Ronald Rabbit Is a Dirty Old Man (2 page)

“For anything that might come up.”

“No doubt.” He closed his eyes for a longer period of time. He opened them and sighed, perhaps because I was still there. “It must be very boring for you,” he said. “Doing absolutely nothing, day after day, week after week, month after month.”

“Month after month,” I said.

“Eh?”

“I haven’t minded it, Mr. Finch.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Of course at first I hoped someone would find something for me to do, but after a while I began to get used to it. To having nothing to do, that is.”

“You never went looking for another job.”

“No, I’ve been happy here.”

“And you never tried to find anything else you could do here?”

“I didn’t want to call attention to myself.”

He winced. “Eight months of well-paid inactivity,” he said. “Two months of work and eight months of total sloth. I’ve never heard of anything like it. Do you realize what you’ve done, Clarke? You’ve stowed away on a corporation.”

“I never thought of it that way.”

“It’s quite incredible. When this came to my attention I was fully prepared to be furious with you. For some curious reason I find myself unable to work up any genuine rage. Astonishment, yes. Even a sort of grudging admiration. I have to admit that I found myself looking around for something else you could do for us. But of course there’s nothing open. Everybody in the industry is busy reducing staff these days; combining jobs, eliminating deadwood. You’re the deadest possible sort of wood, Clarke. No offense intended, but you’re the rottenest limb on the Whitestone tree.”

I didn’t say anything. Neither did he, so I finally broke the silence. “Then I’m fired,” I said.

“Fired? Of course you’re fired.”

I nodded. “I knew it would have to happen sooner or later. It was too good to last.”

“Fired? What else could you
be
but fired? Promoted, perhaps? Rewarded with a raise?”

“I’ll miss working here,” I said. To myself more than to Finch.

He stood up. “Oh, we’ll miss having you, Clarke. I don’t know how we’ll get on without you.” He started to chuckle, then broke it off sharply and resumed the head-shaking routine. “Well,” he said, “I’ve had a check drawn. Your salary through today plus two weeks’ severance pay and six days’ sick leave.” He picked up a check and frowned at it. “Of course you weren’t here five years or you would have been participating in the profit-sharing plan. Suppose you’d stowed away for five years? Or forever? The mind boggles. Well, I don’t suppose it will take you long to find something suitable. We’ll give you a good reference, needless to say. We’ve had no complaints about your performance of assigned tasks, have we?”

I laughed politely.

“And in the meantime you can begin collecting unemployment benefits. A comedown from your present salary, but your duties will be essentially the same.”

“Essentially the same.” I took a breath. “Could you tell me how you happened to, uh, find out about me?”

“Your expense account,” he said.

“My expense account?”

“Part of the current austerity program. I had someone going over expense account records for the past half year to see who might have been taking a bit of advantage. And your records immediately attracted attention.”

“I never used my expense account, Mr. Finch.”

“Precisely. An editor who doesn’t charge a minimum of three lunches a week to the company stands out like a sore thumb. Surprising you weren’t detected earlier. Why, you should have been gouging us for an extra twenty-five or thirty dollars a week at the least.”

“It didn’t seem honest,” I said, thoughtfully.

“Honest,” he said. “Well,” he said. “I won’t keep you, Clarke. You’ll want to clean out your desk. If there’s anything in it. And you’ll want to say goodbye to some of your coworkers, if you’ve happened to meet any of them in the course of your stay here. It’s been a pleasure, Clarke. An educational experience.”

We shook hands. I said, “If you should ever decide to reactivate
Ronald Rabbit
—”

“Oh, we’ll keep you in mind, Clarke. We’ll certainly keep you in mind. Count on it.”

I got back to my own desk and sat at it and thought how I was going to miss it. I had a check in my pocket for almost a thousand dollars. There was another hundred in my wallet and something like fifteen hundred in our joint checking account. In a drawer at the apartment, there were bills running to perhaps a thousand dollars. Fran earned $130 a week before deductions, considerably less after them. Presumably we wouldn’t starve, with her salary added to my unemployment. Not right away, at least.

But what was I going to do?

It was a very weird moment or three, Lisa love. A very weird couple of moments indeed. Larry Clarke, Laurence with a U and Clarke with an E—and wouldn’t it be nice, by the by, to have a name one didn’t have to spell for people. Laurence Clarke himself, a poet whose Muse went into retirement a year and a half ago. Born thirty-two years and ten days ago, a Gemini with Scorpio rising and Moon in Leo. Unemployed, and presumably unemployable. A lad with talents unexciting enough in a booming labor market, and here we were in a labor market that could hardly have been less booming. If the economy got a little worse I could respectably sell apples on street corners, but what would I do in the interim?

Consider this: In all my life I had only found one job that I truly and unequivocally enjoyed, and now I was fired from it.

I picked up the phone and called Fran’s office. She had not come in to work, someone told me, nor had she called in. I tried her at home and the phone rang for a while before I gave up on it.

I decided it was just as well. Conversations with Fran had been difficult enough lately, even when I had good news. But I had to talk to someone, so I called Steve Adel. Of course you remember Steve, old college buddy and best friend in all the world. Best man at our wedding, you recall. Best man again, when I married Fran. He’s still in photography, has a loft of his own on Centre Street. He wasn’t around, though, and I sat there trying to think of someone else to call, and the phone rang, and although you might think I’d have known better, I answered it.

A collect call from Richmond, Virginia. There is only one person who calls me collect, and only one person I know in Richmond. Both of those people are you, Lisa. I accepted the call on behalf of Whitestone Publications—it was all I could do to compensate them for not having made use of my expense account. And there you were, as you perhaps remember.

You may remember the conversation as well, but I’m going to reproduce it here just for the sake of continuity.

LISA: Sweetie, it’s good to talk to you.

LARRY: You’ve eloped.

LISA: No, honey—

LARRY: You’ve moved up the wedding, though.

LISA:
(Giggles deep in her throat. There was a time, you know, when I loved the sound of that giggle. There was also a time when I wanted to be a fireman when I grew up.)
No, just the opposite, lover. Last night Wally and I called the whole thing off. No wedding bells for Lisa.

LARRY: No wedding bells.

LISA: ’Fraid not. Oh, it just wouldn’t have worked out, honey. Just no way. He’s a sweet guy and I do love him some, but as far as marriage goes, no, it just couldn’t have worked out for us.

LARRY: You don’t want to jump to such an important decision, Lisa.

LISA: Oh, be sure I gave it mucho thought, honey.

LARRY: I see.

LISA: But there is no way to make it work. Oh, we’re fine in bed, lover, but that’s just not enough to build a marriage around. As far as that goes, you and I were good in bed, Larry. I can still say that you were one of the best lovers I’ve ever had.

LARRY: I don’t know how to thank you.

LISA: Of course we were both a good deal younger then. You’ve probably learned a lot more since those days. God knows I have.

LARRY: I can imagine.

LISA: Can you? But as far as marriage goes, I think it can go without me. Honestly, darling, there are times when I think I’ll stay single for the rest of my life. So I’m afraid those alimony checks won’t stop next month after all, sugar. As a matter of fact—

LARRY: I was fired today.

LISA: Fired?

LARRY: Today. The magazine ceased publication, so they let me go. So as far as the checks are concerned—

LISA: Oh, I’m sure you’ll be able to keep them coming.

LARRY: You are, eh?

LISA: I have confidence in you. But this does change things, doesn’t it? You see, Daddy has been after me to increase the checks. He says with the way inflation is going, and the increase in the cost of living…

(I missed a lot of what followed there, Lisa. When you quote your father you talk the same legal bullshit he talks. But the gist of it seemed to be that the old bastard wanted you to petition the court for an increase of a third in your alimony payments.)

LISA:
(Cont’d.)
But of course this changes things. I still consider myself your friend, lovie, and what are friends for if not to be understanding in times of stress?

LARRY: Times of stress.

LISA: So we’ll just let it stand at $850 a month until you get things straightened out. I just hope you won’t be unemployed for too very long.

LARRY: So do I, actually.

LISA: Oh, just incidentally, I didn’t get this month’s check yet. I suppose it’s in the mail?

LARRY: You know how the mails are.

LISA: But I suppose it’ll get here within a day or two, don’t you think?

LARRY: You’ll get your money.

LISA: I’m sure I will, doll.

LARRY: But I wish to hell you would marry the son of a bitch.

LISA: Men are supposed to be upset when their ex-wives remarry. A virility-anxiety thing, I think it is. They don’t like to be replaced. I read that many of them even enjoy paying alimony, that they get their kicks out of the measure of control it lets them keep over their ex’s life.

LARRY: You read that, huh?

LISA: It makes sense, don’t you think? Except for those men who don’t have much virility to be anxious about.

LARRY: I’ve got to go now. My other phone is ringing.

LISA: Fun-nee.

LARRY: It was good talking to you, Lisa. It always is.

LISA: Sometimes I think it’s a shame we didn’t work out, Larry. But we had some good times, didn’t we?

LARRY: Some good times. No argument there.

LISA: How’s Fran?

LARRY: Fine.

LISA: Give her my love.

LARRY: Will do.

LISA: Bye, hon. And don’t forget the check, huh? I’m kind of broke.

LARRY: I won’t forget.

Outside, away from the air conditioning, the weather had gone to hell along with the rest of my life. It had turned hot and damp, and the air was foul. I took a taxi. Pecuniary emulation, your father would call it. Spending money unnecessarily because one lacks it. Ego food. Whatever the reason, I couldn’t hack the subway.

Bleecker Street had never looked bleaker. I dogged it up the stairs through the cooking smells and let myself in.

Nobody home. I had a drink and was building another when I found the note. It was on the kitchen table, and I suppose I must have looked at it several times without seeing it. The work of a benign Providence. Obviously God knew I ought to have a drink inside me and another close at hand before I read that fucking note.

I reproduce it for you, Lisa:

Larry:

I can’t go on living a lie. Steve and I have been lovers since March, and everything has grown ever more intense. No doubt you’ve noticed I’ve been acting strangely lately and I guess that explains why.

By the time you read this we will be on our way to Mexico. We will stay with friends of his in Monterrey for a few weeks and will probably wind up in Cuernavaca. Steve has been wanting to photograph the ruins.

Cowardly of me, I know, but I couldn’t face telling you all this. Nor could I help doing it. Thanks for some mostly good years.

With some (but not enough) love
,

Fran

P.S.—I closed our checking account.

I went around the corner to the bank, and she was right. The checking account was gone. I sat down with a vice-president and we figured out how many checks were outstanding and cashed my final Whitestone check and put in enough money so none of the checks would bounce. I wound up with a couple of hundred dollars. There were still all those bills upstairs, and I still owed you $850, Lisa, the very $850 which I am not sending with this letter. The bank officer asked me if I wanted to open a new account; I decided to keep the money in cash. Not that I would be keeping it very long.

Then I came back here and finished the drink, and then I read Fran’s letter a few more times.

Friday, June 12
^th
. It should have been the thirteenth. I had just lost my job and my wife and most of my money. I had retained my ex-wife and the privilege of defusing my virility-anxiety by paying her four times as much each month as I would receive in unemployment compensation. The only person I really felt like talking to about all of this was on his way to Monterrey with Fran. (And why, I wonder, did the silly cunt insist on furnishing me with their itinerary? Could I look forward to a parade of postcards?
Having wonderful time. X marks our room. Wish you were here.)

I called Jennifer, who lives on East Seventh Street and weaves rugs and tapestries. We have an undemanding sort of relationship, Jennie and I. I drop over there once or twice a week and we smoke a little grass and listen to a little music and fuck a little. I told her I was at loose ends, which was as true a statement as any I have ever uttered, and that I thought I might go over and see her.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m kind of uptight. I just got my period yesterday and I had this hassle with the super and I’m in a shitty mood. If you just wanted to talk a little and watch me weave—”

Jennifer is twenty-two, with a supple body and pale skin and long mahogany hair and trusting acidhead eyes. All of this makes her a yummy fuck but a verbal nothing. Going over to her place just for conversation is like going to a Chinese restaurant just for dessert. This is all right on grass—ten-minute silences aren’t bothersome then—but I felt not at all like getting high. I wanted to close the doors of perception, not open them.