Tricky Business (10 page)

Every now and then, a resident would bravely pick up the remote and, with shaking hands, push some buttons in an effort to change the channel. The result was almost always bad. Sometimes the TV would shut off entirely. Sometimes the screen would turn bright blue; sometimes a menu would appear, and nobody could figure out how to get rid of it, and everybody would watch the menu until a staff member wandered by and fixed the problem. So although the center had cable TV and received 98 channels, the residents were limited to whichever one happened to be on when they entered the room. Today it was NewsPlex Nine.

“Look at this,” said Phil. “They're showing the supermarket morons again.”

On the screen, for the third time since Arnie and Phil had started watching, was a reporter in a Publix supermarket. This was a standard element of the NewsPlex Nine storm coverage: the frenzy of food-and-supplies buying by panicked residents, who for the most part were panicked because they'd been watching NewsPlex Nine.

“As we've been seeing all afternoon,” the reporter was saying, “the aisles here are jammed with worried shoppers, stocking up for the worst.” Behind her, people smiled and waved at the camera.

The reporter turned to a fifty-ish woman in a house-dress, put the microphone into her face.

“What supplies are you buying?” she asked.

“Well,” said the woman, looking into her cart, “I got batteries and water, peanut butter, bleach, let's see here . . . soup, cold cuts. Also I got some Vaseline.”

“For the storm?” said the reporter.

“No, we're just out of Vaseline,” said the woman.

“Back to you in the NewsPlex, Bill and Jill.”

“What I wanna know,” said Arnie, “is why bleach?”

“What are you talking about?” said Phil.

“Always with the hurricane, people are buying bleach.”

“So?”

“So, what do they
do
with the bleach?”

“You need the bleach,” said Phil. “In case.”

The truth was that Phil had no idea what the bleach was for, even though, like most South Floridians, he firmly believed you needed some. Everybody bought it, because everybody else did. There were hundreds of thousands of gallons of emergency Clorox in cupboards all over South Florida, sitting, ready and waiting, next to the emergency cans of Spam manufactured in 1987.

“In case of
what
?” said Arnie. “A hurricane comes, knocks down your house, you're gonna do a load of laundry?”

Phil looked at Arnie for a moment.

“Does it ever occur to you,” he said, “that you think too much?”

“That's exactly what my wife used to say,” said Arnie. “She always bought bleach.”

“So did my wife,” said Phil.

The two old men sat silent for a moment, both thinking about their wives.

On the TV, NewsPlex Nine was now showing a reporter standing on Miami Beach. He was wearing a yellow rain poncho, with the hood off so you could see his hair being blown around.

“The rain has been coming and going all afternoon,” he was saying, “and as you can see we're getting some strong gusts.”

“Oooh,” said Arnie. “Strong gusts.”

“We're already seeing some wind damage,” the reporter was saying. “Mike, if you could point the camera over here . . .”

The camera swung away, focused for a moment on a large palm branch lying on the beach, fronds fluttering.

“Oh no!” said Arnie. “A branch is down!”

“Call out the National Guard!” said Phil, and now the two of them were laughing and coughing. This earned them a glare from a man two chairs over, who'd been awakened by the noise. He got up, gave them another glare, and shuffled from the room.

“What's with him?” said Phil.

“My guess,” said Arnie, “he's off to take his annual shit.”

“. . . definitely getting worse out here,” the NewsPlex Nine beach reporter was saying. He was squinting, leaning into the wind, as though at any moment he could be blown away. “People are advised to stay away from the beaches, where the surf as you know can be very treacherous.”

Two young men appeared behind the reporter, both in bathing suits. They waved happily at the camera, shoved each other in jocular fashion, then plunged into the ocean. A couple jogged past with a Labrador retriever.

“I'll stay out here as long as I can,” the reporter was saying. “Back to you, Bill and Jill.”

Bill, the male NewsPlex Nine anchor, said, “You take care out there, Justin.” He frowned with concern at the female NewsPlex Nine anchor, whom, unbeknownst to either of their spouses, he was porking nightly in his dressing room. “It's looking bad out there, Jill,” he said.

“It sure is, Bill,” said Jill, turning to the TelePrompTer, so she could read what she was supposed to be alarmed about next. “And things are not any better out on South Florida's rain-slicked highways.”

“UH-oh,” said Arnie. “Did you hear that, Phil? The highways are
rain-slicked.
”

“It's humanity's worst nightmare!” said Phil. “Wet roads!”

“We've already had some fender-benders on I-95,” Jill was saying, “and rush hour is shaping up to be a real mess.”

“Like it's not a mess every other day,” said Arnie.

“. . . have a tanker overturned on the Palmetto Express-way,” Jill was saying, “spilling some kind of unidentified liquid across all three southbound lanes.”

“It's BLEACH!” said Phil.

“WE LOST OUR BLEACH RESERVES!” shouted Arnie, pounding his chair arm. “WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!”

“Uh-oh,” said Phil, looking toward the door. Arnie, following Phil's eyes, saw Dexter Harpwell, the assistant day manager, entering the room, trailed by the glaring man who'd left earlier. Harpwell walked tautly over to Arnie and Phil, stopping between them and the TV screen. His right hand was bandaged where the Old Bat had bitten him at lunch.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I've received complaints about your noise level.”

“What do you mean,
complaints?
” said Arnie. “You mean Mr. Constipation over there?” He gestured toward the glaring man, who had reseated himself and was now glaring straight ahead.

“Mr. Kremens says you gentlemen are talking so loud he can't watch television,” said Harpwell.

“He wasn't watching the television,” said Phil. “He was sleeping.”

“This is a community,” said Harpwell. “You have to respect the rights of the other residents.”

“No question,” said Arnie. “He has a right to sleep. So let him go sleep in his room.”

Harpwell heaved a heavy sigh. “Mr. Pullman,” he said, “do you recall what I said at lunch today?”

“Yeah,” said Arnie. “You said
OOOW.
”

“How's that hand?” asked Phil. “I was you, I'd check the Old Bat for rabies.”

“What I said at lunch,” said Harpwell, “is that if you gentlemen continued to commit Conduct Violations, I would have to take disciplinary action. I'm afraid you've given me no choice but to do that now.”

“How old are you?” said Arnie.

“What does that have to do with anything?” said Harpwell.

“It has to do with, I'm eighty-three, which means I was a grown man supporting a family when you were getting happy-face stickers for making peepee on the potty,” said Arnie.

“How old were you then, Dexter?” said Phil. “Fourteen?”

“Very funny,” said Harpwell. “But the fact is that . . .”

“The fact is,” said Arnie, “we're grown men. We're more grown than you'll probably ever be. Just because we got to live in this cemetery, doesn't mean you can talk to us like we're kids.”

“Be that as it may,” said Harpwell, “I'm the authority here, and in the interest of protecting the rights of the other residents, I'm going to confine you two to your rooms this evening after dinner.”

“What?” said Arnie.

“You're
sending us to our rooms?
” said Phil.

“That's correct,” said Harpwell. “This will give you a chance to ponder your responsibilities within the Beaux Arts community.”

“And what if we don't go to our rooms?” said Arnie. “You gonna spank us?”

“If you are unable to function within the parameters of the Independent Living Wing,” said Harpwell, “I'm afraid I'll have to transfer you to the other building.”

“What?” said Arnie. “The loony bin? The International House of Drool?”

The other building was where they kept the truly demented residents, the ones who wore pajamas all day, and wet themselves, and cried out for mommies who'd died forty years ago.

“You can't do that,” said Phil.

“It's called the Assisted Living Wing,” said Harpwell, “and rest assured, I have full authority, solely at my discretion, to transfer you both there. Unless you prefer to leave Beaux Arts altogether, which is of course your prerogative.”

“You little prick,” said Arnie.

“You were a hall monitor, right?” said Phil. “In high school? Ratting out the kids who smoked in the boy's room?”

“Just keep it up, gentlemen,” said Harpwell, who had in fact been the
head
hall monitor. “Just keep it up. I'm going to have the night security staff check to make sure you're in your rooms tonight. Meanwhile, I think we should change to a channel that Mr. Kremens would find more enjoyable.”

He picked up the remote control.

“But he's asleep again,” said Phil.

“So he is,” said Harpwell, pressing buttons on the remote. “Ah, here we are.” The TV was now tuned to a soap opera. In Spanish.

“You little
prick,
” said Arnie.

“Have a pleasant evening, gentlemen,” said Harpwell, setting down the remote and walking tautly away.

Phil and Arnie looked at each other.

“Can he do this?” said Phil. “Can we call a lawyer or something?”

Arnie shook his head. “First, I don't know about you, but all the lawyers I know are dead. Second, the little prick holds all the cards. This place, believe it or not, there's a waiting list a mile long. My daughter tells me I'm lucky to be here, don't make waves, yadda yadda yadda. They're looking for excuses to get people out of here, so they can bring in new people, charge them more.”

“Jesus,” said Phil. “So we go to our rooms, like little boys.”

“We do,” said Arnie.

“So I guess we don't go out on the boat tonight,” said Phil, somewhat relieved by this thought.

Arnie thought about that for a moment.

“Not necessarily,” he said.

“What do you mean?” said Phil.

“I mean,” said Arnie, “I got an idea.”

“UH-oh,” said Phil.

 

THE WIND WAS STRONGER NOW, PUSHING THE rain slantwise through the sea-scented Bahamian night. Frank and Juan, wearing ponchos, stood under the yellow dock light next to the cabin cruiser. The boat strained restlessly at its lines even in the shelter of the harbor.

Juan watched the boat shift and heave, and thought about the big waves he could hear crashing out beyond the breakwater. It would be much rougher out there. Juan could not swim. He had never in his life run from anything. He fought anyone who questioned his courage. But now he wanted very much for there to be a reason why he did not have to get on this boat, go out on that dark and violent sea. He would have liked to talk to Frank about this, but he didn't know how.

What he said was: “This asshole, I bet he don't want to take his boat out in this.” This was Juan's version of a prayer.

“Oh, he'll take it out,” said Frank. “That's why we're here. Make sure he does what he gets paid to do.”

“He fucking better,” said Juan, because that's what he figured he was supposed to say.

“Time to start the party,” said Frank. He cupped his mouth and shouted at the boat: “TARK!”

This time, Tark came right out. In his hand, where his knife had been earlier, was a can of Budweiser, sixteen ounces. He stood easily on the heaving deck, not bracing himself. It pissed Juan off, the way this asshole was unafraid of the boat, of the roiling water.

Tark exchanged fuck-you stares with Juan for a second, then turned to Frank.

“Nice night, huh?” he said.

“You ready?” said Frank.

“Course I'm ready,” said Tark.

“You got the packages?” said Frank.

“I said I'm ready, didn't I?” said Tark. “Question is, are
you
boys ready? 'Cause Pancho here don't look too happy about this. Still on the dock and already looks like he's gonna puke.”

“Keep it up, asshole,” said Juan.

“OK,
listen,
both of you,” said Frank. “Cut this shit right now. I told you before, I don't care what you do when we get back. But I don't want trouble on the boat. On the boat, you work together, like professionals. You understand?”

Neither man spoke. Tark pursed his lips, sent a little air kiss at Juan.

“Later, sweetheart,” he said. “We got a date.”

“That's right, pussy,” said Juan. “You better be ready.”

They resumed their stare-off. Frank shook his head.

“Christ,” he said. “I'm trying to run a business operation, I'm working with the Sharks and the Jets.”

Both Juan and Tark looked at Frank.

“
West Side Story,
” said Frank.

Both Juan and Tark frowned.