Barrel Fever (15 page)

Now that’s a good story.

We are quiet for a few moments before I say, “Gee, Tommy, it sounds like you’ve got a real mystery on your hands.”

His shoulders began to tremble and I thought, Please don’t cry, please, please, please don’t cry. He of course began to sob, a painful protracted lowing that, I am fairly certain, stopped in their tracks any species of moose or elk in the surrounding tri-state area. Something told me I should touch him, place my hand on his shoulder but he was my super and he was sweating so I decided to light another cigarette and wait for him to get this out of his system.

He came out of it, finally, choking the words “I . . . just. needed to . . . tell . . . somebody and I . . . figured you would . . . understand.” His eyes shifted to my trash can, brimming over with empty beer cans and dead bottles of scotch. “I . . . figured you . . . might . . . know where I was . . . coming from.”

And that irritated me beyond belief, that he might claim to know me. The last thing I need is a diagnosis from some wasted crybaby who drags a fucking mop for a living. The only reason I ever gave him the time of day was because I felt sorry for him. It ticked me off so I said, “You know, Tommy, I don’t quite know how to tell you this but on Tuesday night you came to my door and literally begged me for one hundred dollars.”

Tommy lowered his head and shook it slowly from side to side.

“Then you said that if I wouldn’t lend the money you’d be willing to earn it the old-fashioned way.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, 'old-fashioned way'? What are you talking about?”

“Then you sank to your knees and made for my belt buckle.”

“No,” Tommy moaned, placing his hands over his ears. “That’s not possible. You know I’m not that way.”

“Well,” I said, “you really didn’t seem like yourself that night but, then again, I’d never seen you wearing a skirt before. You just seemed so damned desperate that I pulled out my wallet and gave you the hundred dollars.”

Tommy rocked back and forth, hugging himself with his freckled arms. “No, God. Oh, please, tell me no.” But while Tommy cried “No,” some small voice deep inside his tiny brain whispered “Maybe, maybe, maybe.”

The following morning I found an envelope containing five twenty-dollar bills slipped beneath my door. Chump. I should have told him five hundred.

A while later I was returning from the Laundromat when I noticed a different guy cleaning the halls. He introduced himself as Eightball and we got to talking. I asked about Tommy and was told that he had checked himself into a rehab center some-where in New Jersey.

“That Tommy,” the new janitor said. “He’s a real wild card, isn’t he?”

“He sure is, Eightball.”

I figure that, wherever he is, Tommy will at least have a good story. If he plays his cards right he’ll be wowing them at AA meetings for years to come.

Gill’s story, on the other hand, isn’t going to impress anyone. I don’t even think that being an alcoholic was his idea. It’s something he got from his supervisor at work. This guy noticed Gill had been having a couple drinks during his lunch break and called him into the office for a little talk. That night in the Indian restaurant Gill told me how the supervisor had closed the office door and handed him a list of alcoholic warning signs, telling him that he would definitely have to answer “yes” to the question “Does my drinking interfere with my job?” The whole thing was a setup if you ask me. The supervisor spilled out his own story and offered to accompany Gill to a meeting, where, Gill said, “I really started thinking about my life.” Then he started magnifying everything, which is a big mistake be-cause if you think too hard about anything it’s bound to take the fun out of it. That’s what happened to Gill. He’s no fun any-more.

I remember saying, “So your boss gave you a quiz — so what? Do you think it’s the only quiz in town? I could sit down right now and hand you a pamphlet and say, 'You’ll definitely have to answer ”yes“ to the question ”Does my not drinking interfere with my friendship with Dolph Heck?“ Take my quiz, why don’t you? Why would you listen to some asshole of a supervisor before you’d listen to me? He’s just trying to recruit people, that’s all. He’s a so-called alcoholic so he wants everyone else to be too. Can’t you see through that?”

Gill looked at me and said, “I’ve come to see through a lot of things, Dolph. I’ve come to see through a lot.”

After that there was nothing left to say as nothing gets on my nerves more than someone repeating the same phrase twice. I think it’s something people have picked up from television, this emotional stutter. Rather than say something interesting once, they repeat a clichŽ and hope for the same effect.

Seeing as Gill doesn’t have a decent story, I guess he’ll be forced to surround himself with people who pride themselves in their ability to understand. It’s fine to understand other people but I think it is tiresome to pride yourself in it. Those are the types who will bend over backward to make Gill feel “special,” which is sad to me because Gill really is special. I tried to tell him but he wouldn’t listen. Actually I probably didn’t say special, a word that, outside a restaurant, has no value whatsoever. I think I used the term rare, another restaurant word.

While Gill is worthy of attention, his story is not. He hasn’t even had any blackouts. I’ve had a few. More than a few, but they always take place in private and they’re nothing to write home about, nothing like Tommy’s. The closest I’ve come to the Tommy zone was three weeks ago when I received a telephone bill listing quite a few late-night calls to England. The curious thing is that I do not personally know anyone in England. I thought they’d made a mistake and considered protesting the charges until a few days later when, leafing through a stack of magazines on the living room floor, I came upon a heavily notated page torn from the TV Guide. I saw where I had circled and placed seven stars beside that week’s three-part PBS “Mystery” presentation. At the bottom of the page were a series of oddly arranged numbers, which looked like locker combinations. These matched the numbers on the phone bill, leading me to assume that I must have actually dialed international information and phoned Scotland Yard at the end of each program to congratulate them on another job well done. Still, though, that’s nothing to get worked up about. Exceptional would be to find yourself on a plane headed to England, wearing a tweed cap and demanding that the stewardess put you in touch with Chief Inspector Tennison.

Since receiving my last phone bill I have taken to fastening the telephone to its cradle, using some of the threaded packing tape stolen from what used to be my job. In the rare event of an in-coming daytime call I can always grab a knife or scissors, but luckily the task appears to be too strenuous during my ever in-creasing personal mystery hours. Another problem solved with simplicity and grace.

My next project is to fashion a cushion to the hood of my vacuum cleaner. Again this morning I woke on the kitchen floor with my head resting against the hood of my ancient Hoover.

I ask, “What were you thinking?”

“Mattress, Dolph?”

“Don’t go out of your way on my account. I’ll just stretch out on this cold tile floor.”

“Pillow?”

“No, thanks. This hard plastic vacuum hood will suit me just fine.”

This morning, in addition to sleeping on the floor, I awoke to find I had once again wet my pants. It’s been happening much more often than is necessary lately and it’s beginning to really scare me. This time the urine was induced by a dream in which I had been presented with two citizenship awards, the ceremonies back-to-back. The first award was in the shape of Tommy Keen’s head. Made of gold-plated lead it was all I could do to carry it off the stage and into the waiting limo for the next ceremony. It was goofy, the way dreams are. Gill was the limo driver but he didn’t seem to remember me. I asked him please to pull over somewhere so I could pee and he kept saying I could use the bathroom at the Pavilion. We argued back and forth until he hit a red light and I jumped out of the limo, leaned against a building, and unzipped my fly. The next thing I knew my face was pressed against the hood of a vacuum cleaner and I was lying in a puddle of urine. I didn’t even get to find out what the second prize was. This morning I woke on the kitchen floor in a puddle of urine and understood that something has to change as I am not about to buy rubber sheets or adult diapers. This simply cannot continue.

After my mother’s death the most shocking discovery in the box marked “POISON” were not her letters, but the stack of New Year’s resolutions she’d spent so long composing. Each of the fifteen cards was dated in the left-hand corner and, in her slanted, childlike writing, each one read the same: “Be good.” It shook me up as, in the three years that I myself have been making such lists, mine say the same thing, relatively. I have taken to softening my approach as a safeguard against failure. The last one reads: “Try to think about maybe being good.” “Try” and “maybe” give me the confidence I need in order to maintain the casual approach best suited to my ever-changing circumstances.

I looked up at my tightly bound telephone and told myself that I would remain on that floor until someone called, at which point I would answer and redirect my life. Whoever they were and whatever they wanted, I would take it as a sign.

After what seemed like hours, I got off the floor and took a shower, keeping the bathroom door open so I could catch any incoming calls. On the off chance my caller would tell me to quit drinking, I positioned myself on the sofa with two six-packs and a bottle of nice scotch. Then I turned on the TV and ate a sandwich made from leftover chicken lo mein. I call it a Chanwich. At a pivotal point in “One Life to Live” my telephone rang. A woman who introduced herself as Pamela was determined to woo me away from my current long-distance carrier.

“We’ve been observing your calling patterns, Mr. Heck, and notice that you seem to have several European friends. Did you realize that our company can save you up to twenty-three percent on overseas calls?”

I wound up switching to her company because, seeing as I had made a commitment to change, it seemed cowardly not to honor it. After our conversation I hung up the phone, expecting it to ring again a few minutes later. I thought I was on a roll and that — who knows? — anyone might call, anyone at all.

The phone didn’t ring again until sometime around ten in the evening, by which point I was pretty well potted. It was a woman’s voice and she started in immediately saying, “All right now, I realize you probably don’t remember who I am, do you?” She gave me a moment to guess but I could not begin to identify her.

“It’s me, Trudy Chase. I used to be Trudy Cousins. Chase is my married name even though I’m no longer married if that makes any sense! Anyway, I don’t live in Piedmont anymore but I still have the good old Post-Democrat delivered to my door every day and that’s where I read the obituary on your mother. I know it’s been a while but I just wanted to tell you that I’m very sorry to hear about it.”

I didn’t know how to respond.

“You really don’t remember me, do you?” she said. “It’s me, crazy Trudy who used to sit beside you in Mr. Pope’s senior English class. Remember me? I was the crazy one. I was the one who wrote 'Don’t follow me — I’m lost too' on the back of her graduation gown. It’s me, crazy Trudy.”

Suddenly I remembered her perfectly. Even at eighteen she struck me as hopeless.

“So, Trudy,” I said. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, you know me. I’m just as crazy as ever. No, I take that back I’m probably crazier if you can believe that!”

I thought for a moment before saying, “Oh.” Because that’s really something I can’t stand — when people refer to themselves as crazy. The truly crazy are labeled so on the grounds that they see nothing wrong with their behavior. They forge ahead, lighting fires in public buildings and defecating in frying pans without the slightest notion that they are out of step with the rest of society. That, to me, is crazy. Calling yourself crazy is not crazy, only obnoxious.

Trudy went on to tell me that she’s lived here in Manhattan for three months, having been transferred from the home office in Piedmont. She chuckled, adding that the people here think she’s just about the craziest person they’ve ever met. She’s so crazy that she planned an office party for Lincoln’s birthday and petitioned her boss to free the slaves in the accounting department. And she even wore a tall hat and a fake beard! The members of her tenants association thought she should be committed after she hosted the last meeting . . . by candlelight!

“Ha, ha,” I said. “That sounds pretty scary.”

“Nothing scares me,” she said. “That’s how crazy I am.”

On my silent TV I watched as a defeated wrestler shook his hairbrush at the referee, obviously screaming for a rematch. “Nothing?”

“Not a damned thing,” she said. “Nada. Othing nay.”

The very idea that, out of nowhere, a member of my 1975 graduating class would call me and speak pig latin created a mixed sense of repulsion and endless possibilities.

Trudy spoke of her involvement in any number of organizations. She is, for example, volunteering to walk the dogs of recent stroke victims. “I usually walk with a woman named Marcie, and, Jesus, if you think I’m crazy, you should meet her! We call ourselves the Poop Troop, and next week we’re getting our uniforms. You should join us sometime.”

I pictured myself wearing an “I brake for hydrants” T-shirt and a baseball cap decorated with a synthetic stool.

On top of everything else Trudy also finds the time to play on her company volleyball team, iron for her crazy arthritic neighbor, and teach underprivileged children to make fudge. She didn’t say it in a boastful way. She wasn’t looking for a medal or trying to make me feel selfish. She invited me over to her apartment for a get-together, but I bowed out, claiming I had a business meeting to attend.

“Well if your meetings are half as crazy as mine you’re going to need all the luck you can get,” she said.

She asked if she could call me after my meeting and I told her to hold on a moment as I had another call coming in. She’s been holding for fifteen minutes now and I still can’t make up my mind. I look over at my mother’s card on the refrigerator. BE GOOD. But she never specified: Be good to whom? If I’m good to Trudy Chase, I’ll tell her never to call me again. If I’m good to myself, I’ll wind up making fudge and walking the dogs of stroke victims. Which is worse?