Free and Clear by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 6
I return home with empty pockets. The disconcerting, immediate, monetary impasse passes from my thoughts when I opportunistically and jealously see that Reba and David are totally unconscious of my presence. They luxuriate in the backyard, sitting on the rocks. Maybe because they have their backs to me I think that they seem jovial, by their standards of contentment. I think it the opportune time to have an air-clearing discussion, appointment or not. As I approach they must hear my plodding footsteps and they simultaneously turn toward me. Their facial expressions, which were obviously meant for me, turn to ones the equivalent of that of contented people who were enjoying a blissful, fantasy-dependent dream, being rudely awakened by a circling bat.
I make note of that, but don’t really care. I have my own issues. I forcefully greet them with an overly perfunctory; “How you doon?” mimicking the tired, annoying and corrupted English phrase often said to me by erroneously egalitarian compatriots, in pursuit of a remunerative, no-skill job.
Despite that the question begs no thoughtful response, other than the possibility of a brain-dead echo, I take the easiest route and do precisely that. Reba chooses to take my purposeful entreaty seriously, and angrily says; “How the fuck
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am I supposed to be doing? Bastard insurance company cheated me again!”
I really don’t care to hear any of her sad stories. I have plenty of my own and presently have a plan to set right my adjusted-by-the-feds, current living circumstances, without any anecdotal drama delay. In a trifling, yet un-indictable, counterfeit effort to appear both caring and knowledgeable, as is superficially required, I slightly shrug, hoping that I was successful in falsifying an understanding beyond my circumstance, and say; “I thought that was standardly made boiler plate in their mission statements.”
Pregnant pause.
The pregnant pause is broken when a heavy lidded David says; “What do you mean by that?”
I don’t know. I notice that Reba, too, appears as if she was a very willing somnambulist. Rather than pursuing a fruitless line of possibly irrelevant thought, I say; “Nothing.
Nothing, at all. With your co-operation, what I would like to do is clear up some of the problems we are having,” having adjusted my thinking to that which I thought was their perception of the workable complications in our current living arrangement. At the same time, I consider my vainly, glorious penchant to think that the others do not understand as much as I do, and regret my consequent, impending failure, which is no doubt caused by
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other’s disinterest in painful communication. I start to cry in hope of a help beyond me, but back off when I discipline myself to appear something other than just another pathetic seeker of that which has rarely been attained. I don’t have any idea of which side of the equation is mine. I have no answers. Worse, I don’t know the questions.
But, I am relieved and not relieved at the same time to see that Reba is on another wavelength. She stands and extracts a crumpled paper from her burnt sienna corduroy pants. She offers it to me and says; “Sure thing, Ace. Clear this shit up.”
Instinctively, I take the offering, and see that it is a letter addressed to her. It reads;
April 1, 2035
Reliable Screw Insurance Co.
The successor to the old Hartford
1300 Industrial Way
Stamford, CT 08343
Dear Ms. Van Dalliant;
We thank you for your recent claim submission. Unlike other insurance companies which obfuscate and delay matters, here at Reliable we make a policy of promptly reviewing our valued customer’s petitions for help.
However, we regret to inform you that medical and/or psychological expenses incurred as a result of rape and torture committed by a band of illegal aliens from Libya are not covered under your policy. The reason for this determination was that your voluntarily submitted and required authorization of the release of your medical data showed that you are an admitted abuser of OxyContin, and therefore that your behavior was significantly contributory to the incident.
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We here at Reliable offer our deepest sympathies and sincerest wishes for a speedy recovery. Please do not hesitate to contact us whenever you unfortunately experience an event which is actually covered under your policy and we may be of further assistance.
Very truly yours,
August T Bishop III
Vice President
I am at a loss for words. I do not like this woman or her two-toned brat. However, this letter, assuming that it’s not a phony, gives me a new insight into her. On one level, she is a documented drug abuser and maybe I can play that some kind of way to get them out of my house. After all, while the government thinks that they have the right to saddle me with
“unfortunates,” even their imperial dictates do not yet have the ability to require that I make my house into a prison for the imminently, but not yet convicted. On a more important, ergo monetary basis, I may even have a valid lawsuit against the authorities for having put me in harm’s way; the post-modern American dream; to get rich in court. I think of Morty.
I affect the tone of Reliable Screw and in a voice I hope sounds sincere, I say; “This is awful. I’m so sorry. What you need is a good attorney.” I again visualize Morty in his strip mall office. While Reba and David probably can’t cough up a retainer, if there’s any way to make a buck out of this, Morty
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will figure it out. That’s his job, and I am entitled to a cut.
That’s the home of the free.
I, reluctantly, but out of my overriding conception of visual necessity, try to give Reba a cuddle and am relieved when she backs off and snatches the paper from me. She re-pockets it and says; “Didn’t think you could,” as she and David again take their seats on the decorative rocks, showing unexpected difficulty in finding a comfortable spot.
I had fortuitously forgotten what it was that I couldn’t do. I regret having gotten the stupid rocks many years ago, merely because these pests seem to like them so much. They were a youthful fantasy Martha and I had no trouble handling or keeping in their place. I didn’t envision them being used by those without the skills necessary for simple sitting. I didn’t know that such incompetent people existed; after the schooling age of five, anyway. I take a seat opposite them and attempt to get back to my original intent for being here. I say; “I know you have certain problems with Martha, me and the house. I’d like to try to work things out.”
They seem to be in some sort of stupor as they use the open half of their eyes to gaze at something over my head. I find this behavior akin to what I used to do, when after presenting my father with some situation which seemed un-fathomable, he would invariably tell me that god has a plan we were incapable
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of understanding. I considered his response one of several possible banalities, all intended to alleviate the speaker from the burden of knowing something.
David slurred; “Things ain’t never going to work out. Don’t you know that yet?”
Up until recently I had my hopes, but recent events had thrown me a curve ball. I say; “Have you ever done any DMZ?”
“The multi-colored dragon always dances where the terrain is new and perilous. All is the challenge.”
With an intended, put-down dismissal, I say; “I haven’t either.”
“The metamorphosis of the querulous man is guaranteed.”
“Did you know that DMZ is like ancient?”
“The clocks melt over and over again until they’re back where they started. The optimism of a stopped time piece.”
Showing some exasperation, I said; “What’s hip today?
OxyContin? Opium based pharmaceutical heroin?”
“The lack of money is the root of all evil.”
“Who can bear the weight of the philosopher’s stone?”
In an exceedingly bored or stoned voice, David said;
“Disengaged deaf insects cover the land.”
I confidently retorted; “The space between is not a constant.”
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“Mephistopheles has become a worshipped and feared god by achieving immortality.”
I try to counter his idea of progress when I say; “The corrupted, ergo imperfect, human form of randomness rules all that is.”
David smirked and said; “Spend much time alone?”
“We’re all together alone. Aren’t we?”
“God said; ‘I will judge each of you according to your own works.’ That is Ezekiel 33:20. I said; Use the dictated standards. I judge the almighty by his/her own works; death and disease.”
“Yea, verily, I say thy heart has hardened.”
“Thou presumptuous one assumeth it once soft.”
Silence claimed the yard.
The three of us stare into space for a while. Then I say;
“You must be a big hit at parties.”
David again smirks, though this time with perceptibly a bit less self-confidence. He may feel challenged. He almost falls off his chosen rock in the process of posturing. He utilizes all the relevance with which he wants to deal and says; “You know, man, you get to that space in your head, you know, where the answer is two. One times something still leaves you with that something. Inglais? But two times something starts you on a path to infinity. You know what I’m saying? At the root, everything
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converges and no matter what groups multiply or divide, two is the irreducible origin. Schizoid gods are all.”
I respond; “Gangs of hungry coyotes prowl the ground in search of unprotected chickens, not aware that their previous raids have resulted in none being left.”
Reba wakes from her necessary disinterest in the impractical and says; “On a more everyday level, did you ever notice that all professionals have one skill in common. They retain the confident and authoritative voice they displayed during their first assessment during the subsequent revisions.”
Actually, I had, but didn’t want to risk making her feel that her first contribution was banal. I merely nodded.
I remembered when my mother died. The initial conversation started with the doctor saying; “Your mother has a growth in her stomach, but in the majority of these cases it is benign and easily treatable.”
Mom and I made the obligatory smiles and tried to appear cheery.
The next conversation became; “We did find the growth to be malignant, but it has not yet invaded an essential organ and should easily be eradicated with chemotherapy.”
Mom and I made the required, open mouthed smiles.
The third offering was; “The chemo has not shrunken the malignancy, but it has stopped its advancement. With continued
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care your mother should remain stable and be with you for years.
Most people adjust to the increased chemo very well and retain a good quality of life.”
Mom regurgitated a sickly green liquid in bulk, at which point the doctor pushed a button, summoning an attendant, smiled widely and said; “Not to worry. Little accident. What on earth have you eaten?”
Mom waved her hand as she searched her pocketbook for a handkerchief. I made a wide sarcastic smile and didn’t know if its wariness was detected.
I was called to the doctor’s office and was to be attending alone. A change to a serious tone was utilized for her last revision; “Your mother passed away an hour ago.”
I held back the tears and asked a series of angry questions about the rapid changes in diagnosis. I received responses which were designed to re-position the questions on me. Seeing that there was a well thought out game in place, I ended with a serious question containing relevance to the possible stupidity I had just heard; “Are you certain that she’s dead?”
She advised; “You’re going to have to get realistic and accept that fact.”
I made a tight lipped grin and said some socially conducive crap about the doctor having done her best. I found out the
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supposed location of the body and wanted to check it for warmth.
I was told that it was gone.
My lengthy non-response induced a somewhat nervously conciliatory and revisionist Reba to follow up with; “Oh, I guess I’m just trying to find some reason to have some optimism about the goddam insurance claim. The professionals can always change their mind.”
I was never previously made aware that insurance claims people had attained laudatory status. However, I ignored that thought and said; “No, they won’t. They have to have it changed for them, and I know the right guy to do it; Morty Moriarty. His real name is Timothy, but he hates it. Here, let me give you his card.”
She pocketed it and I made a mental note to call Morty to verify my usual cut. I added; “You can’t expect them to act out of anything other than self-interest.” I shrugged and continued;
“That’s just the way it is; always was and always will be.”
David says; “Do you actually find it surprising that the comfortable are proponents of a philosophy supportive of the status quo?”
I think of a number of responses, but dismiss all of them as inadequate. I don’t feel comfortable, nor do I think that I am supporter of the status quo. I just occasionally see it as an insurmountable enemy, only fought by those with a death wish.
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But, I think that when something is small, has feathers and waddles, I’d bet money that it was a duck. I can see what is.
........ On the other hand, I suppose it could be a child in a Native American headdress with a leg impediment. I hope that’s the politically correct phraseology. I once used the word
“mongoloid” to Bruce and he told me that was not an acceptable term. When I asked what is now acceptable, he told me “mentally retarded.” However, I thought that was not as descriptive as I wanted to be, as mental retards can look like anyone, while mongoloids have a distinctly different appearance. Eventually, I settled on “chromosomally challenged,” but have yet to try the term on anyone. It’s probably better if I don’t say anything, including any contrary response to David. .......... Instead, I chose to reside in the moment and simply and truthfully say to David; “Not in the least.”
I sit on a rock on their side. In a few moments I recall why I was with them. I say; “Now, can we get to the relevant issues?”
David derisively says; “Like what?”
“You know. Like what problems you have with me, Martha and the house.”
Reba politely says; “Not now. I’m trying to deal with bigger issues.”
David says; “Fuck off, asshole.”
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So I fuck off.
It is almost dusk, when I see Bruce in his driveway, apparently in need of some more recognition. But, when he sees me through the picture window, he frantically motions with both hands, indicating that he wants closer personal attention or that he was fanning himself in an attempt to cool off from the April heat. I didn’t care for either possibility and hoped there was a third which had not yet come to mind.
I make a quick “smile and wave,” and then get away from the window, hoping that will suffice, but strongly fear that it won’t. I move my laptop away from window view and decide to check my e-mail. By the time I get to my inbox, the door plays
“Taps”. I think that it has to be Bruce. However, now I have the upper hand as it is considered boorish for one to come to someone’s door for a “smile and wave.” This activity is reserved for “chance” encounters. I look through the transom and see that indeed, it is Bruce. I am very annoyed and desperately in need of a Patti Smith fix.
I pull the door open in a rage and in a stupidly honest manner say; “It’s bad enough I have to see you every time I look through the window.”
Bruce’s impassive, bland face shows no more indication of being pissed at being told what he already knows. He calmly
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says; “I don’t know what you’re talking about; but, that kid of yours flipped me off.”
Uh oh. I have to half-retreat. I try to buy time with a technicality and say; “That’s not my kid.”
“You’re responsible for him and you ought to teach him better manners.”
I have my doubts about both allegations, but feel reticent to volunteer my powerlessness.
Bruce requires no response. He never felt more right about anything since the time he told me that men do not do housework.
He vehemently continues; “Our friendly greetings (He thinks it derogatory to use the term ‘smile and wave.’) are the most important aspect of civilized life here.”
A rare circumstance has occurred. I find a Bruce statement that I can unequivocally agree with. I say; “When you’re right, you’re right. You have my sincerest apologies. How can I make it up to you?”
Bruce paused as he didn’t know what he wanted other than company with which he could vent his unhappiness. I know that he doesn’t like walking the family dog, Justice. Justice is a free spirited German shepherd, and because Bruce will not do anything else pertinent to maintaining a house, his wife insists that walking Justice is solely his job. Bruce thinks everyone is snickering at him when Justice pays him no heed, and pulls him
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all over the place. He is right. He used to try to make Justice do his bidding, but the bold canine would have none of that.
When pissed Justice shows the teeth that he has never used on anything other than his special diet dog food, but the thought of being injured is enough to make Bruce get very co-operative.
Justice knows this, and he too snickers.
Given the situation at home, I am looking for any excuse to get out of it. I say; “How about I walk Justice for a few days?”
Bruce’s eyes light up momentarily, but in a matter of seconds revert to their normal, neutral flatness. He realizes that I might know that his Justice walks leave something to be desired.
He says; “I like walking Justice,” apparently unaware that he simultaneously and previously advertised that he doesn’t.
His posture amuses me. I decide to go in another direction and say; “Pardon me for offering you something you don’t want.
It was unthinking and unintentional. Perhaps, I could split the kid’s head open with a baseball bat right in the window.”
Bruce does a double take as he wouldn’t mind seeing that at all. But, even more, he would like to be relieved of the burden of showing all his neighbors that he is a pretentious pussy.
Bruce feigns kindness and says; “No, no. Don’t do that. A little talking to will likely suffice. I just recalled that coincidentally, I am going to be extremely busy the next few
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days. So, during that period I could use some help with Justice.”
I succeed at hiding my surprise.
My next few mornings were spent with Justice. I never spoke to David about the flip off incident for two contradictory reasons. The first one was my suspicion that if David knew what a big deal his finger was, he’d likely be more inclined to use it. Secondly, I respected him for doing what I would have liked to do myself for several years, but hadn’t had the balls.
On the morning after the filing of the complaint I go to Bruce’s house to get Justice. Justice quickly sets the rules of engagement. While he doesn’t mind being collared and held on a leash, he seems to insist that the limitation imposed works both ways.
He attempts to explore everything he deems worthy of exploration. He pulls me around the area, sniffing at every spot he finds interesting. To the many suburbanites who called out their witticisms of; “That dog walkin’ you?” I respond that it isn’t really my fault as I was merely doing a favor for a
“friend” who is unable to train a dog.
On the third day I decide to broaden Justice’s horizons and I drive him to a different place. On the outskirts of town is a few-thousand-acre park comprised of a reservoir, picnic areas,
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restricted camping areas, a boat cemetery, a beach, and other pieces of public land containing their own brand of restrictions with attendant lengthy signs no one reads. We have voluminous company as the parking lot is filled with pick-up trucks attached to standard silver horse trailers.
Some horses are still inside their shiny transportation accommodations and some are standing near them. I let him out of the car and Justice seemed flabbergasted. He moves five feet from the car, stops and rudely stares. His expectation of an action movie slowly converts to the viewing of a drawing room play. He keeps looking up at me in the hopes of an explanation for the stasis. I have none. He waits in his place to see if anything moves. After a few minutes something does. One adventurous equine enthusiast mounts his horse and together they circle the entirety of the parking lot.
Another dog walker grins at us. After a bar apropos question to the effect of our frequency of attendance, he clears up the immobile mystery by telling us that we are watching what the regulars call “The Saturday Morning Parking Lot Cowboys.” He describes them as a group of horse owners who get their steeds excited by making them think that they are going to get out of the back yard, then disappoint them by keeping them in the parking lot. I figure that the horses must have the souls of true believers in miracles. It was either that
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or massive cases of cabin fever. Justice does not share his thoughts, and just silently continues his curious vigil.
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