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.
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