Slightly Irregular
January 24th, 2010
Slightly Irregular is a short story I just entered in the 24-Hour Short Story Contest on Writer’s Weekly. It had prompt and a 900-word limit. I wrote this thing in 12ish hours. Enjoy! Cross your fingers that they like it, too.
Slightly Irregular
With his mismatched, button eyes and folksy get-up, David the Gnome is adorable. He’s Gretchen’s latest creation. Her sister, Rebecca, is going to hate it. Perfect.
David is one of the many new toys Gretchen crafted for Stewart and Molly-her sister’s Pomeranians. Rebecca treats them like fluffy ottomans that occasionally wet the floor. Gretchen wishes she could take them, but she just doesn’t have the room.
It’s Rebecca’s birthday, and she has so many things to be grateful for: an accommodating husband, a successful career, six acres upstate, and a deadbeat sister who knits gnomes.
33 and unemployed, Gretchen is grateful for something. Jeff left her and moved out. No more amps in her kitchen. No more band practices. Just Gretchen and her knitting machine. Jeff always laughed when she would knit. He said it didn’t make sense. She’s not the crafty type.
Gretchen made dozens of creatures for Stewart and Molly. Gnomes, bunnies, squirrels. She’s been stuffing their plump bodies all week, listening to records. With every completed character, she revels in a rare feeling of accomplishment. She’s brought them to life. They seem to appreciate it, too.
From her lap, David’s shiny buttons stare up at her. She admires his crooked, handmade smile. Adjusting his tiny hat, she pictures the little ones’ faces, panting against the icy windowpanes, waiting for her to arrive with a basket of homemade toys. At least they will be happy to see her.
With his last strand of hair finally in place, she she gently inserts the needle to tie the final knot. David lurches in her hand, and a high-pitched voice, says, “Have a cigarette, Gretchen!”
This gnome better pipe down. In the countdown preceding this familial obligation, Gretchen hasn’t smoked for three days-enough time for the nicotine to leave her bloodstream, or so she read. Her mother thinks she quit months ago.
She suddenly finds herself in line at 7-11, shamed by the fluorescent inquisition lights. “American Spirits, yellow pack.” Jeff’s brand. “And the purple flowers.” They’re for Rebecca. She hates purple.
She lights a cigarette off her stove and opens a window. Her head swims. Last one until her drive back Sunday night.
The next afternoon, Gretchen’s cast of woodland creatures is stuffed securely in a basket, buckled in the front seat for the drive upstate. Even they look tense.
Her favorite Wilco song comes on. Jeff could never figure out that chord progression.
She grabs the yellow pack. Just one for the road. And if David doesn’t shut up, she’s turning this car around.
Gretchen parks down the block. A thick cloud of Febreze and a handful of gum should mask the smell.
Rebecca answers the door. “Gary and the dogs are at his parents’ house. I thought we could actually talk this time. I hope you aren’t disappointed.”
Damn.
“You smell like smoke.” Thanks, Mom.
Rebecca promptly deposits the purple flowers in the trash. “If the dogs eat these, they’ll get sick.”
An uncomfortable stranger paces the living room. Finally, a kindred spirit.
“Gretchen, meet John. He’s a temp at my office. He likes music, too.” Rebecca pushes John toward Gretchen like a fourth-place trophy.
Double damn.
They all sit, and Gretchen offers Rebecca the basket with David, Thumper, and the others. “They’re for Stewart and Molly.”
“You should make some more of these and try to sell them. Cuter ones, though.” Rebecca grimaces at the misshapen gnome and his hand-crafted friends.
“We have a receptionist position opening up. You could live here until you get everything in order. Get out of the city, Gretchen. We’re worried.” Rebecca softly strokes Gretchen’s tangled mane. “Are you trying to grow dreadlocks, or is that happening naturally?”
David the Gnome cackles maniacally.
This is when Gretchen would normally offer to walk the dogs. “I need something from the car.”
She pops the car lighter and takes a long drag of a cigarette, sinking down behind the wheel. If she leaves now, she could be home by dawn.
A knock startles her. She cracks the passenger window.
“It’s getting ugly in there. Can I join you?” John pleads.
Skeptical, Gretchen unlocks the door and offers him a smoke. He accepts. They stare straight ahead.
“You made this?” John holds David. “It’s cool. My dogs would love it.”
“You have dogs, John?”
“Two Labs. My place is small, but they don’t mind.”
They coast around the block aimlessly.
John likes Wilco, too. His favorite album is Being There. Gretchen’s is A.M. He asks how she and Rebecca turned out so… different.
“So there’s no chance you’re moving here, huh.” John states, defeated.
“Not at all.” Not in a billion years.
“What’s in Queens that’s so great?”
“I think the question is, what isn’t in Queens.”
He shrugs.
“John, did Rebecca put you up to this?”
“Not at all.” He looks out the window. “She thinks I had a family emergency.”
Gretchen grins. She slows down and parks near his car.
“You should keep David.”
John smiles, regarding David thoughtfully, like an artifact of that very moment. “Thanks. I like him. He’s slightly irregular.”
He gets into his car. Gretchen thinks about what isn’t in Queens. She watches his tail lights trail down the street.
Then she thinks about what is in Queens. A knitting machine. Some records. An empty apartment.
No Quarter
January 17th, 2010
Doctor Osgood checks Jamie’s reflexes and finds them to be in perfect working order.
“Oh God, I’m sorry.” Jamie tugs gently at his heart monitor. The tape attaching the electrodes to his skin pulls sharply on his freckled chest. “I haven’t had a check-up since eighth grade. I forgot I’m not supposed to kick the doctor when he taps your knee.”
“Mhm. Open wide.” Doctor Osgood peers down Jamie’s throat with a small flashlight and touches the swelling goose egg on his forehead.
“I’ve never had a heart problem. I don’t have a family history of heart conditions. Do I really have to be hooked up to all these tubes?” Jamie swings his socked feet, dangling nearly a foot from the stool at the edge of the examination bed. “I’m only 31.”
“I know. Don’t worry. It’s routine, that’s all. Living in our community can put a lot of undue stress on the residents.”
“You mean the kind of stress you get when your neighbor crashes his jet into the racquetball court?” Jamie chuckles and fidgets with the strings on his paper gown.
“Yes, like that. We’re just checking up on you to make sure you’re not suffering any post traumatic stress symptoms. Guilt, anxiety, hypervigilance. Things like that.” Doctor Osgood looks over his glasses at the EKG.
“How about I just ignore all those and keep everything bottled up? That’s what you’re supposed to do when you witness something terrible, right?” The doctor is not amused.
“I have night terrors and sleep with a rifle under my bed.”
Jamie crunches the paper on the examination table. Maybe it’s time to go. ”Sugar-free lollipop, Mr. McCloskey?” Osgood extends a lemon pop. Jamie reluctantly reaches for it. He crinkles the cellophane between his fingers. He remembers these from his pediatrician’s office. They’re terrible.
With a stinging on his chest and a bad taste in his mouth, Jamie declines the golf cart-chauffeured ride for the half-mile trip home from the doctor’s office. He’d rather walk. He’s been living in Connecticut’s legendary Berkshire Estates for a month, and he can barely leave his home on the West Quarter before a driver offers him a lift.
Jamie chomps at the remains of the saccharine-sweet candy and walks down Wessex Circle. He crosses past the scene of yesterday’s jet crash. A demolition team is still leveling what’s left of the smoldering rubble. He wonders what Mr. Laudenslager thought in those last moments before he and his mistress went careening into the pick-up game at the racquetball court. The forensics examiner determined that, moments before the crash, he’d done an 8-ball of cocaine. Mystery solved.
Even though it’s nearly summer, Jamie’s eyes tear with the blustery Greenwich wind. He sees Thompson Square in the distance. It’s “across the tracks” as the residents say. That’s where the “help” lives. Each of Berkshire’s traditional, New England-style luxury estates comes standard with a matching set of cleaning ladies, handymen, personal assistants, and gardeners. They live on-site in town-homes nicer than the Philadelphia row-home in which his mother raised him.
She worked for a cleaning service, too. Unable to afford daycare, she often took Jamie with her to work. Miss Rosa, his mother’s supervisor, gave Jamie chores to keep him out of trouble. From this experience, Jamie learned two things at an early age: how to scrub a toilet as quickly as possible while holding his breath, and how to speak passable Spanish.
Jamie tries to call his mother to pass some time on the walk home, but she’s on a ski lift in Aspen with her new boyfriend, Steve. The reception is spotty at best. As soon as Jamie got his buyout money from Time Warner, mom promptly moved out of Kensington to fulfill her lifelong dream of hanging out in ski lodges and drinking vintage scotch with celebrities. She sees it as a further investment of her share of the money to land a wealthy husband. “Beats mopping floors,” as she put it. Mom always told him that skiing was for rich people.
When her phone finally cuts out, he tries his best to avert the condescending stares of all the golf cart passengers. Jamie can’t help but wonder if he’s the only one who tips the drivers.
***
“The code is 1, 3, 5, 7. It’s all odd numbers. Aren’t you computer guys supposed to be good at codes?” Miss Carla opens the door for Jamie after he sets off his own alarm system. Jamie rolls his eyes, and the squeak of his shoes on the marble tile echoes throughout his huge, empty house. Miss Carla has a card table set up in what’s supposed to be his living room. She’s playing poker with some of her co-workers. “Hurry up and gimme your coat. It’s my turn, and I don’t trust those bitches. They’re always looking at my cards!” She shoves him through the foyer so she can keep an eye on her opponents.
Jamie coaxes his coat from her prematurely aged hands. “Miss Carla, I can get my own coat. I know where the closet is. Hello Miss Sophie and Miss Angeline. I didn’t mean to be so rude.”
“Stop calling us Miss, you weirdo. You make us sound like old ladies!” She tosses her hands up and yells something in Spanish to her friends, and they all snicker. Carla rushes back to her hand.
“Oh, I see how it is. Who’s winning? Can I jump in?” Jamie pulls up a chair. Another night of Texas Hold ‘em with the cleaning ladies. So far, Carla and her friends are the only ones who talk to him without asking if he’s the new bus boy.
“No, don’t let him! He always beats us! I’m doing good this time!” Miss Sophie blurts, clamping her cards to her chest.
“Shut up, Sophie, I’m doing better than you! Jamie, aren’t your friends coming over tonight? Go hang out with them!” Carla refuses to deal him a hand, and Jamie reaches out for the cards. They slap his hands away.
“Those guys aren’t coming up till Tuesday. You’re playing for pretzels? Let’s make this more interesting.” Jamie goes into his room and re-emerges with a plastic bag full of rolled quarters. “This is how we’d do it in my neighborhood.” He empties the bag on the table. The ladies put their cards down. Their eyes widen.
“Aces high, deuces wild. Now unwrap those and pass ‘em out!” Carla cuts the deck and deals.
Their stuffed-crust pizza and double order of hot wings shows up an hour later. They had it delivered from the next town over. Jamie learned quickly that there isn’t a pizza place to be found in Berkshire Estates.
With several stacks of coins in front of him, Jamie asks something that’s been bothering him all day. “That guy who looks like Alec Baldwin from 30 Rock keeps giving me dirty looks. He and some other guys jogged past me today on my way to the doctor. And they were wearing matching sweatbands. What’s up with that?”
“I think he wants to make out with you!” Carla cracks. The ladies howl and slam the table.
“Come on! Enough with the gay jokes. I’m just saying he looked at me like I was a used car. He has that serial killer vibe.”
“Sure, you take our money and now you want information? That’s gonna cost you!” Angeline signals for him to pass over his winnings.
Jamie slides her a stack of coins, and Carla jumps in. “He’s a jackass, that’s all. Don’t talk to him. You don’t need to know nothing else.”
Angeline speaks up anyway. “My friend Claudia works for him. She said he shoots paint balls at José when he pulls the weeds. One time they got him right on his slipped disk!”
Jamie winces at the thought. “Did he file a complaint to someone?”
Sophie rolls her eyes. “Yea right. To who?”
“Girls, girls! He don’t need to know nothing about that.”
“I’m just saying, they were-”
Carla shoots daggers at Angeline. They explode into rapid-fire exchanges in Spanish. They point angrily at Jamie, and then they point everywhere else.
Jamie interrupts. “Look, Miss Carla. I’m very flattered that you like working for me so much, but I’m not going anywhere. I’ve wanted to live in a place like this since I was fifteen.”
Stunned, the women freeze and glare at him in disbelief. Carla drops her hot wing.
“Great, now we can’t say nothing around him.” Angeline sighs heavily and grabs another slice.
“And who cares if the guy gambles? So do I.” Jamie points to the table.
“I know. That’s what I’m worried about. They’re up to some shady shit. I don’t trust none of them.” Flustered, Carla brushes the splatter of ranch dressing off her shirt. Angeline and Sophie giggle at her.
Carla slams her napkin on the table. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you know Spanish?!”
“It’s more fun if you don’t know.” Jamie always felt smugness was underrated.
“Pendejo.” Carla slaps him on the ear.
Ousted from the game, he retires to his bedroom with strict instructions not to listen in on their conversation.
It’s here! Delighted, Jamie gets a decent running start and belly-flops onto his brand-new Tempur-Pedic mattress-part of their Cloud Collection. It must have been delivered while he was out. He always wanted one. He presses his hand deep into the foam with all his might. Sure enough, the print remains. Flipping over and pressing his arms and legs firmly into the patented comfort layers, he makes mattress angels. Who needs sheets when you have NASA-grade foam to lull you to sleep? He briefly considers unpacking his alarm clock, but, really, what’s the point? Retirement is truly wasted on the elderly.
With his new, ample padding, he successfully completes a forward handspring for the first time. If only Coach Lawler were here to see Jamie’s gymnastic aptitude on his new Space Bed, he would reconsider giving him that check-minus in gym class junior year. Maybe that would have saved him weeks of taunting from meat-heads and their awful girlfriends. In fact, he wished they could all see him flopping around in his 4,500 square-foot mansion. When Mikey and Joey get here on Tuesday, they are definitely going to have to try some flips. With no other furniture in the room to speak of, not to mention the twenty-two-foot ceiling, nothing could possibly go wrong. He’ll have to pick up a case of beer on Monday.
His phone rings, startling him mid-spring, and he violently stubs his big toe. Move the bed away from the wall, Jamie. It’s a phone number he doesn’t recognize, but it has a Philadelphia area code. His stomach twists and his mouth burns.
“Hi, this is Colleen. I’m an editor at the Philadelphia Weekly. Is James McCloskey available?”
Jamie stands at attention. It’s happening. He’d submitted his story to the Weekly as soon as he moved to Berkshire Estates. He’s competing for the glory of all glorious glories: Philadelphia’s Man (or Woman) of the Year for 2009. One Philadelphia native of dubious note is selected annually. His (or her) story is detailed in a four-page spread and featured in the year-end roundup-only the Weekly’s most important publication with the highest circulation. Jamie’s saved every year-end roundup since 1993. The winner also receives the key to the city. Lightheaded, he reminds himself to breathe.
Jamie forces the acid back down his throat long enough to agree to an interview. He’s not sure, but he thinks she’ll be coming up to Berkshire in two weeks. He can’t remember the date they agreed upon, but she was very impressed with his zip code.
He’ll mount the key to Philadelphia on a headboard for his new bed. He can’t wait to tell his mom. His father, however, will just have to read about it in the papers. The caption on Jamie’s front-cover photo will say, “Jamie McCloskey, 31, owes none of his hard-earned, unprecedented success to his mentally abusive father, who may or may not still be laying tile somewhere in Pennsylvania.”
With his virtually empty master suite, his living room with only a 52″ flat screen TV, and a distinct lack of friendships beyond Carla, Jamie needs to get a few things in order before any photographers show up.
He writes a list. One: Get furniture. Two: Make friends with residents. Three: Write acceptance speech.
No Quarter - Part 2
January 14th, 2010
And now, a celebration. The Don Quixote Saloon across the tracks is alive with the smells of real people and spilt, sticky beer. Jamie slugs back a pint of Miller Lite with Joseph, Jesus, and Pete. They work in the kitchen at Berkshire’s French bistro. Jamie likes the ease of their biblical names. He especially likes Javier, the gardener for the late Mr. Laudenslager. Javier insists on playing him in a game of 8-ball, even after so many shots of Cuervo. It’s Cinco de Mayo, and tonight, tequila is two-for-one.
Javier lines up the shot with precision, and the cue slides through his thickly calloused knuckles. He wavers and banks the shot hard off the far wall. The 9-ball sails through the air, hits the hanging lamp, and slams on the floor with a victorious thud. The men holler and boo, and Javier smacks down a five dollar bill next to the corner pocket.
Jamie chalks his cue and basks in the neon glow of the red Budweiser sign off the plentiful wood paneling. He loses himself momentarily in the Social Distortion song on the badly-beaten juke box. Joseph whacks him on the back.
“I got the next game, white boy. Look out.” The men laugh, and Jamie grins, planning his next shot. He likes his style, but he needs a refill first.
“Mitch, turn the game on. And I need another round.” Jamie struggles to slide onto the high barstool. He peers into the grainy, twenty-inch TV screen between dusty bottles of Triple Sec and off-brand, peach schnapps.
While he waits for his pint, Jamie scrolls through his phone. Who should he tell first? Mom is probably still with Steve. Joey has pre-paid minutes, so he won’t answer. Chris’s phone is shut off because he’s been out of work for a year. Big Joe is still in jail last he heard. Mikey will answer.
“Hey, Mikey, it’s Jamie. I just got some awesome news. You guys still planning on coming up Tuesday? And if you’re watching the Phillies game, let me know. I’ll put twenty bucks on the Red Sox to make it interesting. Call me back.” He puts the phone down and looks up in time to see the Red Sox score the first run of the game.
Joseph appears in Jamie’s peripheral vision, panting. He shoves two twenties under a coaster. ”Relax, I haven’t even beaten you yet. We’ll play in a minute.” Jamie tries to buy him another drink. Joseph is just trying to pay his tab and leave. Quickly.
Pete grabs Joseph by the back of his stained T-shirt. “The eagle has landed. Let’s go.”
They rush out. Where did they see an eagle in Connecticut? He turns back to the game, and his phone is silent. No voicemail. Maybe the reception is bad in here.
“Hey Mitch. Wanna put five on the game? I’ll go easy on you. You can have the Phillies.” Mitch assures him he’d never bet on the Phillies. He’s a Mets fan. Defeated, Jamie slumps in his well-worn barstool and races to the bottom of his glass.
Before he can finish, he feels the distinct static charge of another body behind him. A slicked-back pompadour of salt and pepper greets him with a nod.
“No, I’m not the busboy, sir.” Jamie snarls. Upon closer examination, it’s the Baldwin look-alike. Jamie finishes the warm, bitter end of his beer and stands, not caring that the man is nearly six-foot-three, including his hair.
“Jamie I presume?” The man tosses a five on the bar, and Mitch slides him a glass of something on the rocks. The man sips delicately around the lemon and stares down at the perfect part in Jamie’s auburn hair.
Cheeks ruddy with alcohol, Jamie tightens his shoulders and core, preparing to give or receive a punch to the solar plexus. Here’s the plan: he’d land a right hook just below the rib cage. The man would double over in agony, and Jamie would deliver a swift upper-cut to the bridge of his nose. Jamie would feel the man’s cartilage snap and collapse into his nasal cavity. Blood would spill over his soft palate and flood down the back of his throat, causing the man to choke.
The man grins, then sits. Jamie stiffly backs down, keeping his eyes fixed on the sophisticated pomp.
“Alec Baldwin I presume?”
“I don’t know who that is. My name is Bradley. It’s nice to finally make your acquaintance.” Jamie ignores the offer for a handshake. “Pardon my saying so, but this place looks like Beirut in the early ’80’s. You should try The Wilks. It’s a traditional pub-style lounge. The owner was formerly head chef at Tavern on the Green.”
Jamie turns back to the game and a new pint. “Tavern on the Green? I don’t play golf.”
The Red Sox score another run, and Jamie cheers his glass at the half-scrambled picture. He pauses a moment. “Wanna make a bet? Twenty bucks on the Patriots. They’re only in the first inning.”
“I don’t gamble on baseball. I’m more of a squash man.”
Jamie laughs into his beer. “OK, squash man. I guess it gets exciting when people crash planes into the racquetball court. No one bet on that happening, right?”
“Mr. Laudenslager was a friend of mine. I don’t appreciate jokes about his passing. And it was a private jet.” Jamie is shamed into silence and stares into his glass.
Bradley softens. “But I’m not above a game of chance. Why don’t we play darts-a gentleman’s game. Unless, of course, you’ve had too much to drink. ”
Never.
Jamie pushes aside his beer-soaked fog, collecting his last, poorly-aimed dart off the edge of the dilapidated board.
“So, Jamie. I suspect you’re a townie. Is that correct?” Bradley interrupts Jamie’s concentration.
“No. I’m not from here.” Again, he barely makes the edge of the target.
“You’re misunderstanding. No one is ‘from’ Berkshire Estates. What I’m saying is that you’re a townie from somewhere else. Northeast Philadelphia, if I have to guess?”
“Sort of. Kensington. Why? What’s that supposed to mean?” ”I can tell by the way you said ‘golf’ earlier, along with everything you’ve said after that.” Before Jamie can decide if he should be offended, Bradley recovers. “I have relatives in Philadelphia on the Main Line.” Bradley hits next to the bulls-eye.
“I’m not surprised.” Jamie readjusts his stance, braces his knees tightly, and throws. His dart pierces the paneling just above the target.
“Besides playing darts badly, what do you do, Jamie?” Jamie sucks in a big gulp of air and puffs his chest out, exhaling his words confidently. At last, he can tell someone. “I built this social media website called Craven. It’s really popular among programmers and techie guys. It’s one of the most widely-used sites after Facebook. You may have heard of it. Time Warner made me a pretty nice offer, so I sort of took an early retirement. I guess you could say I peaked early. And I just found out I’m up for Philadelphia’s Man of the Year for 2009.” Jamie nails this shot.
“Man of the Year? Your father must be very proud.”
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t talked to him in years. I don’t even know where he lives.”
“He’s still your father. My father has threatened to kill me on multiple occasions, but here I am. I still wheel him to brunch every Sunday morning.” Bradley’s shot is slightly more centered than Jamie’s.
“He said I ruined his life. And meant it.” Jamie’s beer has taken over the mic.
“I’ve heard that before. You may regret your decision someday. When you get out of your early twenties, you’ll understand.”
“The man has no spine.” Jamie could be here all night explaining the difference between harsh words and manipulation. “And I’m 31. What do you do?”
Bradley laughs deeply as he lines up his next throw. “I haven’t ‘done’ anything in almost a decade. I used to work in bonds. Now I live off interest that will continue to accrue long after I’m dead. It’s amazing how much money you can make by doing absolutely nothing. I won’t bore you with the lack of details. I’m bored to tears with it myself.”
Bradley re-thinks his shot. He turns and aims for the glowing Budweiser sign. His shot lands squarely between the letters, perfectly dotting the “i”. The neon tubes spark and sputter. He grins slyly at Jamie’s curious expression. “This is your life now. I advise you find to something to make it interesting.”
Jamie struggles to respond. He hands over his wager of twenty dollars in exchange for losing the game. “How about I buy us a round of whiskey on the rocks and make this a real gentleman’s game.” He can’t suffer through any more tedious conversation without something a little stronger.
“No, thank you. This is club soda. Drinking on a school night is a slippery slope.” Bradley deposits his glass quietly at the edge of the bar. He reaches in his blazer pocket and hands Jamie a small card tucked neatly in an envelope.
“What’s this?” Jamie flips it over and examines it carefully, then shakes it, listening for explosives or anthrax.
“It’s your engraved invitation.” Bradley turns to leave.
“How did you know I’d be here?”
With his dramatic exit interrupted, Bradley pauses mid-stride. “You really should be more grateful when someone hands you an invitation. And for future reference, keeping a low profile in Berkshire Estates is virtually impossible. See you tomorrow. Don’t bring a towel.”
The salt and pepper mane turns and swoops out of the empty saloon. Jamie gingerly opens the envelope and runs his fingers over the raised script on the card stock.
Pool Party. Thursday, May 6, 2009. 6PM to 10PM at the Canterbury Swim Club. Hosted by Bradley Hancock. Proper attire expected.
Even the swimming pool has a tea-and-crumpets name. Jamie stays for another pint, waiting to see the final score on the game. It’s 4-0 at the top of the eighth inning, and no one called him back. Looks like it’s going to be a shut-out.
Back at the West Quarter in his three-story home, in the east wing, in the master suite with walk-in closet and adjoining master bath with the steam shower with fourteen settings, Jamie sinks into his bare mattress. He rolls over to check his phone on the floor beside him. Still nothing. It’s too late to call his mother, even with the time difference. Mikey’s probably playing pool at Yesterday’s Tavern. Carla took the shuttle back to Thomson Square hours ago. He slides his phone back on the floor and reaches for the invite. He turns it over and over between his fingers.
Finally. Friends.
No Quarter - Part 3
January 13th, 2010
Opening the suitcase in the corner of his bedroom for the first time, Jamie wishes he had time to iron. He also wishes he owned an iron. But surely he has more than one suit. An all-black, polyester get-up seems to be his only option. This will have to do.
Struggling with the weight of the lobby’s french doors nearly twice his height, Jamie steps out onto the glaring white concrete leading to the blue-green infinity pool. The sun is angled in the sky, an hour or so from setting, and its burning reflection ripples on the overflowing surface.
Discreetly tucking in his shirt, he’s shocked to find he’s the first guest to arrive. Being half an hour late must not be fashionable enough. He slings his orange beach towel around his shoulders and strolls toward the intimidating pool, dragging his square-toed shoes through the off-white pebbles close to the edge. He rolls up his sleeve and lightly pierces the water’s surface tension, tracing a wave pattern through the chlorinated overflow. It feels like a soft, smooth skin, and rays of light scatter across the bottom in a tantalizing pattern. One solitary weed pokes its way through the imported stones. Its only lifeline is a spray of water deflecting off a pebble. The plant will be gone once the evening shift of the pool maintenance staff arrives.
Just off the far side of the pool, Jamie sees the party already in progress behind a glass-enclosed veranda. Behind the floor-to-ceiling windows, chiffon dresses shift and mingle with sport coats, loafers, and intricately-patterned scarves. He tucks his beach towel out of sight, next to a potted palm.
“I thought you weren’t going to show. I’m sorry for your recent loss.” Bradley inspects Jamie’s version of proper attire. An extra foot of fabric wilts around his knees, and his sleeves nearly reach his fingertips. He wore this suit to his great aunt’s funeral eleven years ago.
He scans the crowd. The guests float effortlessly across the dark wood floor. They laugh softly, grabbing arms and patting backs, exposing cocktail rings and chunky, solid watches. They drink from fluted glasses and periodically set them down on the white leather ottomans that dot the landscape. Heading for the bar, Jamie inches between a couple who will not budge.
“Excuse me. We ordered the ceviche fifteen minutes ago. Can you go back to the kitchen and tell your chef to hurry? We’re famished.” The crisp, over-washed hand of a man in a very convincing hair piece grips Jamie’s elbow. A cuff link digs into Jamie’s rough polyester. The perfume of the woman next to him is subtle but inescapable. Her smile twists to one side, and her smoky eyes flutter and stare past Jamie.
“Sorry, I don’t work here. I’m a guest.” Jamie frees from the grip and turns down the fifty-dollar bribe. He’s off to a great start.
“The biggest glass you have with a little ice, please.” Jamie presents a bottle to the bartender-Glenlivit Single Malt, 1964. He was saving it for his mother’s impending visit.
“No alcohol at pool parties, sir.” The server at the bar pours Jamie a flute of sparkling white grape juice, which he reluctantly accepts. He shoves the scotch back in his jacket pocket. He wishes he’d brought his flask.
Hours go by, and it’s 6:42 PM. Jamie shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Experimental jazz screams softly from the speaker mounted behind his ear. He knows exactly how the lead trumpet feels. From what he can discern from the low chatter, the racquetball court should be rebuilt by fall, Mr. Vanderhoof may have some complications with his diabetes, and Ruby has a heart condition. Everyone is engrossed in their exclusive conversations, unblinking, and Jamie doesn’t know any of the people they mention. Their dialogue sounds like what he used to overhear at his great-grandmother’s Canasta games at The Home. Invisible, he takes a nip from the bottle in his jacket.
“Jamie, please try the tartare. It’s tuna with wasabi. Our chef made them spicy per my request.” Bradley addresses him like he’s narrating from a formal email of high importance. A tuxedo-clad server extends a platter of the curious red and green cubes. Jamie likes spicy. The babbling suddenly ceases, and Jamie directs the unsettlingly soft cube toward his mouth. The server dutifully holds a cloth napkin a few inches under Jamie’s chin. He gives the tartare a thumbs up. The raw fish mixes sourly with his swig of scotch, but he remains gracious. He will like this food no matter what the FDA says about food preparation.
“Jamie, what brings you to Berkshire? I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.” The woman with the fluttery eyes addresses him directly.
Why would he want to live in the country’s most renowned gated community? Why would he want to be the sole proprietor of 4,500 glorious square feet and a Space Bed?
“The brochure was pretty nice.” A soft laughter emanates from the group. He’s charming them. His joke was subtle, yet undoubtedly witty-almost British. It feels right.
The first round of tuna went down easily, so he goes for a victory lap. But with the next cube, his sinuses instantly catch fire. His nose runs as he encounters a gum-ball-sized lump of wasabi. The stinging flame crushes his spine into a question mark. It’s all he can do from collapsing and army-crawling to the door. He could make it out in less than fifteen seconds. He could dive in the pool to stop the burning, sprint home, and eat cold pizza in bed. As far as his new friends go, he’ll just have to start from scratch.
Jamie brushes his nose to see if his body has betrayed him. Nope. He’s clean. The other guests smile politely with anticipation of his next words. Including Bradley, he counts an audience of ten.
“I moved here from Philadelphia. I really love it here so far.” He learned from his brief media training class before his buyout to be confident, complimentary, and poised during press conferences. Shoulders back, chin up, lie if you must, and absolutely no sarcasm under any circumstances, no matter how easy the set-up. “It’s very nice to meet everyone.” Jamie restrains himself from waving at the crowd. He decides to nod instead.
“How rude of me. Let me introduce you to the other guests. This is Caroline and her partner, William.” Bradley gestures to the fluttery eyed-woman and the man who mistook him for the help. Both in their early forties, they retired from anesthesiology a few years ago. Jamie meets Michael and Michelle, who are former brokers as well. Clinton’s wife, Evelyn, is an heiress to a shipping dynasty, and her bloodline connects directly to some historical figure from the Boston Tea Party. Kristen and Bethany, the power-lesbian couple, are art dealers who met at Mensa. He can’t wait to introduce everyone to Colleen for the paper. He’ll have to make sure to remember all their names and titles. Maybe after tonight he can get a nice testimonial for the Weekly from the shipping heiress. That sounds very impressive.
Jamie meets the last of the group, Isabella Laudenslager. In her black cocktail dress and side-swept bangs, she bears a heart-stopping resemblance to Audrey Hepburn. Bradley informs him that Isabella is the guest of honor this evening. Originally from Atlanta, she is a direct descendent of the Daughters of the Revolution. She wears a black, birdcage-style veil, which falls gracefully over her left eyebrow. It cinches closed with a white flower just behind her ear. Jamie greets her warmly, and against his better judgement, allows himself to speak. “I like your hat. The flower is really pretty.”
“I’m mourning my late husband. It’s not a fashion choice.” She takes a large sip from her fluted glass, darting her dark eyes away to divert the swelling of tears.
Jamie connects her last name to the recent jet crash. “I’m very sorry to hear that. I didn’t realize. I’m really sorry.” He digs his pit of shame deeper. She turns to sit on an ottoman, dramatically staring down and off to the side. Evelyn rests her hand reassuringly on Isabella’s shoulder and furrows her brow at Jamie. He’s glad that the North and the South have found some common ground. So much for those testimonials.
“Everyone, I think it’s time we go swimming.” Finally. Bradley successfully diffuses the mounting tension. Jamie takes off his jacket and starts to loosen his tie, but the guests file behind Bradley through another interior door. Jamie looks at the pool longingly. A landscaper is lighting a fire in the stone fire pit as the sun sets. Deflated, he trails behind the others.
***
Bradley leads the group to a round room with baroque-patterned wallpaper. It looks more like the waiting room in an elegant bordello than a pool house. A Queen Anne round table, thick with mahogany finish, is the focus point. The oval backs of the matching chairs are upholstered with crushed velvet. There are no windows. Everything is maroon.
All the guests assume their seats but Bradley. Two chairs remain, with one next to Isabella. Jamie chooses the seat between Bethany and Michelle. He hasn’t profoundly offended either of them yet.
Bradley emerges from a walk-in closet and spins the combination, locking the door behind him. Maybe that’s where they keep the towels. He takes his seat by Isabella and rests a three-ring binder in front of him. A folder rests on top. Perhaps they have to sign some kind of insurance waiver before swimming. He didn’t see a lifeguard on duty.
“By now, Jamie, I trust you’ve figured out that we’re not going to be taking a dip in the pool tonight.” Jamie joins in the group’s casual laughter, now regretting his decision to wear swim trunks under his suit. The inside of his thighs are starting to chafe.
“Michelle, would you please take the minutes this evening?” Michelle pulls a Netbook from her purse and reveals the laughably tiny screen. Jamie never understood the purpose of those things. They have no memory and they can’t run most basic programs. He squints over her shoulder, looking for clues as to what is about to happen. She simply types the date. Jamie hopes this isn’t leading into an Eyes Wide Shut scenario. One of the two women he finds attractive already hates him.
Bradley retrieves a pen from its holster and taps it open on the table. “For our first order of business this session, I’d like to officially offer Jamie McCloskey membership to our group. I briefly introduced you out on the veranda, but I’ll let you all know a little more about Jamie.”
Jamie panics. He never mastered the art of self-introduction. They did this in college with each new class. When his turn came up, he never knew what to say. Without skipping a beat, Bradley opens the folder quickly rattles off his statistics.
“Mr. McCloskey comes to us from Philadelphia. He has a BS in computer science. At 31, Jamie comes to us with a clean bill of health, with no history of smoking, drugs, or STDs. Don’t let appearances fool you; this man comes from excellent stock. He has no history of heart disease, diabetes, degenerative diseases, or cancer. He currently has five octogenarians in his family who are still alive and well. The most recent death in his family was that of his great aunt eleven years ago from a slip and fall incident in a bathtub. Dad reportedly liked to drink, but due to his Irish lineage, we won’t hold that against him. Off the record-and pardon me for saying so, Jamie-but your people have been known to have livers that could filter a distillery.” Low laughter from the group. “But since he’s had no contact with dear old Dad in over 15 years, we won’t hold the son accountable for the sins of the father.”
Bradley must have his file from Dr. Osgood. “Jamie, are you interested in joining us?”
Concerned that Bradley and friends plan to hunt him for sport, he tries to stay calm. “I’ll say yes after I find out a little more about what we do in this group.” He speaks quietly, almost muttering. “Didn’t I sign a privacy form at the doctor’s office?” Craning his neck to look across the table, he tries to get a glimpse of the documents.
“To be clear, you’re asking me why you would want to be involved with the most influential residents Berkshire?” Michelle notes this. Jamie can’t take it back. He’ll be revisiting the Glenlivit as soon as this meeting adjourns.
Bradley thinks. “What do we do here? Friendly bets between friends, that’s all. I suppose you didn’t get our “pool” metaphor. I thought it was pretty clear.” The other guests look at one another and nod. Surely he must have understood. Jamie’s relieved to finally be in on the pun. He relaxes the grip on his chair.
“While gambling may sound barbaric, we consider ourselves something of a pillar of the Berkshire Estates community. And no, you did not sign a privacy form.”
“I guess I’d just like to know why you’d choose me.” ”We hand-selected you for two reasons. First, Jamie, you have an impeccable health record. Quite frankly, yours is the cleanest personal and family health history of anyone in this room, including myself. Dr. Osgood ran a test that projected your potential lifespan to be over 110. That’s absurd. With this added information, we feel you’d be an invaluable asset to our efforts.”
Impressed with his virtual immortality, Jamie wonders what he’ll do with another 79 years. Will his savings last that long?
“Second, you have something to prove.”
What did he just say? Jamie narrows his eyes. He juts out his chin and clamps his teeth. Don’t say anything.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about Jamie. That fire is rare in most of Berkshire’s residents. You have a spine.”
He releases his jaw.
“The offer is now or never.”
“I accept.”
“Let the record show that Jamie McCloskey accepted membership at 7:08 PM. Congratulations, Jamie. We’ll skip the pomp and circumstance and get right to the marrow. You’ll have to stop or significantly cut down on your drinking, so you’ll want to surrender that bottle of scotch on your way out.”
Jamie didn’t think anyone noticed.
Bradley looks up from the medical records and sighs, exasperated. “Also, never take candy from strangers, especially the sugar-free variety. Do you know the kind of havoc artificial sweeteners can wreak on your digestive system? Colon cancer is not a pretty death.”
“Congratulations, Jamie. We’re really happy to have you.” Caroline reaches over and taps his hand excitedly.
He doesn’t even mind being publicly chastised for drinking scotch and eating candy. Scanning the porcelain statues sitting around the table with him, Jamie takes inventory of his shiny, new friends. Anesthesiologists, art dealers, brokers. He’ll have to work to win back the shipping heiress. The most influential group at the wealthiest gated community in North America. That will read nicely in his bio.
“Now, on to other business. I’d like to extend my deepest condolences to Mrs. Laudenslager for the all-too recent loss of her husband.” Michelle swiftly types as Bradley dictates. Deepest condolences. Jamie wonders why he didn’t remember to say that earlier. Dammit.
Bradley continues the eulogy. “Mr. Laudenslager was a dear friend to us all, and while he wasn’t part of our group, we miss him immensely. We regret this terrible tragedy, and perhaps also the choices that led up to his demise.” Isabella squeezes Evelyn’s hand. “That said, with your collective permission, I’d like to open the pool.”
Michelle starts a new paragraph, the group agrees, and Bradley opens the binder. Charts, graphs, and statistics fill the pages. Hand-written notes scrawl across the margins. He slides down the alphabetical tabs and opens to “L.”
Bradley scans down what appears to be a directory of names. “It looks like no one picked May 4.” That was the day of the jet crash. Jamie wonders if he should mention that this in poor taste, considering Isabella is in the room. She’s fighting back tears.
“Michelle, please note that the closest date we have on record is September 2, 2009, which was chosen by Clinton. That is followed by Evelyn’s pick, which is March 6, 2011.
Isabella snatches her hand from Evelyn. She redirects her scorn to Clinton as he rejoices in his triumph. She slams her fist on the table. “How could you do this? This is an outrage. His death was an accident!”
Jamie must be misunderstanding all of this.
“Isabella, I’m sorry. Forgive me, but your husband had a penchant for cocaine and prostitutes. Don’t act like you didn’t know. Everyone does.”
“Don’t you dare type that!” Isabella screams like a caged animal, jumping out of her chair and pointing a trembling finger at Michelle, who backspaces quietly.
“Her husband just died. Why would you say something like that?” Jamie comes to her rescue as calmly as he can. The table is stunned. His face is burning up.
Clinton provokes her further. “I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner. But I’m glad it didn’t.” No one else seems to mind that this is happening. They all silently agree with Clinton.
Isabella pants to catch her breath, all her reserves of rage expelled. She sits, defeated, but not finished. “You people are animals. Thank you, Jamie, for being the only decent human being in the room.”
“Isabella, I’d like to remind you that you wanted to be part of these proceedings. Now if we all remain calm, Jamie, we can move on. Michelle, you can strike the ‘animal’ comment. Now, given the nature of this death,” Bradley flips another page in the binder and lands on a color-coded graph, “this will dramatically increase the pot.”
Jamie wonders if Isabella is right. Maybe he can politely ask Michelle to redact his acceptance from the record. Or he could send her sad little Netbook sailing across the room, knocking Bradley unconscious. Then he’d make a run for it. He’s furthest from the exit, so he’d have to run across the table. Could they grab his ankles? He stares at the door, carefully considering its weight, its ornate trim, and whether it’s pull or push. He can’t remember.
“Jamie, you look confused. I apologize for not explaining properly. Listen carefully. Along with the date, the manner of death plays a part in the pool. It raises the stakes. In the case of something like a jet crash, which is very unlikely, the prize will increase.” Bradley consults the graph. “In the case of Mr. Laudenslager-pardon me for not remembering, but we haven’t had one of these in a while-it will double the winnings. Then we factor in illicit drug use for another ten percent. Other elements that raise the awarded cash prize are things like suicide, murder-suicide, natural disaster, sky-diving accidents, etcetera.”
Jamie nods stoically to the beat of the speech. His facial expression fights between horror and approval. He’s not sure which is appropriate, so he opts for none.
Bradley continues rattling off the rules of engagement. “Traditionally, the two closest wagers split the pot, which means that Clinton and Evelyn will split it seventy-thirty. Of course, if the winner picks the exact date, he or she is awarded the full amount, but I suppose that goes without saying.”
“Don’t forget he was with a mistress. That increases the winnings, too.” Clinton adds, fidgeting excitedly with his cuff links. He isn’t about to be short-changed.
“Animal.” Isabella snaps.
“Bradley, would you be so kind as to announce to the group the date Mrs. Laudenslager chose?”
Bradley raises an eyebrow. “Clinton, I’ll grant the request, but there’s really no need to spike the ball.” The display of compassion shocks Jamie.
“I’m trying to make a point. Please. Tell us all the date. It’s on the record.”
“March 7, 2011.”
Jamie looks desperately in any direction but the widow’s.
Clinton leans over the table as if to take a bite of her forehead. “She’s just angry she didn’t pick March 5. Then she’d be splitting the pot with me.”
“How could you say that?!” Her eyes widen and her cheeks flush. She grabs Evelyn’s hand. Jamie knows that look. She’s about to vomit.
William comes to Clinton’s defense. “He was cheating on you, Isabella. You just want what’s yours. Admit it. No one here blames you. I’d want the same. It’s only right.” Caroline agrees.
They collectively hold their breath and wait for Isabella’s next scheduled explosion. She gulps heavily. “It’s just. . . not fair.” She contains herself only briefly. “I deserve to win, dammit! This is my reward for staying with my unfaithful husband? I don’t even get thirty percent of the pot?”
“Shh, honey.” Evelyn massages Isabella’s hand.
“I knew he was going out with her on the sixth. I knew they were going to Long Island. I should have known! This is outrageous!” She buries her head into Evelyn’s shoulder, and the tears come.
”It’s OK, Isabella. Would it make you feel better if I gave you forty percent of my share?”
Evelyn pats her friend’s head reassuringly.
“It would, a little.”
Bradley is taken aback. “Well, this is unprecedented. Michelle, are you getting this?” She is. “I guess it’s settled. Clinton, you take $52,500. Evelyn, you’ll be awarded $13,500. Isabella, from the kindness of Evelyn’s heart, you will receive $9,000.
Among many other things, Jamie can’t comprehend why the top four percent of the wealthiest people in the country are so concerned with winning more money.
Bradley goes to the combination-locked closet a second time and opens a safe. Jamie takes in the metallic smell as Michelle divides the cash among the winners. To date, Jamie’s only seen the bulk of his buyout money on ATM screens. He ogles the bills, with their corners squared in neatly banded stacks. All the faces are up, staring blankly in the same direction.
Bradley interrupts Jamie’s trance with his next announcement.
“I also want to take this opportunity to point out that it seems Caroline has picked December 21, 2012. Again. Caroline, if you believe the 2012 myth, then what is the point of all this, really?”
“One day, you’ll all wish you’d believed me. Imagine that pot. You’ll see.” Caroline, the former anesthesiologist, crosses her arms and smirks.
“Sure we will. For the last item on our agenda, would anyone like to make any adjustments to their standing bets? We’ll go around the table.”
Michael changes his wager on Kyle Erikson. His depression is becoming debilitating. Bethany thinks Anne Wolf’s drinking is about to take a turn for the worst, and her new Lexus was just delivered. She predicts a month from today. William gets in on that, too. Kristen gives Ruby two weeks.
“Is it the angina or the fact that she’s 87? I can always count on you to go for the low-hanging fruit. So predictable.” Kristen smiles and shrugs as Bradley notes the change.
Caroline stands her ground, cornering the market on The Rapture.
“Now that you see how it’s done, Jamie, it’s your turn to place a few bets. Since you’re just starting, and obviously we can’t go through all 376 residents right now, let’s start you off with three. For your sake, I hope you’re better at this than you are at playing darts.” Bradley carelessly points to a page. “Interesting. You’ll start with an easy one. Patton Tully: 72, chronic bronchitis. He uses an oxygen tank and smokes cigars when his nurse isn’t watching. He’s practically a time bomb in a wheel chair.”
Unable to process any more information, Jamie absently picks the first date that comes to mind. “June 19.” It’s his father’s birthday.
“Of this year?” ”Sure.” His stomach clenches. ”You’re not giving him very much time, are you? You’re an old pro already. Now, Elizabeth Montclair: 37 and a lifelong anorexic. Very nice woman.” Bradley looks at him expectantly.
“Um, August 14.” His mother’s birthday. “2009.” Man of the Year indeed.
“How about Mabel Hollingsworth: 45, fond of skiing, and her drink of choice is an absinthe martini. What does the grim reaper have to say? This year again?” Bradley is highly amused.
“December 20, 2012.” Caroline scowls at Jamie like he just made a one-dollar bid on The Price is Right.
“Excellent. You’ve done very well, Jamie, but you seem to have had enough for one evening.”
He nods and smiles. The room is slanting and spinning slightly to the right. Don’t these people have mothers?
“That should conclude these proceedings, unless anyone has anything else to add.” Bradley looks around the room. The only sound comes from Clinton flipping through his stacks of bills.
“Thank you all for coming. This meeting is adjourned, and we will reconvene the next time someone else has the common decency to buy the proverbial farm.”
No Quarter - Part 4
January 12th, 2010
Scotch would make this easier, but it was confiscated at the end of their meeting tonight and locked in the secret closet.
He sits cross-legged on the floor of his bedroom where a desk should be. Jamie flips through the stapled packet of Excel print-outs. Connor St. Luke: 52, acid reflux. Amy Luther: 60, fibromyalgia. Vincent Rosse: 79, smokes a pipe. Matthew, Aaron, Clark, Lucy, Ingrid. And Bonnie. That’s his mother’s first name. He won’t do it. He can’t do his “homework” as Bradley called it. He folds, flipping the papers over. No one from the group is in this packet, but their names and contact info are all on the back. He tears off the sheet and shoves it in his pocket.
Jamie lies stiffly on his Space Bed. The peak of his ceiling is too dark to clearly define. His phone glows and vibrates, adding the only light and sound. He’ll let mom go to voicemail.
***
“You have a guest, Mr. McCloskey.” Carla barks, then slams Jamie’s bedroom door as quickly as she opened it. At 11:14 AM, his eyes ache with burst blood vessels.
Having just woken up, his habla is a little rusty. When he encounters Carla and Angeline in the kitchen, poised like fourth-string linebackers, he can only translate the following: “fucking asshole,” “living room,” and “what the hell is the matter with you?” Coincidentally, those were among the first few Spanish phrases he learned.
Bradley disapproves of Jamie’s Flyers pajama pants. “I’d like to discuss yesterday with you. Clearly you’re not busy right now.”
Jamie retreats to his bedroom, sufficiently shamed by all the people in his home. He digs frantically through another suitcase, afraid of what will happen if he doesn’t hurry. Too late. Carla appears behind him, and her string of slurs sprays on his ear.
Jamie doesn’t have the energy. “Listen, Carla. I know. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I didn’t invite him over, he just showed up. We won’t stay. We’ll go out and get coffee or something.”
“I don’t want none of them in here. They’re no good. Of all the people in the world you could talk to-”
“I just said I didn’t invite him. I don’t know why he’s here. I’ll take care of it.”
“Oh, you’ll take care of it. Riiiiiight. I want him out of here. NOW!”
“Keep it down! He’s still here!” Jamie whispers.
“I don’t care WHO hears-” She directs her comment to the door.
“It’s my house, Carla.”
Carla searches, desperate for an argument. “Fine. If that’s what you want, go ahead. You’ll be sorry, and then I don’t want to hear nothing about it from you.”
“I’m sure I will.”
“Why don’t you meet a girl or something. Do something else with your life.” Every woman here is at least ten years his senior, and the few he would consider dating would never talk to him. Before he can explain, she’s gone.
***
The smoldering has finally ceased. The cranes have come in, and wreckage is pulled, scoop by scoop. From the mouth of the hulking trap, the remains of the racquetball net dangle in a sad, green web. It swings low, brushing against one of the only intact fixtures: a once immaculate urinal trough, now grey with soot.
“Do you have your own jet?” Jamie clinks his coffee spoon against his mug, tapping off the last drip. He stares out café window over Bradley’s shoulder, inching his chair over to watch the green net snag on the urinal’s chrome hardware.
“Certainly not. As you can see, they aren’t the safest modes of transportation. I let other people fly planes for me.” Bradley squeezes lemon into his chamomile tea. He recognizes someone. “Ah, Paulo. I’d like some honey when you’re done pushing that filthy sponge across the nice, clean floor.”
Paulo freezes, and his mop slams violently into the legs of the next table. Bradley shapes his fingers into a gun, and he pulls the trigger with a wink and a smile. Paulo drops the mop handle and scurries through the kitchen’s swinging doors.
“He used to work for me. Very nice.” Another busboy obediently delivers a plastic honey bear to their table, cleaning the sticky spout before placing it in front of Bradley.
“So. . .Isabella’s feeling better, I guess? She seemed OK by the end of the night.” Jamie wipes his spoon obsessively on his napkin.
“She’s fine now. I have better news. You’ll be happy to know that Ms. Hollingsworth was spotted at The Wilks last night, ten sheets to the wind. My sources say they had to carry her out. She was completely unconscious.”
“Why would I be happy about that? Is she OK?”
“Jamie, don’t you remember? You placed your bet. She’s as good as dead, which brings me to the reason I dragged you out of your flannel cocoon. Did you have time to finish your homework?”
“Ah, well, no. That’s the thing I wanted to talk to you-”
“You really should finish it. You’re a natural, and you’re really doing yourself a disservice if you fall behind. Did you get to Amy Luther? I understand her husband is leaving her, and she’s dramatically increased her dose of morphine for her chronic pain. You can thank me later for the insider tip.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s great that you’re doing this. I mean, it’s really. . .fascinating and everything. It’s very interesting. Personally, for me, I’ve never seen anyone bet on this kind of thing before. Believe me, it’s very impressive.” Jamie adds another sugar to his coffee, nervously mauling the empty packet.
“Oh no.” Bradley’s pompadour quivers as he squeezes the golden guts from the plastic bear. They sputter and ooze slowly into the steaming cup. “You’re trying to break up with us?”
“It’s not that at all.” Poise. Confidence. Posture. “I really like everyone. I do. Maybe I could just do some bookkeeping for you? Michelle probably wants a night off every once in a while, right? All that typing.” Compromise. Testimonials.
“You don’t really think you can get out of this, do you?” The bear cries for mercy, and an air bubble travels back down its throat. “I know you haven’t had much contact with your father since the late ’90’s, but maybe he didn’t get to the part where he tells you that you shouldn’t always quit things just because they become difficult. You just don’t understand.”
Jamie’s done plenty of difficult things. Hasn’t he?
“Jamie, what you’re forgetting is that these people are going to die anyway. We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re simply profiting from their misfortune. When people are given extraordinary amounts of wealth and privilege with virtually no consequences for their actions, do you know what happens?”
Sure he knows. They buy nice houses and treat everyone like garbage.
“When left to their own devices, most people in these circumstances find their end in the bottom of a self-destructive quagmire. Drugs, alcohol, infidelity, private jets. Are we to blame for not following a similar path?”
Jamie thinks about the paintball incident with José.
“So we have our harmless club to pass the time. It may seem morbid to you, but Berkshire has a premature death rate quadruple that of communities twice our size. We’re surrounded by death. But you understand that, am I correct? Wasn’t Philadelphia named the murder capital of the United States?”
It was up there on the list, right behind Compton. Or was it Camden?
“You should really get some furniture. Here’s the number of the interior designer I use.”
Bradley drops a business card on the table along with money for the bill. He gets up to leave.
“Our dear friend, Ruby, is on her deathbed. Her angina is getting the best of her. I’ll be seeing you in 48 to 72 hours. I’ll send a note.”
***
72 hours later, Jamie is in a dead-heat with Carla on the Maple Treeway course of Mario Kart. ”Come on, girl! Use your banana peel! He’s right behind you!” Angeline has clearly picked a favorite in this race.
In day three of their tournament, Jamie’s not about to let Carla smite him with something as ridiculous as a banana peel.
“Got him! Look, his guy is pissed.”
Jamie’s driver bumps another player and plummets off the track into the abyss.
Just one more week of hiding out, playing Wii with the cleaning ladies, waiting for his furniture to arrive, and he’ll have his interview with Colleen from the Weekly. Man of the Year, 2009: Jamie McCloskey is almost palpable. Then he looks forward to another 79 years of hiding out in his jammies.
He slides over on the air mattress set up in his living room-the only available seating. He’s not used to playing this game on such a big screen.
“Enough excuses, loser. I think I heard the wash machine go off. You want me to get it?”
Jamie offers Angeline his controller and his seat on the giant pool toy. He shuffles dutifully along the shiny marble tiles in his foyer. Just as he walks past, a note slips under the front door with tremendous force. It glides like an air hockey puck and ricochets off his slipper. He remains perfectly still. The washer screams again, and the triumphant sounds of Carla beating Angeline unmercifully in their race bellow up to the ceiling. He picks up the note and tosses it in the recycling bin in the laundry room.
Sitting on the floor behind the ladies, folding a load of whites, he regards the magnitude of the stains on the armpits of his undershirts. The rings dip halfway down, nearly reaching the stomach. They’re very impressive. No, majestic.
Half an hour has passed. Surely the group started their meeting without him. They must have found some other poor, unsuspecting sucker to join in his place. He wonders if Bradley gives speeches about the new guy’s potential, fire, and spine.
It occurs to him that Mikey was supposed to be here an hour ago. He never heard from him. He hasn’t heard from any of them. Good, because he forgot to get beer, anyway.
Jamie secretly delights in a story Angeline tells about her friend, Chloe, and Chloe’s bosses, William and Caroline. Jamie’s suspicious were correct: Caroline, the anesthesiologist, seems to be the dumbest human her friend she has ever encountered, too. As it turns out, William is actually gay. He has a lover in West Palm Beach with whom he frequently has phone sex while Caroline is out having her extensions adjusted. Both events usually last for hours.
“He says that stuff right in front of Chloe?” Jamie questions the validity of the tall tale.
“Sure. They don’t know she knows English.”
“How do they talk to her? Do they know Spanish?” ”No. She knows they’re talking to her when they talk really loud and slow.” Fascinating.
“Why don’t you go out? You know I’m not mad at you anymore. You’re not grounded.” Carla turns and looks at his dingy laundry. What, doesn’t he know how to do a load of whites?
***
Jamie goes out. He even puts on his good jeans.
Tremendous glass doors open for him automatically. The buzzing fluorescent bulbs of Walgreens pierces his dilated pupils, which are no longer used to the light of day. He scans the aisles for cleaning products, and his slippers slide on the glossy linoleum. He kept them on for comfort purposes.
He should really buy a new suit for when Colleen shows up. Something tailored and fitted, maybe in grey or navy. Not black. Something like Bradley always wears.
Jamie grabs a dusty bottle of Clorox. He looks at the ingredients, then considers the generic brand. Maybe he’ll try to look for a blazer with a small pattern. What did he say it was? Fishbone? Herringbone?
Jamie’s head slams into the off-white metal shelf, and everything goes black.
No Quarter - Part 5
January 11th, 2010
“Next order of business tonight: Jamie has finally decided to show. Thank you, Jamie, for making us wait.” A palm smacks the table sharply.
Startled, Jamie rolls his head up. A puddle of drool has been forming for some time on the shoulder of his UPENN sweatshirt.
Bradley disapproves, then moves on. “On behalf of the group, I’d like to extend my thanks to Caroline, who very cleverly thought to use her supply of tranquilizer darts. Thank you, Caroline. That was both resourceful and efficient. Your aim is impeccable, and it should be noted for future reference.”
Jamie sees the brocade wallpaper. He’s sitting in a velvet chair, and he has a stinging welt on the back of his neck.
Caroline gives him a little wave. She mouths an apology, presumably for the reckless use of her tranquilizers. Why does she have those?
“To our dismay, Ruby is still with us, so some of you may be wondering why I called this meeting. And Jamie, you can thank us later for finding you. We have very exciting news for you. I’d like to announce that Mabel Hollingsworth has died face down in one of her martinis last night. Her time of death was 1:03 AM. As it turns out, she was taking sleeping pills.” The group gasps. They study the Polaroids of the scene and pass them around the table. Some aren’t able to contain their laughter.
Who? Jamie’s head floats and bobs above his shoulders. Shake if off, Jamie.
“Yes, we’re all surprised to find out, too. But since you don’t seem to understand what’s happening, Jamie, I’ll spell it out for you.” He speaks very loudly and slowly. “You won the pot.”
”Fantastic.” That’s the word he was looking for.
”You were the closest by far. Bethany was off by one full year. And due to the extenuating circumstances of her death, this will make things very interesting for you.” Bradley retreats back to the secret money closet.
Jamie tries to blink away the leftovers of the anesthetic. “Listen, everyone. I’m really flattered that you all want me to play this game with you, and I still think you’re all really cool. Especially you, Isabella.” Whoops. “But I just don’t think this is for me.”
The smell of all stacks of bills shocks Jamie’s nostrils, and his senses are suddenly magnified. He counts along silently with Michelle, who seems to be taking pleasure in Jamie’s carnal enjoyment of the cold cash. Keep counting. The faces of the bills stare up at him longingly, begging for a way out of their paper bands. Help us, Jamie. We want to come home with you.
He snaps out of his trance, if only for a second. “I mean, football season is coming up soon. Don’t you. . .maybe, we can forget all this death stuff. I have a big TV back at my house.”
Casual laughter from the crowd. Jamie is so funny.
“I don’t want things to be interesting.” Jamie waits until Michelle finishes counting, and he slides the money to the center of the table. The bills look back to him, disappointed and abandoned. Michelle hurries back to her Netbook to note his transgression.
Embarrassed and infuriated, Bradley’s voice raises an octave. “Is that really what you want?
“Yes. Yes it is.” He wishes Carla could be here for this.
“Do you know what this means for you, Mr. McCloskey? Because I don’t think you do.”
Sure. He gets his scotch back.
“Well. This, too, is unprecedented. I hope everyone is able to stay a few more minutes.” Bradley retreats back to the secret closet a second time.
Jamie remains composed, and he receives unexpectedly warm smiles from the table.
Caroline reaches across the table and taps him on the hand again. “That was very brave. You should stand up for what you believe in.”
That scotch is going to be delicious.
Bradley returns with the binder and a folder. He rattles off statistics. “Jamie, of sound mind and body, at a mere 31 years old, with no health conditions to speak of, and, as we all remember, a life expectancy of another 79 years, is once again a civilian.” What began as a day of Mario Kart and laundry turned into one full of pleasant surprises, if he doesn’t count being the tranquilizer dart. Finally, he gets to give his exit speech. “Thank you all for your hospitality. You’re all lovely people, and I hope that we won’t be strangers. I appreciate your understanding. Really, I do. And. . .you can keep my bottle of scotch that you have in that closet, you know, in case you guys decide to have a party where drinking is allowed.” He backs to the door graciously. Just leave on a high note, Jamie. Stop talking.
Bradley opens up the 3-ring binder and makes a note of something from his calculator. The wind traveling through his teeth make a faint whistle.
Jamie stops, confused. The huge, tacky door is so close.
Bradley asks him, “Would you like to know what you’re worth on the free market, Jamie?”
Oh. Right.
“Sure.”
Bradley has made a new column for him.
Clinton looks impressed. Michelle, stunned, stops typing. She looks to Bradley for guidance and the go-ahead to continue.
He nods. “Amazing. Another unprecedented event. No one has ever wanted to know.”
Jamie clenches his toes in his slippers. His chin sticks straight up. “I want to know. What am I worth to you people?”
“‘You people?’ That’s hardly called for. According to the statistics, and given your health record. . .are you sure you want to know? There are certain things-”
“I chose my words carefully. That’s why I said them.”
Someone drops a pen. Bradley is enjoying this.
“$583,000.”
“Great. See you in 79 years, dickheads.” Jamie shuffles loudly across the dark hardwood. The door is excruciatingly heavy among the low whispers.
“December 21, 2012.” Thanks, Caroline.
No Quarter - Part 6
January 10th, 2010
The trucks are right on time. Giant boxes hulk down the ramp, and Jamie jumps in to help the movers lift a leather couch wrapped in plastic. Carla holds the doors open for them.
“Where you want the table?” The head delivery guy goes by Snake Eyes, and he doesn’t have time for this.
“Um, anywhere.”
The bulk of the furniture ends up scattered aimlessly about the expanses of his open floorplan. All 4,500 square feet swallow his new furniture whole. Jamie isn’t prepared to fill this vast landscape with end tables and light fixtures. Maybe he should have called Bradley’s interior designer.
His five-by-seven-foot Lichtenstein print comes through the door, and the movers amble through his living room, predicting where it will go. The oversized print is the size of a Polaroid next to his granite fireplace. Jamie will figure out where to hang it later. Right now, he needs some picture wire and molly screws.
On his way to the car, Jamie tries to remember the last time he drove. Will he remember how? He recalls it was his first week here. Forgetting which cul-de-sac was his, he parked over at the North Quarter. In his defense, they all look exactly the same, in accordance with community standards.
A golf cart paces with him and the driver offers him a ride. He turns it down, then recognizes the driver as José, who remembers him vaguely.
He passes the double-tiered fountain that marks the center of Berkshire. It’s dedicated to someone else with a painfully WASPy name: Thurgood Berkshire, according to the plaque. Quarters glisten at the bottom, punctuating the mosaic pattern. Such small tiles. This must have taken forever. What do the people here have to wish for that would warrant a whole quarter? Do they even use change? He resists the urge to dive for them. That’s what they used to do at the fountain in Love Park. There’s probably ninety dollars-worth down there. He gets a closer look.
He’s suddenly submerged. A hot hand clenches the back of his neck. It’s how he’d imagine a gorilla’s hand would feel. Leathery skin from ages-old callouses scratch his freckles. A bony knee pins down the small of Jamie’s back.
He’s out of the water, then back, face first. His teeth slam into the mosaic, disturbing the quarters. A few float up and make their way into his mouth. His tongue swells and forces the coins against the back of his throat. They inch down his esophagus sideways as the hand jostles Jamie’s head.
The hand rips him out of the water again, but before he can catch a breath, his face plummets back to the bottom, splitting the skin on his brow bone. Red clouds the water, and he becomes acutely aware of the fact that his assailant is trying to knock him unconscious. Water sucks up into his nose, and his nasal passages ache. Jamie’s hands scrape on the concrete ledge, down to the small tiles. He pushes up with all his might.
“What are you doing?” He turns his head just enough to recognize the face of the person just before he plunges his head once more. “Javier! It’s Jamie!”
The assailant stops a moment. Jamie manages to get out a few panicked words. “It’s Jamie. From the Don Quixote!” Back down to the bottom. “We played pool. You were terrible!”
Slightly less pressure now. The knee is off his back. “Cinco de Mayo! Tequila! ¿Tu recuerdes?
Javier remembers, but doesn’t let go. He maintains the grip, and Jamie’s face hovers a few inches above the water. “Why are you doing this?” He speaks loudly and clearly as possible.
“I have to.”
“Who’s making you do this? ¿Quien?”
“Miss Isabella.” ”How much is she paying you.” Jamie’s nose taps the surface, brushing the smooth skin of the water tension.
“$1,000.” ”I’ll pay you $2,000 to stop.” He considers the offer. “Javier. Is she watching us right now?”
“No.”
***
Jamie and Javier ride in José’s golf cart. Jamie holds a rolled-up undershirt to his eyebrow to stop the bleeding. There’s a dull thumping from the cut that pulsates to his temples. The cart rattles over a cobblestone path. Both men stare straight ahead.
“You’re a bad hit man.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
“If you were going to drown me, you should have just held my head under the water the whole time.” ”I know. Next time.” ”So what’s going to happen to you now that I’m not dead?”
Javier shrugs and shrinks down. He cranes his neck to the side, looking out the window at nothing. “What will to happen to you?” ”You tell me.” The pause is a little too long.
“No sé.”
“Tell me, Javier.” He shows him the list of names and contact information from the group members. “What do you know about these people?”
***
In the windowless attic of the Don Quixote, the metal door stays locked with the aid of a ragged two-by-four. The drop ceiling hangs low, its rancid tiles soaked in yellow, smelling of mildew. Something on the wall looks like smeared blood. Smoke fills what little breathing room remains, and Jamie huddles around a slab of splintered plywood that serves as a table. He looks around the room a dozen faces of the disenfranchised and possibly drunk. Their Spanish is so rapid and low, Jamie misses most of it. The gash next to his eye has begun to glob into a sticky closure.
Jamie slides his milk crate closer to the knee-high table. He wants to get a good look at the staff. Their bruises and scars are darkened with age, and their gnarled hands limply hold beer cans and cigarettes. These are the employees of his former friends of the club. Manny does landscaping for Kristen and Bethany. Alvin has been building the stone surround of Clinton’s hot tub for weeks. Chloe, Sophie’s friend, is Caroline and William’s personal assistant. Javier and José quickly informed them all of what was happening. They all obliged to meet once Jamie said he’d buy a few cases of Budweiser.
“So, who here hasn’t been paid to try to kill me?” The room is silent, save the cracking of a few beer cans.
“Maybe I’ll say it like this. If your boss asked you to kill me on a certain day, please raise your hand.”
Jamie takes a head count. Eight. He just hopes the first person to try gets it done faster than Javier.
Jamie notes that Rosa, who works for Bradley, didn’t raise her hand.
There’s one person who can’t decide how to answer. “Chloe, what’s the matter?”
“William told me to, but Miss Caroline said no. She said God will take care of it soon enough.”
Maybe Jamie could take a few of Mr. Tully’s oxygen tanks and plant them in his walk-in closet. Claudia could go home early that day, as he’ll say he’s not feeling well. With one lit match, the whole place would go up. The fireworks display would light up the reflection of the infinity pool, and the members of the club would bask in the warm glow through the veranda. They’d see the chrome fixtures from his spa hurling through the air, resplendent with the rays of the setting sun. The marble on his floor would spurt up and crumble into snow and fall softly on the thousand, rolling acres. Caroline and William would grab each other’s elbows and Salsa to the syncopated beat of granite chunks tapping the earth, mingling with the imported stone around the pool. His Space Bed would surely take off into the stratosphere, unharmed, softly deflecting an orbiting satellite. They’d gasp in awe, regarding it as a shooting star.
“What you want from us, Jaime?” José uses the Spanish version of his name.
“I don’t know. Are you going to kill me?” ”Pff. No. I don’t kill.”
“Javier, did you hear that? He’s not going to kill me.”
“But I didn’t, right? I could have if I wanted to.”
Jamie scoffs. “OK, so what am I supposed to do now?” No one knows.
Rosa, by far the eldest of the group, speaks up. “This ain’t nothing. You know what they used to do in that group years ago?” Jamie doesn’t know. No one does. There’s something worse?
“They used to make us fight each other. Like dogs.” She shows the scars on her wrists and her neck. “They bet money on us. They thought it was funny.” This is news to everyone.
“I’m not sure if it’s my place to say, but why are you still here?”
“They give me a nice house.”
His stomach gurgles with carbonation and rage. “That’s the only reason you stay? Who’s idea was it?” He really doesn’t want her to tell him.
“Bradley’s.” ”Fucker.” José swears a streak in Spanish, then winces and massages his slipped disk.
“I just wish his heart would give out already.” Rosa mutters.
Jamie could number hundreds of other, more appropriate ends for Bradley besides his heart giving out. “What do you mean about his heart?” ”He has a heart problem. I don’t know what it is. He can’t drink or nothing. He used to fly his stupid plane all over the place. His doctor told him he can’t anymore. I wish he was the one who crashed.”
Except for everyone in the attic at this very moment, no one knows of Bradley’s heart condition but Dr. Osgood, who prescribes him the glyceryl trinitrate, and Rosa, who administers it daily.
“So what, you want me to kill him now?” Rosa has been thinking about this for a long time.
“I didn’t say that.” Jamie flashes back to the grape juice, the speeches, the healthy food, and the jogging.
“Because I’d do it. I’ve lived here long enough. I’d go back to Costa Rica. Jail would be OK.”
Jamie speaks calmly, his voice betraying his fear. “Actually, Rosa, I want you to do nothing at all.”
She nods. She knows what he means.
The staff awaits Jamie’s next instructions. “Who here knows how to crack a combination lock?” All ten hands go up.
***
They fidget with cuff links, twist cocktail rings, and reposition scarves. Michelle aimlessly taps the space bar. The group sits quietly in the round room. Two maroon, velvet seats are heavy and empty. Eyes dart around the room at 7:30 PM waiting for the headmaster to arrive and break the bad news about a fallen, former member of the group.
“I wonder if Jamie will be gracing us with his presence this evening.” Isabella smiles.
“I wouldn’t bet on it.” Clinton grins, knowingly.
Drowning in a fountain. A self-inflicted gunshot wound to the sternum. A nasty spill into a trash compactor. They wring their hands like flies, waiting on bated breath to hear the dramatic conclusion to Jamie’s life story. It will be such a tragedy.
Michelle receives a phone call from Dr. Osgood. She makes the announcement to the group: Bradley’s heart burst.
“Metaphorically?”
“What’s the matter, did his koi fish leave him?”
An outrage. An absolute outrage. How could he make them wait like this? He’s dragging it out so he can make a theatrical entrance to announce the winner of the biggest jackpot in the history of Berkshire.
“I’ll conduct the proceedings this evening in his absence. Allow me to retrieve the documents. Michelle, please add that to the record. And note the time, so we can shame Bradley later for his egregious tardiness.” They laugh casually at Clinton’s best impression of Bradley. He approaches the door to the secret closet and looks puzzled.
“Does anyone know the combination?”
Michelle checks her records. Nothing. Michael spins the lock and tries a few possible number sequences. Nothing. Clinton flips over chairs and tears down a section of the wallpaper. Nothing.
***
A dozen bodies huddle quietly in Bradley’s 6-person private jet. Its interior is in disrepair from years of neglect. He’d wisely stored the keys in the secret room-a discovery they made last night as they cleaned out the safe. Javier easily cracked the lock.
Manny pulls up the yoke, navigating the aircraft skillfully through turbulence. He used to dust crops back home.
Carla, Angeline, and Sophie catch up with Marie and José. Berkshire will surely replace them by the end of the week. Rosa clutches a rosary. Christ have mercy, indeed.
It’s 7:35 PM. The group must know about Bradley by now. Jamie wonders if Isabella cried.
They fly under the radar and hit another rough patch. The smell from the cash wafts up as the bags shift by Jamie’s feet. He’ll distribute it evenly among the passengers when they get to Chicago. That should be enough to get them to wherever they decide to go from there.
Maybe he can get them all work in Aspen at his mother’s ski resort. Jamie could deal cards in Vegas. It doesn’t really matter right now. He just hopes they have enough fuel.
“So where are we now?” Jamie sits in the co-pilot’s seat. He takes a nip from his recovered bottle of scotch.
“We’re over Pittsburgh. Look at the rivers.”
Jamie considers the tiny, blue arteries below. He thinks about what it must have felt like when Bradley’s heart exploded. Did it burn? Did it happen in slow-motion, with strings of dark red muscle shooting through his ribs like shrapnel? Maybe it was it a faint stinging, perhaps mistaken for a hiccough, and then nothing.
***
The round room is ravaged, all its wallpaper ripped, its beams exposed. The frame of the secret door is splintered and shredded from clawing.
Seconds go by.
“Why don’t we call José. We can have him take the door off the hinges.”
“Isabella, really? You have to be joking. They can’t know about this room. We just have to be patient. Bradley will be here.” Bethany scolds.
The group sits back down, hands folded, starting at chunky watches. Nothing.
She whispers. “Animal.”