Free and Clear by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 3
The following day I get out early and stop at the local convenience store for coffee and eggs. My fellow Hologram Facilitator, Wally Rodgers is there ahead of me. As I had hoped, the purveyor of unlimited fantasy is dicking around, trying to provoke the waitress into something entirely new.
Wally was unusually desperate and I heard him say; “What if I took the mundane breakfast right out the door and didn’t pay?
Same shit every day. Probably leftovers anyway. Would you tell me if it was? Of course not. Would you call the manager? The cops? Your father? Your husband?”
Rhonda made a face intended to convey tolerance and boredom. She said; “Wally, you’re not going to do anything but be a good boy. So, dream up your fantasies without my help. It’s your job, not mine. Give me a break. I’ve got enough to do trying to get the friggin’ cook to make what I tell him to.”
“Come on Rhonda. The hell with the cook. You’re an artist, babe. Break out. What if? What if? What if?”
“If I come up with something you use, what’s in it for me?”
“So mercenary! I’ll take care of you, babe. Trust me.”
“You can’t even take care of yourself. Cut it. Save it for somebody who hasn’t known you for ten years.”
“Where’s your heart?”
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“I left it in Boston with the creep who had to go find himself and never came back.”
“So cynical. Maybe he’s still looking.”
“Ten years? You fuckers think you can get away with any kind of shit.”
“All this, because of one?”
“None of your business. Just pay your freaking bill and get your inspiration elsewhere, okay?”
“The hearts have hardened.”
Rhonda stared coldly. Wally forked over and included a generous tip.
I slapped Wally’s shoulder and said; “Out of ideas?”
Wally shook my hand and said; “Hey, George. What brings you to the land of the uninspired?”
“Mission of mercy. On my way to an appointment with another geriatric female.”
“Porn?”
“Hell, no. A resurrection of the glorious past, happening to coincide with when she was young.”
“Nostalgia.”
I made a distinction; “Fantasy. She insists that people were caring then. Much nicer than today. All the codgers say that. Every generation.”
“Doing any of the gritty realism of today?”
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“Of course, nitwit. It’s easy. The reverse side of the same coin. It implies the same solace as the nostalgic fantasy. Just comes from a different direction. Horrible today versus idyllic past. ........ Still doing that pervert shit for teenage boys?”
“Sure, man. That’s where the real money is. Didn’t you figure that out yet? And, Jesus. What in the fuck happened to your head?”
“Hit it on the fireplace. ...... Maybe the floor.”
“On purpose?”
I derisively said; “Yeah, looking for inspiration.”
“Find any?”
“I found two homeless people on the doorstep and they moved in.”
Wally said; “I’ve heard about that stuff.” In a teasing voice he added; “You’re just bragging. They’re only going to the houses of the rich.”
“You didn’t see the fine print. That’s rich by the standards of Bangla Desh.”
“Shit.”
I call out; “Hey, Rhonda. Would you get me some coffee and eggs? I’ll keep this creep in line.”
She grinned, nodded and asked; “How do you want those eggs.”
“Over easy.”
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She points a finger at me and says; “Don’t start.”
“Don’t get carried away with yourself. That’s how I like my eggs. Cripes.”
In a low tone Wally says; “She thinks everyone is after her ass.”
“Well, aren’t you?”
Wally shakes his head side to side, indicating neither here nor there.”
I say; “You’ve been watching too much of the stuff you show the teenage boys. If the government knew how much money you make they’d send over four homeless people.”
I get to Mrs. McIntyre’s at 10AM sharp. She’s waiting at the open door looking at her watch. I know that she’s anxious as I’ll probably be the only person to spend any time with her all week. She was once the Prom Queen; but after acquiring cerebral palsy at age 35 and losing a husband at the same time, she has become a recluse; not entirely by choice.
Some of her 230 pounds is held by the seat; some floats in space over the sides. I exit my car. With seeming sincerity, she says; “George, I was afraid you weren’t going to come. Do you have to be so business-like punctual?”
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I find the comment about punctuality amusing, but also sad.
I smile trying to put a positive spin on the situation. Before I speak, she does it for me, saying; “What happened to your head?”
I laugh and wish I could put my arms around her. I say;
“Rosie, don’t you realize how rude that question is? I believe socialization courses are in order.”
“Your eyes are black.”
“Ominous?”
“Bizarre.”
“We’re eating into your precious time, sweetheart. Let me get this machine set up in the living room and we’ll soon be on a trip.”
“You all right?”
“YESSSSS.”
I have holograms prepared of her mother, father and sister, as they were many years ago. Rosie gets wide-eyed, like a happy little girl on Christmas. I remember why I like this irregularly paying customer. She seeks her parents’ approval, showing them the Easter basket she made at school. Her parents’ compliment her in a cursory manner, which she senses. Rosie doesn’t want the platitudes which unemotionally say the correct words. She wants them to see her and feel her. Her year older sister smiles like Mona and silently watches. Rosie points out the intricacies of her basket, trying to elicit something she has thus far
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missed. Her parents act as if they had already bestowed their due praises on the little purple, cardboard basket.
Mom says; “Let’s give Heidi a chance.”
Her sister walks to Mom and has nothing to offer but herself. She is held and cuddled.
Rosie looks perplexed, as if she were wondering what went wrong. I decide to over-ride Rosie’s input and re-program the hologram characteristics before my next visit.
I find the scene sadly touching. It is undoubtedly preferable to Wally showing slutty women to teenagers, no matter the money. I do occasionally have the audacity to make value judgments.
When I get home I see that the house has been re-decorated.
Furniture has been moved around and the floors show their trails. I hear; “Hloop, hloop, hloop,” coming from upstairs.
Reba and David are in the backyard near the ornamental rocks.
I go upstairs and find Martha in our new bedroom with the covers pulled over her head. I sit on the edge and put my left hand on her back. She peeks out and says; “They’re making a mess of the place. When I came home from work I found it like this.”
She is wearing a rubber chicken like an unfastened necklace. It was the only item left by the previous owners of this house, excepting some keys that don’t fit into anything. The flexible
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replica of the skinned hen well mimics the limpness of death.
When I first found it, I amused my absurdly childish side by tossing it to Martha when she didn’t expect it. She tolerated that until the time it caused her to slip and sprain an ankle.
For more than a decade the rubber chicken has occupied the bottom of my underwear drawer; kept company by the little, red, rubber thingy which makes the fart noise I sigh, touch the chicken and say; “You really should knot this. I see you’ve been perusing my underwear again. Find anything else good?”
“If I knot it I’m liable to hang myself. Isn’t there something that can be done about this?”
Though the mention of suicide unnerves me; rather than making an inadequate serious remark, I try to make Martha laugh.
I say; “We could kill them and bury the bodies in the swampland near the reservoir.”
Martha wrinkles her brow as if she was giving the idea serious consideration. She slightly shakes her head and says;
“Hloop, hloop, hloop. No, we’d be the first suspects.”
“They probably have other enemies.”
“Still, they wind up dead right after moving in here. Cops don’t believe in coincidences.”
“They first have to know that they are missing.”
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“They’ll have us on video. The damn cameras are all over the place now. Especially in the swampland after that mud-loving dog walker found Crack Carmichael’s foot. ......... Hloop, hloop, hloop. ........ Oh, yeah. And the bank account is all screwed up and there’s a balance on the mortgage again.”
I kiss her and say; “Don’t worry. Things have a way of working out.”
She pulls the blanket back over her head and says; “Leave me alone. I just want to sleep with my chicken.”
I go back downstairs with the intention of establishing some ground rules. I know this will be unpleasant, so I delay and first get on the computer to straighten out our bank business. I’m certain that I can as I deposited the cash some of today’s clients gave me.
I saw that we had already incurred $140 in fees. When I authorized the payment of the mortgage balance, I suffered an additional $30 fee for paying the mortgage late. It wasn’t. In fact my payment was early. But, I decided that I had more important things to do than hassle with the bank about a small amount of money. It annoyed me because I know that is the sentiment they thrive on, and here I was losing at their simple game. After making the transfer, I checked the mortgage balance four times and each time the balance reported was zero dot zero
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zero. I tried to re-conjure the jovial feeling of yesterday, but somehow I couldn’t make myself feel free and clear.
I walk into the back yard un-noticed, as while sitting on the rocks, the two room-mates seemed to be preoccupied with a compelling argument. It seemed unusually chilly for the season and I wished that I had put on a jacket. I didn’t want to go back for one as I feared that if I did I wouldn’t come back out.
As I neared them I heard David loudly say; “If it’s all right for you then it’s all right for me.”
Reba said; “Like hell.”
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
“I can too. I’m your mother.”
“So you say. I’ve never seen any proof. And goddammit, you were doing this shit before I even knew what it was.”
Reba noticed me and informed me that I was disturbing a private family conversation. I’m not sure she chose to understand when I informed her that I was merely following suit.
She offered to make an appointment sometime when her busy schedule tapered off. I didn’t take the offer and walked back to the house. I thought; “Drop dead.”
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