Shmucks (9 page)

Pelzic glanced over at the meter. It read 75 cents. He smiled and reached into his shirt pocket for one of the stolen cigarettes.

“Bastards,” his passenger mumbled from the back. “Self-righteous hypocrites . . . goddamn asses, sons of bitches.”

Pelzic turned and looked down at the man. His eyes were open and he was staring blankly at the back of Pelzic's seat. “No one humiliates me like that and gets away scot-free. You'll pay. Take my word for it, this isn't the last word on this matter, you snide turd.”

It seemed to Pelzic that the man was addressing these words to him.

“What did I do?” he blurted out. “I didn't homilate you. I didn't do nothing to you. What are you talking about?”

The man snapped his large head up, and stared at Pelzic. The blank look faded from his eyes.

“Was I talking out loud? I thought I was just speaking to myself.”

Pelzic felt relieved. He had been a bit anxious for a moment. The man's words coming as they had, unrelated to anything that had occurred in the taxi, had unnerved him.

“What is the problem?” Pelzic asked, feeling much better. “Who was it that humilate . . . humoliated you?”

“I was homilulated. . . . I was homiliated. . . .” The man paused and screwed up his face in an effort to get the proper word out. “I was humiliated by several people who I thought were my friends.”

“That's too bad,” Pelzic replied.

“It's too bad for them. Yes. I agree with that. It certainly is too bad for them.”

Pelzic nodded his head as though encouraging the man to continue.

“You're a foreign chap, aren't you?”

Pelzic blushed and hesitated for a moment, wondering why the man should have asked that question. What relation could that have to the story of the man's humiliation. “Yes,” he answered in a slightly defensive tone. “I'm a Romanian.”

“A Romanian? Really?” The man grinned and pushed himself up to a prone position. He sat there for a moment as though deep in thought. Finally he said, “Do you know how to become a Romanian taxi driver?”

“No,” Pelzic answered, not knowing what the man was up to.

“I'll tell you. Firstly, steal a taxi.” The man began to laugh. “Did you catch that? First steal one taxi.” The man broke up in laughter.

Pelzic just sat and stared, sensing there was something not nice about what seemed to have been a joke.

“I heard that one from a Jewish friend of mine,” the passenger chortled.

Pelzic nodded, feeling slightly angry. “What does my being a Romanian have to do with your friends homilulating you?”

“Oh, well, it's just that someone foreign-born might find the standards of my social class a bit difficult to understand.”

Pelzic shrugged, feeling with some satisfaction the rise of a self-righteous anger.

“We're a pretty tight group,” his passenger continued. “Quite exclusive, you know. We sort of look after each other, for the common good, if you know what I mean. We try to be above reproach.” The man cocked his head and squinted with his right eye. “I don't know if you can understand that. I guess not. Hmm?”

“Oh I understand that,” Pelzic said straightfaced. “It's like in Russia today or like the nazis.”

“No . . . no, not exactly like that. I wouldn't quite go along with that analogy. It's just that we sort of stick together, if you know what I mean. We're like a private club. As a matter of fact, that's where I was insulted.”

“Where?”

“At my club. The St. Andrews Club.”

Pelzic nodded. He knew the club well–from the outside. A huge 19th-century mansion, it was located just below de Maisonneuve on Drummond Street and was the former residence of one of the great Canadian robber barons. After his death it had been turned into the most exclusive club in Montreal. Most of its members were millionaires who had inherited their positions and wealth.

Pelzic had often transported members to the club. He felt a small measure of satisfaction knowing that he had sized the man up correctly. He must indeed be a millionaire.

Pelzic glanced at the meter. It was only at 85 cents. Quickly he calculated how much he could make for the entire night. If the man stayed in the car till seven a.m., that would mean the meter would be running for almost six hours. With the initial forty-cent jump, and the standard five cents per minute, he should make about seventeen or eighteen dollars by seven o'clock.

That wasn't bad, Pelzic reflected; but somehow he felt cheated. He knew he couldn't expect much of a tip. The man hadn't done anything to show that he was stingy, but Pelzic knew he was. He looked like the type that took a cab from downtown to the airport, tipped the driver ten cents and shook his hand. If he got a quarter in the morning from this passenger he'd be more than lucky. He was sure of it, and the certainty of his character observation made him furious. He wanted to take whatever he could from the man. For a moment Pelzic wondered why he should want to do that. It was strange, he reflected, but it seemed that when he met a generous person, he didn't want anything from him, but when he suspected someone of being miserly, his blood boiled and he was ready to take all he could get.

The man's voice broke into Pelzic's thoughts. “I'm a bit of a practical joker, you know. I guess with my wealth I can afford to be.” He laughed quietly as though savouring that statement. “I don't mind telling you, I'm wealthy. I don't mind telling anyone, especially now.”

“I don't think you should be ashamed of being a millionaire,” Pelzic replied.

The man started suddenly in his seat as though thrown mentally off balance by Pelzic's words. “I didn't say I was a millionaire.” There was a note of suspicion in his voice.

“Oh, I thought you were,” Pelzic replied.

The man seemed as though he were about to speak but was a bit reluctant. Finally he almost shouted, “Well I
am
a millionaire! I am, and I'm bloody damn proud of it. I don't give a damn who the hell knows it. I'm rich, I'm really rich. I'm a goddamn millionaire. I'm so rich I don't even know how rich I really am. I want everybody to know it. That's the trouble with the people in my class, in my society. There's an unwritten rule: Don't talk about your wealth, don't throw it around for public display. Keep out of the public eye. Live quietly. Well, I've abided by that concept all my life—and don't think it hasn't bothered me! I've always wanted everyone to recognize how incredibly wealthy I am, but I couldn't; they wouldn't let me.”

“Who wouldn't let you?”

“My friends and associates, my family.”

“How could they stop you?” Pelzic asked in wonderment.

“Well, I don't mean they physically stopped me. They didn't threaten or cajole. There's this great unseen pressure–everything is unspoken but it's all stated quite clearly. I always wanted to be like some of the rich Jews; you know, flaunting my money; throwing it about, buying things that I could show to everyone. I always wanted a fire-red cadillac but I've always had to settle for a dark-grey humber . . . without whitewalls.”

Pelzic nodded his head, not really understanding.

“I can't stand those plain black tires. I mean I always wanted everyone to know how rich I am. Why is it always the Rothschilds or Bronfmans that everyone talks about? They're always being written about in the bloody newspapers and magazines. I want them to write about me and my wealth. Damn it, I'm as rich as they are.” He pounded the back of Pelzic's seat with frustration and anger. “A month from now my youngest daughter is being married. We're having a reception. Do you know what food we're having for the guests?”

“Caviar?” Pelzic asked.

“Caviar!” The man looked at Pelzic as though he was insane.

Pelzic shrugged. Caviar wasn't good enough? he wondered.

“Caviar!” the man exclaimed again. “That's what they have at the Jewish weddings. They get a caterer to set the whole thing up.”

“What are you having?” asked Pelzic.

“We're having ham sandwiches on white sliced and beer. My wife and daughters will prepare the sandwiches, and I'll buy the beer from Agostini's beer and fruit store.”

“Hmm,” Pelzic muttered.

“I want a Jewish wedding,” the man continued. “I want caviar and a sweet table that I can take moving pictures of.” He paused suddenly as though in thought. Pelzic glanced back at the meter. He noticed with satisfaction that it was up to a dollar.

“That's all over with now. Things will be somewhat different as of this date. I was telling you about my being something of a practical joker,” the man went on, “I've got to have some relief from the strictures of my group, you know. I mean I'm not malicious or anything like that. The vast majority of my little jokes are done in good taste. They all bear what could be called my own personal imprint, my own individual stamp,” he said proudly and grinned.

Pelzic looked at the meter. It registered only $1.05 . . . another lousy nickel. If only he could figure out a way to speed it up. Maybe he ought to start the car up and drive back and forth in the lane. He ruled that idea out immediately. Even though his passenger probably wouldn't notice, it would be too hard on the car, and the motion would probably make the man vomit.

“Well in any case, my so-called friends had the gall to call me–Craig Dunsmore–before the club's disciplinary committee because they resented the fact that I have a sense of humour.”

“Is that so bad?” Pelzic asked.

“Apparently they thought so. Good Lord, everyone's scrawled graffiti on a toilet wall or on some wall somewhere at one time or another.”

“Excuse me?” Pelzic said. “I don't understand.”

“You know,” the man said, “graffiti . . . funny or dirty sayings, or words. I write them with some degree of regularity. Don't misunderstand me. I don't write just ‘fuck' or ‘shit' or stupid things like that. I put a lot of thought into what I write. I try to say something clever, something witty, something that'll strike at the core of a particular situation.”

It was strange kind of talk, thought Pelzic. None of it made any sense. Scribbling on walls, whoever heard of such a thing? Defacing or marring an elevator he could understand, but writing sentences? Where was the sense in that?

The man sat up in his seat and held his head in his hands. “Good Lord, I don't feel well,” he groaned. “I don't feel well at all.”

Pelzic spun around. “Please, please stick your head out of the window.”

“I can't, I'm too tired.”

“I'll help you,” Pelzic said anxiously. Pelzic leaned over and rolled down the back window. Then he grabbed the man by the collar of his jacket and pulled his head towards the open window. He chuckled to himself at the thought of how he was manhandling the millionaire. His wife would get a good laugh out of this.

The man's body drooped heavily and Pelzic was finding it a bit difficult to get his head completely out of the window. He leaned backward half over the seat, pulling at the man's jacket with his left hand and grabbing him by the seat of the pants. Getting carried away with the absurdity of the idea, he heaved his passenger halfway out the open window. The man's head was hanging down against the outside of the door. He protested weakly from this position, kicking his feet as he yelled. “I feel much better now, please help me back in,” he said, a slight note of panic in his voice.

Pelzic yanked but lost his grip on the man's jacket. He slipped down closer to the ground. Pelzic took a firm hold of the man's pants, curling his fingers around his belt. As Pelzic tugged, the man's pants came down so that the top part of his rear was exposed. Pelzic suddenly became anxious. All he would need now would be for a policeman to pass by and witness the scene. A drunk man hanging out of a taxi with the driver trying to pull his pants off. For sure they'd arrest him as a taxi pervert. Who would believe different? Pelzic let the man drop to the ground in the laneway. He got out quickly and helped the man up.

“What happened?” Dunsmore asked, a bewildered look on his face.

“You fell out,” Pelzic replied.

“Oh, I see.”

Pelzic opened the rear door and pushed Dunsmore back onto the seat where he immediately lay down again.

“Isn't the tow truck here yet?” the man half whined.

“No. Soon, it's coming soon.”

“What's coming soon?” the man asked.

“The tow truck.”

“What time is it?”

Pelzic glanced at his watch. “Almost a quarter past two.”

“God almighty,” the man groaned. “My wife will have the police out looking for me. I told her I'd be home by midnight.” His face twisted into a sneer. “They'll pay for this.”

Pelzic winced. Whoever they were they would probably pay, he thought, as he observed the man's face.

“The goddamn hypocrites.” Suddenly his face relaxed and he looked questioningly at Pelzic. “Is there anything so wrong with writing ‘The Queen Sucks' on a bathroom wall?”

“The Queen Sucks on a bathroom wall?” Pelzic repeated. There was a puzzled sound in his mumbled words.

“No, not on a bathroom wall, just ‘The Queen Sucks.' I was discovered doing this with my red marking pencil by the washroom attendant. He reported me, Craig Dunsmore, to the rules committee of which I happen to be a member.” The man flopped down on the seat and groaned in discomfort. “Can't you please take me home?”

Pelzic was getting tired and aggravated. The meter read $1.50. The time was going by so slowly. The man was still passing air regularly. The car stank like a pigpen. He was certain that his passenger was going to throw up all over the seat. He wanted to be home in bed, but he wasn't going to back up. No matter what, he was going to win this battle.

Suddenly a thought entered Pelzic's head. He suspected that his passenger might be able to help them both. He thought for a few moments until he knew what he wanted to do. “Sir,” he said, turning towards the back.