no nastier to us than to the rest of his tenants and deli customers.

We fit right in. The Stripper, Romeo and Juliet, the Phantom, God's Grandmother, the Ugly Man, Wayne Gretzky's Sister, the Assassin, and the Three Stooges.

And as I drifted off to sleep listening to the Phantom on the phone, planning the menu for a party he would
never
attend, I reflected that the Dream Summer was shaping up pretty well. If we could get the car back, and if Don and I could just keep Ferguson out of trouble at work, everything would be fine.

On Wednesday, Ferguson Peach's lack of productivity at Plastics Unlimited came to the attention of the foreman. At least, we think it did. He stood in front of the Peach at coffee break and gave him a long lecture about “noof-spif,” which we were pretty sure meant “work.”

“You see?” Don challenged after the foreman had moved on to fuffle at somebody else. “If you don't smarten up and do some work, you're out of here.”

“You look after your noof-spif,” said Ferguson, “and I'll look after mine.”

“You aren't doing any noof-spif!” wailed Don.

But Ferguson was on his way to the production computer, where the engineers waited, checking their watches and wringing their hands.

On Thursday, Ferguson didn't make any bubble wands at all. Instead, he held court at the computer, typing furiously, stopping only to make rough sketches on paper.

“That's it!” seethed Don. “No more Mr. Nice Guy! As soon as he gets back here,
he
goes into the stamping machine! Some poor kid's going to get a Peachfuzz bubble wand — which'll keep telling him how to blow better bubbles!”

But Ferguson did not return. Instead, more and more people gathered at the computer to see what was going on. By coffee break, the entire engineering staff was there, and the excited babble was drowning out the stamping machines. As the morning wore on, executives trickled one by one from the offices to crowd around Ferguson until, finally, Don's Uncle Harry, president of the whole company, came to investigate the goings-on.

Don was turning purple.

All eyes were on the screen as Ferguson deftly pounded the keyboard. Then he got up and pointed to several places around the plant. After that, the whole crowd of thirty-plus people disappeared into the executive offices, taking the Peach with them.

Three hours later, we were summoned to see Don's uncle. Don had a plan. “I'm going to save our jobs at all costs, Jason, so don't try to stop me. When my uncle asks what's the story here, I'm going to nail Peachfuzz to the wall. I'll say we hardly even know the idiot, and that we only need him for the rent. Then I'll apologize like crazy, and maybe we'll get through this one alive.”

I was really confused.
Was
Ferguson about to be fired? All I could think of was my summer. Could Ferguson get another job, or would he be on the train back to Owen Sound tomorrow? Could Don and I cover the rent on just two salaries? Or would we be back on the train after Ferguson's, to be greeted by my father and his four favorite words —
I, told, you
, and
so
? I gritted my teeth. If that happened, there really would be a “No More Peachfuzz Day.” I, Jason Cardone, would throw out the first peach pit.

* * *

“Donny, where did you find this guy?” Uncle Harry was referring to Ferguson, who was seated in a big leather chair while we stood.

I could see the wheels turning in Don's head. But when he opened his mouth, only panic poured out. “He's nobody! I never met him before in my life! He's an idiot! Just some guy off the street! I'm not responsible! Don't blame me!”

Harold Robb just stared at his nephew. “An idiot? Why, Fergie is the most remarkable young man it's ever been my pleasure to meet. I can't thank you enough for bringing him to me.”

Don goggled. “You're welcome.”

The president got up and put his hand on the Peach's shoulder. “He's a genius! He's going to save this company millions! In all my years in business, I've never met such a gifted individual. Do you know that he can take a look at an operation, and immediately see ways to improve it?”

No kidding. Don and I exchanged glances. The Peach's expression didn't alter.

“Which is what I've brought you in here to discuss. Part of Fergie's complete plant overhaul involves an automatic feeding system, so Plastics Unlimited doesn't need feeders anymore.”

It took a second or two for this to sink in.

“We're fired?” I barely whispered.

Don was stunned into silence.

“Of course not,” said Uncle Harry. “Can't run the place without my boy Fergie. But you two — well, that's business, right? Tomorrow's your last day.”

“But — but you're my uncle!” gasped Don.

“All the more reason why you don't want any special treatment,” beamed our ex-employer. “A man's got to make his own way in this world. Just look at Ferguson here. What a mind! What a
mind
!”

Don was begging now. “Couldn't we be transferred to another section?”

“Sorry, we're fully staffed. And you have the least seniority, so you have to go.”

“But I'm
family
!” Don whined.

“Nepotism has no place in business,” his uncle replied. “This is a tough world, Donny. Think of how fortunate you are to learn all about it at your age.”

The end.

* * *

Ferguson was invited to stay and have dinner with the executives, and Don and I went home. By unspoken agreement, we jammed all the Peach's clothes into his suitcase, zipped it up, and threw it out the window. Then we turned out all the lights and cranked the stereo up to 9.

At eight-thirty, Ferguson showed up, good‑natured as ever, suitcase in hand. We had no words; we just stared grim death at him.

He said, “Sorry,” and began to unpack.

I blew up. “Sorry?
Sorry?
We're obsolete, thanks to you! Now what are we supposed to do — go down to the museum and stand in a glass case marked
Feeders. Late Twentieth Century?”

The Peach just shrugged.

Don went for his throat, and I had to leap between them. “The important thing,” I said, straining to hold them apart, “is that we can't let our parents find out we've been fired. Remember, the jobs were the number-one condition for this trip.”

“Right!” exclaimed Don. He shook his fist at Ferguson. “If you slip up in one of your hourly letters to Mommy, and mention us getting canned, our folks'll freak out and drag us back home.”

“I'll take it under advisement,” murmured the Peach.

But I knew Ferguson wouldn't tell. And Don's uncle was no risk — he couldn't even remember which of his sisters was Don's mother. Absolutely nobody could know we'd lost our jobs.

* * *

When we went down to the deli for breakfast the next morning, we found
The Toronto Star
Employment section spread out on the table of our booth.

I looked over at Plotnick, who was behind the counter, involved in a hubcap sale. “What's this for?” I called.

The landlord looked up. “Just in case you should happen to know two persons looking for employment as of today.”

“Yeah, well, we don't know anyone,” I snapped. Was Plotnick psychic or something?

Plotnick handed the hubcap customer his change. “Okay, Mr. Cardone, but just remember, the first of the month is coming this weekend. And jobs for feeders are hard to come by with all the mechanization these days.”

I spied the ventilation duct grating right behind Plotnick's head. “Mr. Plotnick, have you been listening in on us?”

The landlord brandished his meat fork defensively. “It's my fault you gentlemen are yelling and screaming all the time? You want privacy? Try talking like a normal person.” He waddled over to our booth, and I tried to picture him trussed up like a roast pig, with an apple in his mouth. “Okay, what'll it be? Mr. Peach, you first, since you're paying the bills from now on. And by the way, congratulations on your promotion.”

Don was in a nasty mood. “When are you going to fix that stair? I almost killed myself this morning!”

“Look who's talking,” said Plotnick righteously. “I asked you to come smash up my building? Watch where you're going!” He turned to Ferguson. “So, Mr. Peach — how much money do you make?”

I slammed my hand down on the tabletop. “Mr. Plotnick, you don't ask a guy something like that!”

The landlord shrugged. “A person is interested. Six figures maybe?”

The Peach laughed. “They bumped me up fifty bucks a week.”

Plotnick was insulted on Ferguson's behalf. “If you hold yourself cheap, Mr. Peach, you get treated like a bargain.”

“I'm not exactly a career man,” Ferguson. pointed out. “I'm only going to be there for a couple of months.”

“All the more reason why you should grab fast!” said Donald Trump in a greasy apron. “You let me talk to your thief of a boss, and soon you'll be on Easy Street. I only charge twenty percent.”

“No, thank you.”

“But you'll be rich! You'll live in a penthouse!” I pictured the third floor. “Why? Is the Ugly Man moving out?”

Plotnick ignored my wisecrack. “Don't think only of yourself, Mr. Peach. Remember, you've got two unemployed bums to support.”

I looked over at the other bum. We'd have to find work — and fast!

* * *

At Plastics Unlimited, Ferguson got paid, and Don and I got paid off. We stopped at the bank on Bathurst and put most of the money into a checking account on our three signatures. Our convenience cards would be sent in the mail, but the teller presented us with a checkbook on the spot. None of us had ever written checks before. We were psyched.

As we left the bank, Don couldn't take his eyes off our passbook. “We've got over a thousand dollars.” He grinned. “A thou. A grand.”

“The rent's coming up tomorrow,” the Peach pointed out.

“Six hundred and eighty-five bucks,” Don shrugged. “We're rich. Let's celebrate.”

Before we knew it, he'd hailed a taxi, and we were headed against the traffic downtown. “Where are we going?” I asked.

“Tonight is the first night of the rest of our lives as swinging city guys!” declared Mr. Wonderful grandly.

“Well — uh — I was thinking of checking to see if there was any word on the car —”

“You need to forget the car for one night,” advised Don. “We're going to drown ourselves in loud music, colored lights, and hot babes.”

Ferguson laughed in his face. “Babes?”

“Shut up, Peachfuzz,” snapped Don. “What do you know about women — besides the fact that they all agree what a geek you are? Come on. It's Friday night! Let's get some action. Jason, how long's it been since you broke up with old what's-her-face?”

I reddened. Amy Loezer, my one and only girlfriend, had ditched me in February. That was just after she made me throw away my
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issue because it exploited women. One day I opened her locker, and there was my brother Joe, his muscles oiled, smiling out at me, Mr. February. There was even a lipstick smear on Joe's bulging biceps. I tore it into a billion pieces, and she never spoke to me again.

“What about you?” I countered. “What was the logic behind you dumping Teresa last month?” Teresa is Don's ex. She's going to have trouble deciding whether to be a high-fashion model or a nuclear physicist.

But Don just smiled. “That was a masterstroke. A perfect move.”

“How do you figure that? It doesn't make sense.”

“That's the whole point,” Mr. Wonderful argued smugly. “There was no reason to end it with Teresa, so when I did, what did everybody think?”

“That you're stupid?” suggested Ferguson innocently.

“That I've got something going for me even beyond what everybody sees. So I've kind of
traded
Teresa for future considerations — and in September I'll have my pick of any chick I want all year.”

“But you lost Teresa when you still like her,” I protested.

Don shrugged. “Let's concentrate on tonight. Now, what's the key to hooking up with a chick?”

I wasn't prepared for a quiz. “Uh — I guess if she thinks you're a nice person —”

“No, no, no,” interrupted Don in exasperation. “Girls say they want nice guys, but they never do.”

The cab stopped in front of a giant neon sign that blazed:

CLUB MOONTRIX — TORONTO'S PREMIER TEEN CLUB

“The first impression is the most important thing,” whispered Don as we paid our admission. “So watch what you do, how you walk, what you say. Take medium-sized steps, and try not to smile so much. It's better if you look like you're p.o.-ed about something. Not too much. Just a little.”

Club Moontrix was huge — bigger than the entire Plastics Unlimited plant area. The dancing hadn't started yet because they were still serving dinner. We got a table and ordered three burgers. The Peach and I wanted pizza, but Mr. Wonderful insisted it would do too much damage to our breath.

“As soon as a girl steps into a place like this,” he told us as we sipped on our Cokes, “she divides all the guys into the nimrods and the cool people. You haven't even said ‘Hi' to her yet, and it could be all over if you're in the wrong category.”

Ferguson signaled the waitress. “Excuse me, do you know if these napkins are made of recycled paper?”

Don held his head. “If you look up nimrod in the dictionary, there's probably a picture of Peachfuzz.”

As we were eating, the place was steadily filling up. By the time the music started, it was wall-to-wall people. The beat was bone-jarring, and colored lights and lasers electrified the dance floor. If they moved a great place like this to Owen Sound, it would probably be shut down by the police. For this kind of excitement, you couldn't beat downtown Toronto. We just stood there for a long time, soaking up the atmosphere, and then Don said it was time to mingle with the ladies — “catch a rap,” as he put it.

But we didn't. Instead, we walked around the club while Don looked at every girl in the place — and I mean
every
girl. It was like he was shopping for a house. He would walk ten feet, stop, check out the scene, walk ten feet, stop, check out the scene. We must have circled the club five times that way. After about an hour, Ferguson gave up and went to the bathroom to read a book. I was dying to ask somebody to dance, but Don said no.