The Easy Way Out (27 page)

“Signs?” Sharon asked, looking around.

“You're right,” Ryan told the woman. “You could be a little more polite about the way you say it, but you are right.” Then he gently took the cigarette from Sharon and rolled it between his fingers until the lit coal fell off the end. He put the butt in his shirt pocket and patted it. “We'll save this for later,” he said. “Now what were you saying, Sharon?”

I'd never seen anyone save Sharon from herself with such tender efficiency.

Twenty-two

T
here were several standard types of clients who called Only Connect throughout the year, looking for predictable vacations. Fredrick had given them shorthand labels so the agents would know what they were getting before he put the calls through. The most common in New England from November until late March, and in many ways the easiest to satisfy, was the “Warm and Cheap.” The Warm and Cheap caller announced himself by declaring that he didn't care where he was sent as long as it was hot, hot, hot, and didn't cost a fortune. The first person to figure a way to economically transport large groups of people to hell will make a billion dollars. Until then, Warm and Cheaps were remarkably eager to sign up for package tours to seedy hotels in the run-down capital cities of impoverished island nations. They almost never had a good time, but lack of air conditioning kept them sizzling and lack of consumer goods and decent restaurants ensured that they didn't spend much money. And after all, someone has to stay in Santo Domingo. The ones who seemed hesitant about leaving the U.S. could be shipped off to a sleazy motel in Fort Lauderdale or a Quality Inn in a drought-stricken region of California.

The “Joy of Sex” callers were looking for “a quiet, lush spot where me and my girlfriend can take a vacation.” In winter, I usually sent these folks to Aspen, a spot that's neither quiet nor lush but gives
the couple the aphrodisiacal illusion that they are, or at least might run into, Don Johnson and Melanie Griffith.

There was the “Whole Catastrophe” (“We're thinking of taking the family to Disney this July”), the “Banana Republic” (“Could you recommend a completely unspoiled spot, preferably where they speak English and have a nice hotel with a gambling casino?”), and the “Achille Lauro Affair” (anyone inquiring about a cruise). As the calls came into the switchboard, Fredrick would laconically buzz the various agents to try and find a taker. “I've got a Joy of Sex on line four, Patrick. If you take this one, I won't send you a Whole Catastrophe until Thursday. A deal?”

Sometime in early April, I developed a specialty with the “Party's Over” callers, a type that, in the end, had very little to do with travel. A Party's Over call usually involved a distressed-sounding individual, not necessarily traveling alone, although that was most common. Typically, the call began: “I want to go away tomorrow if possible, by this weekend at the latest.”

“Boy,” I'd say, “it certainly sounds as if you're eager to get away.”

“I certainly am.”

“Well, we'll see what we can do. Did you have any particular destination in mind?”

“It doesn't matter where or how much it costs. The important thing is I have to leave immediately.”

This urgency and lack of concern for destination and price were the giveaways. I'd start tapping at the computer keys to sound as if I was doing something and was properly distracted. Then I'd nonchalantly mention that it was tough to find seats with so little advance notice. Most often, the caller would announce that he himself had had little or no advance warning. Making sure I sounded only moderately interested, and banging on the computer even more loudly, I'd say something on the order of: “Not bad news, I hope.”

No more prodding than that was ever needed. A juicy tale of adultery, betrayal, a drug-addicted offspring, a suicidal spouse, or, in the most pathetic instances, a dead pet would emerge. Once the customer got going, it was easy to ask a lot of probing questions, since what he was really calling for was to tell his side of the story to some anonymous listener. After a while, I'd suggest several preposterous holiday destinations to which it was easy to find last-minute seats: Dubai, Blue Bell, Pa., Monrovia. I'd slip in a few cautious reminders that the problem, whatever it was, would still exist upon
return. “Think how much better you'd feel,” I'd end up saying, “if you stayed home and cleaned out your closets and desk drawers and paid all your bills.”

It was never too difficult to talk these people out of going away, since they hadn't really wanted to go anywhere in the first place. It gave me a great deal of satisfaction to know that I'd been of some assistance. At least I was saving them money. Fredrick was pleased because he'd found someone who would always take calls from the most depressed-sounding individuals, and I don't think Tim, my boss, had any idea how much business I was turning away. I didn't mention it to Sharon, either; she hated talking people out of going away, because it meant a lost opportunity to cheat the airlines.

During one of our late-night calls, Tony pointed out that what I was doing with these clients was trying to help them put off major moves. “You know, like getting married,” he said.

“Or buying a house,” it occurred to me.

“Exactly. But you're happy about that, aren't you?”

“Delighted. Except I keep having these dreams that I'm moving to Australia. I'm sitting on a plane by myself, with one suitcase in my lap, and just as the plane lifts off the ground and they pull in the landing gear, it crashes into a tall building. And the building's always bright yellow, like the house.” I'd had the dream three times since sending in the mortgage application forms and had woken up in a cold sweat each time.

“Heavy. You better get to a psychiatrist fast, before you make out any more checks. See if you can get some answers for me, too. Vivian thinks I should see a therapist, someone to help me out with my mess.”

“Maybe it's not a bad idea.” He was into opera; analysis was the next logical step.

“Come on, Patrick. I'm not the type. Anyway, I don't have the time to sit there. I wish I could describe the whole situation to somebody, show them some pictures or something, and have them go do it for me, like those people who do your Christmas shopping.”

“I hear it doesn't work that way.”

“Probably not. What's this about you trying to set Ryan up with that Sharon friend of yours?”

“They both happened to show up at my place for dinner on the same night, nothing more than that.”

“That's not the news I got. Somehow I can't picture Ryan going out with her. I mean, someone who walks around in January in
sandals and a sunbonnet obviously isn't operating on the same wavelength as the rest of the human race. Hey, I've got a great idea: if you're so eager to talk people out of taking trips, how about convincing Loreen to cancel the honeymoon?”

Whatever the subconscious reasons for the delight I was taking in helping the insulted and injured dig in their heels, it was the first time I'd felt I was doing anything worthwhile at the agency, and it made me happy.

*   *   *

A few days after the dinner with Ryan and Sharon, Fredrick rang my intercom and told me there was a woman at the front desk to see me.

“Did she give you her name?” I asked, trying to imagine what dreaded customer it might be.

“No,” he said quietly. “I can't tell, but from the appearance, I'd guess it's either a Joy of Sex or a Party's Over. Tall, gorgeous, tons of hair. You'll see in a minute.”

“Not Professor Fields?”

“No. Not even in another life. I'm sending her back.”

A few seconds later, there was a knock on the open door to my office, so soft the customer must have been using her fingertips and not her knuckles. I barked out what I hoped was an intimidating “Come in,” and Loreen Davis stuck her head into the doorway. There was a hesitant smile trembling on her lips, and in her low, self-effacing voice, she said, “I hope this isn't a bad time?”

I experienced a sort of anatomical landslide, in which my jaw, my shoulders, my chest, and my stomach all dropped at once. “Loreen,” I said, as cheerfully as I could manage. “What a surprise! Come in.”

She walked into the office with a dainty, halting step, as if she wanted to make sure her feet made no sound. Politely, she kept her eyes straight ahead, although I could see a look of contained horror pass across her features as she took in the chaos of the office in her peripheral vision. Just that morning, Tim had loaded several old airline rate tariffs into the bookcase, and it had collapsed onto the floor. Loreen had on a knee-length white skirt, a scoop-necked white angora sweater, and a pair of white running shoes. She walked with absolutely perfect posture, as if she were on a runway in a modest one-piece bathing suit. My parents often bragged that Tony's bride-to-be was “a dead ringer for Miss America,” significantly neglecting to mention a specific miss; what they were referring to was not a
particular set of features or facial bone structure but a type of beauty and a certain air of delicate self-confidence. Today's beauty queen, tomorrow's alcoholic housewife.

I got up and embraced her. She was so thin, I felt as if my arms could easily circle her several times. Not thin in a sickly, anorexic way, but with a kind of meticulous, carefully and healthfully maintained resistance to fleshiness. I'd have bet even money her weight hadn't varied more than an ounce in several years. I never really had anything to say to Loreen, and I always felt brutish and crass in her soft presence, but there was a glimmer of independence lurking in her somewhere that I admired a great deal. Today, however, she had a downcast look, and I was reminded that for the past six weeks I'd been trying to convince my brother to break off his engagement with her.

“It really is wonderful to see you,” I said. “Take a seat, if you dare.” I pushed some books and papers onto the floor and dusted off the cushion. Given the time, she must have been up and about for several hours; it was incomprehensible to me how anyone could remain so spotlessly clean for even a few minutes.

“If this is a bad time, Patrick, let me know and we can make an appointment or whatever.”

“No; this is as good a time as any. You look different somehow.”

“You probably haven't seen me in my work clothes. We used to have to wear nurse's uniforms, but they've got more lenient. We have to wear white now, that's all.”

She took a seat in front of my desk, carefully arranging her jacket on the back of the chair and pulling her skirt modestly over her knees. I had never seen her dressed for work at the diet center, but it wasn't only the outfit that was different. Her hair was lighter than I remembered, as if she'd had it frosted, and it was teased up fairly high in that frizzed-out, prime-time, soap-opera look. Her eyes were heavily made up, and her face seemed smooth and poreless, as though made of porcelain. There was something captivating in her appearance, a perfect blend of natural beauty and artifice. Her lips were covered with raspberry gloss and faintly outlined in some darker shade of red or in black. It must have taken hours to apply and years of practice.

“You do look lovely,” I said.

She smiled and turned away. “I should have called, but I had a couple of cancellations, and I thought I'd drive in and take a chance.”
Her small voice was made for apologies and tearful admissions of inadequacy. “I'm sure this must be your busiest time, everyone planning their spring vacations.”

I mentioned the annual rush to Bermuda and college-week trips to Florida, trying to sound professional and knowing. “Is it a popular time . . . for diets?” Somehow I always felt I was insulting her by even mentioning her work.

“January and spring are the biggest times. In January everyone's full of New Year's resolutions, and in the spring they're getting ready for bathing suits. But I had cancellations this morning, so I had some free time. I guess I already mentioned that.” There was a hotel index open on top of my desk, and Loreen was smoothing her hand across one of the pages, ironing out the wrinkles. “It's actually kind of sad,” she went on. “Spring should be happy, everything coming alive. For people with weight problems, it causes a lot of stress, which just makes them eat more, which creates more stress, which means more binging. . . .” She sighed, looked up at me, and shrugged.

Spring, clearly, was not such a happy time for Loreen. It would have been the right moment to say something upbeat about the wedding, but I didn't dare. “Still,” I said, “it must be satisfying to know you're helping people. Like a doctor or a psychiatrist.”

“Oh, not really. Most of the people come back in a few months, heavier than they were when they started out. And even more depressed and desperate to lose weight as fast as they can, which means the chances are they'll gain back still more. And that increases their risk of heart attacks. It's a cycle.”