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.