Tricky Business (3 page)

“Thanks,” said Wally.

“Hey,” said Recker, still shaking Wally's hand, gripping it a little too hard, “maybe you can bring your guitar and entertain us at the Christmas party, ha ha.”

“Ha ha,” said Wally.
Asshole.

And so Wally quit his band and joined Recker International, where his job title was assistant systems technician. What this meant was that he unpacked desktop computers and then helped the systems technician try, with sporadic success, to hook these up into a network. As far as Wally could tell, it didn't really matter whether the computers worked or not, because the other members of the Recker International team seemed to have no clear idea what they were doing. There was much wandering from cubicle to cubicle, long meetings about designing the website, and a lot of talk about stock options. He never saw anybody do anything that seemed like actual work.

Except for Amanda. She was working all the time, many nights late, sometimes really late. He asked her what was going on, and she said a lot of things, and he asked her what kind of things, and she said complicated business financial stuff that she was too tired to talk about. He said he thought Recker was taking advantage of her, and she got mad and said she
wanted
to be part of this, this was
important,
this was going to be
big,
and Wally should be grateful to be part of a company run by somebody like Tommy, because he had
vision.

And Wally thought,
Tommy?

One night, out of loneliness, Wally went to a bar where his ex-bandmates were playing. Wally was pleased to note that the guitar player they'd replaced him with wasn't particularly good.

During the breaks, his old bandmates sat at his table and gave him a hard time about being a corporate sellout. He gave them a hard time about being stoner bar-band losers. Two breaks and some beers later, he told them what was going on with Amanda. They listened sympathetically—these were Wally's oldest and best friends—then assured him that Amanda's new boss was definitely porking her. Wally understood that they were just busting his balls. But when he left the bar, he drove to the Recker International offices.

He let himself in with his security card and closed the door quietly. It was dark in the lobby and in the main cubicle area. Recker's office door was closed; there was light shining through the bottom crack. Wally could hear talking in there, then silence for a while, then more talking. He decided the talking was a good sign. He thought about leaving, but instead went to a corner cubicle and sat down. He was there almost an hour, not really thinking about anything, suspended in a pure state of waiting.

Finally, Recker's office door opened. Amanda walked out, holding her purse. Recker was behind her. They were both fully dressed. Recker was holding some papers.

“Thanks for tonight,” Recker said. “See you tomorrow.”

“OK,” said Amanda.

“I'm afraid it's gonna be another long one,” Recker said. “We got that stupid brokerage thing to deal with.”

“I'll be here,” said Amanda, and turned toward the lobby.

Wally shrunk down in the chair, praying they wouldn't notice him, off in the corner, in the dark. Amanda took a few steps.

“Hey, Mandy,” said Recker.

She stopped. Wally's heart stopped.

“Come here,” said Recker.

And she turned and went to him, and in a second they were locked together, mouth on mouth, and Wally knew this was not the first time. Recker reached down and pulled Amanda's skirt up over her hips, and she moaned. Wally moaned, too, but they didn't hear him, as they slid to the floor, groping each other frantically. Nor did they see Wally stand up, take a step toward them, then turn and walk out of the office, eyes burning, trying to get his mind around the fact that he had no fiancée, and no job, and nowhere to live.

A few hours later, he showed up at his mom's house, the house he grew up in, with all his stuff, which wasn't much, piled randomly into his Sentra. It was still dark, but his mom was up already.

“Mom,” he said, “I need to stay here for a while.”

His mom looked at him for a moment.

“I'll make you some waffles,” she said.

 

ARNOLD PULLMAN, AGE 83, LOOKED OUT THE BIG dining-room window in the Beaux Arts Senior Living Center, which Arnold always referred to as the Old Farts Senile Dying Center.

“Doesn't look so bad to me,” he said. “A little rain maybe.”

“Arnie,” said Phil Hoffman, age 81, “are you blind? It's a goddamn hurricane out there.”

Phil was Arnie's best friend—only friend, really—at the retirement home. They'd met when they were assigned to sit together in the dining room, at a table for four. The other two seats were filled by a man named Harold Tutter, age 77, who could not remember anything for more than fifteen seconds; and a very hostile woman, known to Phil and Arnie only as the Old Bat, who believed that everybody was trying to steal her food.

“It's not a hurricane,” said Arnie. “It's a tropical storm, Hector. How bad can it be, with a name like Hector?”

“I don't like the names they use these days,” said Phil. “I liked it better when it was just girls. Donna, that was a good hurricane name. 1960.”

“Christ, 1960,” said Arnie. And for a moment, he and Phil reflected on 1960, when they were young bucks at the height of their physical powers, capable of taking a dump in under an hour.

During the silence, Harold Tutter looked up from his oatmeal, turned to Phil, and extended his hand. “I'm Harold Tutter,” he said.

“A pleasure to meet you, Harold,” said Phil, shaking Tutter's hand. “I'm the Hunchback of Notre Dame.”

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Dame,” said Tutter, turning back to his oatmeal.

“It's a little rain, is all,” said Arnie, looking out the window again.

“If you're thinking the boat is going out in this,” said Phil, “you're nuts.” He reached to get a Sweet'n Low packet from the container in the middle of the table. Seeing his hand move her way, the Old Bat hissed and covered her bowl with both arms.

“I don't
want
your food,” Phil told her. “Prunes, for Chrissakes. I'd rather eat my socks.”

The Old Bat gathered her prunes closer to herself, ready to fight for them.

“They call them dried plums now,” said Arnie.

“What?” said Phil.

“Prunes,” said Arnie. “I saw an article. They call them dried plums now.”

“Why?” said Phil.

“Public relations,” said Arnie. “People today, they don't want prunes. So now they call them dried plums.”

“They can't do that,” said Phil. “Prunes are . . .
prunes.
”

“I'm Harold Tutter,” said Tutter, extending his hand to Phil.

“Jesus,” said Phil.

“Good to meet you,” said Tutter, turning back to his oatmeal.

“But do you know where they come from?” said Arnie.

“What?” said Phil.

“Prunes,” said Arnie.

Phil thought about it.

“Prune trees,” he said.

“Nope,” said Arnie. “From plums. There's no prune trees.”

“You sure about that?” said Phil. “Because I'm pretty sure I saw trees somewhere that were prune trees.”

“Yeah?” said Arnie. “Where?”

Phil thought some more. “
National Geographic,
” he said.

“Harold Tutter,” said Tutter, extending his hand to Phil.

“Good for you,” said Phil. “May I present my girlfriend, the Wicked Witch of the West.” He gestured toward the Old Bat.

“It's a pleasure, Miss West,” said Tutter. He reached his hand toward the Old Bat, who recoiled, yanking her bowl toward her so that her prunes fell into her lap. Tutter returned to his oatmeal.

“I used to get
National Geographic,
” said Arnie. “Marge always said it was so I could look at the titties.” Marge was Arnie's wife of 53 years. She had died when Arnie was 79, and four months later his children had moved him into the Old Farts Senile Dying Center.

“I remember,” said Phil. “They always had some article in there, some primitive tribe, the Ubongi People of the Amazon, or whatever, and there'd always be pictures in there, the Ubongi women pounding roots with their ta-tas hanging out.”

“Well,” said Arnie, “Marge always claimed I was pounding
my
root.”

Now Phil and Arnie were laughing, in that old-man way that was 60 percent laugh, 40 percent cough. This caused a stir in the dining room, where there was rarely any sound other than the clink of silverware and the occasional dry echoing
braap
of an elderly fart. Heads turned toward their table. The Beaux Arts assistant day manager, Dexter Harpwell, a taut man who ran a taut ship, scurried over.

“What seems to be the trouble?” he said.

“No trouble, officer,” said Arnie.

“What happened here?” said Harpwell, spying the Old Bat's prune-covered lap. He grabbed a napkin and leaned over to wipe her off. “Here, let's get you cl
OOOW
!”

As the Old Bat sank her teeth into Harpwell's flesh, he jerked his hand out of her mouth. With it came her dentures, which flew across the table, landing in Tutter's oatmeal. Tutter regarded them for a moment, picked them out of his bowl, set them aside, and resumed eating.

“Watch out,” said Phil, to Harpwell. “She bites.”

Harpwell, clutching his hand, glared at Phil and Arnie.

“May I remind you gentlemen,” he said, “that disturbing other residents is a Conduct Violation.”

“We didn't disturb her,” said Phil.

“She's already disturbed,” said Arnie.

Harpwell turned away, looking for a dining-room attendant. “Nestor!” he called. “Get over here and clean her up.”

The attendant, a large Jamaican man, approached the Old Bat.

“Darlin',” he said, “you messed up that pretty dress.” Gently, he began to clean her off. She made no move to stop him.

Harpwell turned back to Arnie and Phil.

“I don't want to see any more of this kind of outburst,” he said. “If I do, I'm going to have to take disciplinary action.”

“Golly,” said Arnie, “will it go on our permanent record?”

“Can we still go to the prom?” asked Phil.

“I'm Harold Tutter,” said Tutter, extending his hand to Harpwell. Harpwell, ignoring him, gave Arnie and Phil one last glare, then walked tautly away.

“My pleasure,” said Tutter, returning to his oatmeal.

“Talk about a guy who needs some prunes,” said Phil.

“Dried plums,” said Arnie. “Hey, Nestor.”

The attendant looked up from the Old Bat.

“We're gonna need your taxi service tonight,” said Arnie.

“Tonight?” said Nestor. “You want to go out on the boat in this weather?”

“My point exactly,” said Phil.

“A little rain, is all,” said Arnie.

“Man, I bet that boat won't even go out in this,” said Nestor.

“Well, if it does,” said Arnie, “you'll take us, right?”

Arnie and Phil had a deal with Nestor: On nights when they wanted to go to the ship, he drove them. When the ship returned, he picked them up, brought them back to Beaux Arts, and sneaked them in through a service door. Arnie and Phil paid for this service by giving Nestor all the pills that they were handed at mealtimes by the pill man, who walked from table to table dispensing vast quantities of medication. On a normal day, the pill man gave a total of 17 pills to Arnie and 23 to Phil. Neither man had any idea what most of the pills did. One day they'd decided simply not to take them. Not only did they not die, they both felt better, and more alert, than they had in years. From then on, they slipped their pills to Nestor in return for various favors, the main one being transportation to the ship. Nestor sold the pills to various parties in his neighborhood, where he was known as The Doctor. He was saving up for a Lexus.

“OK,” Nestor said. “If the boat goes, I take you.”

“Not me, you won't,” said Phil. “I'm too young to die.”

“Die, schmie,” said Arnie. “A big boat like that, this weather is nothing. A little rain. Besides, you got something better to do? You wanna spend your night here, running away from Mrs. Krugerman?”

Phil winced. Mrs. Krugerman was an 80-year-old woman who had the hots for him. He could usually maintain his distance from her, because she used a walker and moved slowly. But she never stopped coming.

“Another thing,” said Arnie. “You know what the entertainment is here tonight? The broad that sings the show tunes.”

“No,” said Phil. “The one that killed Mrs. Fenwick?”

“Same one,” said Arnie.

Two weeks earlier, the woman who sang show tunes, a Mrs. Bendocker, had performed a medley from
The Sound of Music,
and during her big finale, “Climb Every Mountain,” while she was shrieking out the high notes for “. . . till you find your dreeeeeeeeeam,” Mrs. Fenwick, who was sitting in the front row, had emitted a
gack
and keeled over, dead as a doornail. A lawsuit had already been filed.

“I can't believe they're bringing her back,” said Phil.

“Point is,” said Arnie, “you stay here tonight, you could die anyway.”

Phil looked around the dining room at his fellow Beaux Arts patrons, some eating, some sleeping, some staring and drooling. None were talking.