Telephone Read online

  “And my name’s not Jimmy,” the bartender said.

  “Whatever.”

  I drank the rest of the scotch and tapped the bar for Half Mustache to bring me another one.

  To my dismay, Leather Jacket moved clumsily over the couple of stools and sat on the one next to me. “I don’t care what the fuck he says, his name is Jimmy. My name is James, what’s yours?”

  “So you’re both Jimmys.”

  “What? No, I’m James.”

  “Zach.”

  “Lost?” he asked.

  “No. Why?”

  The bartender put another scotch in front of me and made a point of sneering at James.

  James ignored the bartender. “There are only a couple of reasons to be in this shithole. One, you’re already drunk and want to get drunker. Two, you ain’t drunk and want to get drunk and this is where you usually come to get drunk. Three, you’re lost. You ain’t drunk. I’ve never seen you in here before. So, or ergo, you’re lost.”

  “Nice reasoning,” I said.

  “It’s a gift.” He took a long pull on his bottle of beer, which I believed to be a Pabst. “Also a curse.”

  “How so?”

  “I can always talk myself into having another drink.”

  “I see.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “I’m an intrepid explorer, a dinosaur hunter.”

  James laughed loudly and slapped my shoulder with a floppy hand in an exaggerated way that revealed some kind of insecurity and made me not trust him. Not that I would have trusted him anyway.

  “What about you?”

  “Between jobs. It’s rough out there.”

  I nodded. My nod was sincere, as “out there” for me meant the world of my daughter. I looked around the bar. A couple of men were now playing pool. I sort of wanted to play also, but I was a bit afraid of the place. I think James sensed this.

  “I had me a good job for a while,” he said. “I used to drive a truck for Ralphs. Then I got sent up for a bit. I don’t care what anybody says, nobody out here will cut an ex-con any slack. Know what I mean?”

  “I can only imagine. Why were you in jail?”

  “Prison,” he corrected me.

  “Prison.”

  “They said I stole some stuff. You know, everybody says it, but I really didn’t do it. Only thing I ever stole in my life was a box of Mr. Bubble when I was eight.”

  “Mr. Bubble.”

  “I had a thing about bubble baths.”

  “Who doesn’t like a bubble bath?” I said.

  “I know, right? So, where do you work?”

  This whole thing was going south fast. “I work at the university.”

  “No shit,” James said. He ran his fingers through his greasy hair. “What do you do over there?”

  “I’m a technician in a lab.”

  “No shit. Pay pretty good?”

  “Pays shit,” I said. “I’m looking for something else. What about you, what’s the last job you had?” I was attempting to redirect the focus of the conversation back to him. I had read that was a good thing to do.

  “What kind of lab?”

  I knew better than to say anything that suggested medicine, chemistry, or something that might have suggested the presence of chemicals or drugs. I felt rather clever making that connection. “A physics lab,” I said. “I set up experiments for the students.”

  The disappointment was clear on his face.

  A noisy, skinny little man came into the bar. He was small, but he had a big presence. He yelled at James right off. “Hey, James, you’re a fat pig and you snore even when you’re awake.”

  “Yeah, well, fuck you very much,” James said. James smiled at me. “That there’s Derrick.”

  Derrick moved to the bar and talked to a woman.

  “Your friend?”

  “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

  “Well, I’ll let you visit with him. I have to go home.” I knocked back my second shot. I called for the bartender. “What do I owe you?”

  “Don’t go yet. Meet Derrick.” James called to his friend. “Derrick, get your ass over here and meet my friend Zach.”

  Derrick left the woman he was talking to and came over. He reached out and shook my hand. “I’m Derrick.”

  “Zach here works at the university,” James said.

  “What, are you a professor?” Derrick laughed.

  “Works in a lab,” James said.

  “Oh yeah? What kind of lab?” Derrick asked.

  “Physics.”

  “You work with all them oscilloscopes and shit like that?” Derrick was pleased with himself.

  “Sometimes.”

  Derrick gave a surreptitious look around. “You like coke?”

  “No,” I said. “Listen, I’d better be leaving.”

  “Stay,” Derrick said.

  “Come on, Zach.”

  “You know what the difference between acid and coke is?” Derrick asked. “Like anybody does acid anymore. Know what the difference is?”

  I shook my head.

  Derrick was laughing. “When you take acid, you see God. When you do coke, man, you are God.”

  “That’s pretty funny. I really have to go.”

  “Come on,” James said again and grabbed my sleeve.

  I said, “Let go of my arm.”

  “It doesn’t have to be like that,” Derrick said. James did not let go of my arm. Somewhere in the cellular memory of my muscles was three years of Marine training. Without thinking but wanting to, I grabbed James by the index finger, bent it backward, and broke him down to a knee. I then punched the small man in the throat, sent him to hug the nearest stool. I tossed some money on the bar, let James go, and started out. James started after me, and I turned to face him. I remembered something that a friend told me once, that nobody enters a fight they don’t believe they can win. The man backed away.

  I got into my Jeep and drove a couple of blocks away and parked, collected myself, convinced myself that I was not drunk. I was embarrassed but not unhappy. Then I drove home.

  d4 Nf6

  I arrived home to find Meg in bed, either sleeping or pretending to sleep. I sat in the big chair in the corner and looked out the window, still dressed and wearing my boots, though I did trouble to brush my teeth so I wouldn’t smell like the cheap whisky that sadly had had no effect on me.

  After about ten minutes, Meg said, “I’m not asleep.”

  “I think we should tell Sarah everything,” I said.

  Meg did not lift her head from her pillow. “I disagree.”

  I knew she would. I knew she would not only because I understood the argument for not telling the child but also because I imagined that she would disagree with whichever way I chose to proceed. Whether it was simply a matter of playing devil’s advocate to promote helpful discussion or just contrariness, I didn’t know. And I really didn’t care.

  “You think we should lie to her,” I said.

  Meg sat up. “I think we simply don’t tell her.”

  “Then what do we tell her?”

  She lay back down. There would be no more discussion that night, and nothing had been decided. I didn’t want to lie to my daughter, but neither could I imagine telling her the truth. Of course, that was the stuff of it, not whether we would tell her the truth about her disease but could we. I thought to apologize to Meg, but instead I continued to sit and stare numbly out the window at the dark outline of the hills.

  Duck Duck Goose. Sarah used to love that game. She never minded being the goose. It was always fun with a great many kids, she told me. I felt now as if I were playing the game all alone. The ducks, the goose, and It, chasing myself back to where I started and remaining It because I could not reach myself before I fell back into my seat.

  While Meg slept, I looked up the return policy of the vendor who had sold me the shirt. Simple enough. I would mail back the garment with a note stating the problem, and they would send me another
shirt or give me a refund. I wrote a brief letter explaining that the shirt was too tight, that I would need an extra-large, that the color didn’t matter. Under the flap of the collar, I hid a smaller piece of paper and on it I wrote, “¿Que puedo nacer para ayudar?” It all felt rather stupid, certainly pointless, but I was compelled to do it.

  Nf3 b6

  That morning, without having slept, I made breakfast and had it waiting for Meg and Sarah when they woke. Sarah would be going to school. We’d decided that the day before. They sat at the table and stared at my back while I flipped pancakes. “Let me ask you guys this,” I said. “Is there a difference between flapjacks and pancakes?”

  “Flapjacks?” Sarah had never heard the word.

  “Yeah, flapjacks. That what some people call them. Or used to.” I made a show of flipping a cake. “There’s even something called johnnycakes.”

  “What are they made of?” Sarah asked.

  “Johnny, I suppose.”

  The girl laughed.

  “What about a game of chess this afternoon?”

  “Okay.”

  It was clear that neither Meg nor I were going to broach the subject of Sarah’s illness this morning. It was tacit but clear, transpicuous. It felt good not to talk about it. The failure to address the topic also made me feel weak. That was fine, I thought, thinking that evidently, in this regard, I was weak.

  I drove Sarah to school. We didn’t say much, but it was all very like any other morning. She fiddled with the radio, complained about the music of her generation, ridiculed the music of mine, and settled on the classical station.

  “I hate Vivaldi,” she said.

  “Everyone hates Vivaldi, but no one will admit it.”

  “Queen pawn to d4,” she said. “That’s my opening move. I want you thinking about that.”

  “You love messing with me.”

  “It’s so easy.” She looked out her window. “Most underrated rock band.”

  “The Monkees,” I said. “Most overrated rock band.”

  “The Beatles,” she said.

  “Most overrated painter.”

  “Georgia O’Keeffe,” she said.

  “Really?”

  “Flat.”

  “Most overrated novel?” I asked.

  Together we said, “Infinite Jest.”

  “Still, I’m sorry he’s dead,” Sarah said.

  We didn’t say anything else during the short balance of the drive. I let her out, watched her merge into the stream and disappear through the door, all the while feeling like the liar that I actually was.

  c4 e6

  Finley Huckster was my age, but, though I had no doubt he was in better shape than I was, he looked considerably older. Still, we were fairly evenly matched on the squash court. The play was good for me up to a point, and then depression overtook me again. Huckster noticed.

  “You want to talk about it?” he asked.

  “My daughter is dying,” I said, flatly.

  “I didn’t expect that,” he said and fell silent.

  That was the first time I had said it out loud to anyone. I cannot say that it felt bad or good, but I felt somehow stronger.

  “How is she?” Huckster asked. “You know what I mean.”

  “She’s not suffering.” I could tell that he didn’t know whether it was appropriate to ask what was killing her. “It’s a neurological disease. Batten disease. I’d never heard of it either. I wish it was good old-fashioned epilepsy.”

  “What’s to be done for it?”

  “Apparently nothing. We’ll get the customary second and third opinions, but I trust this doctor. Sadly.”

  “So, what now?”

  I didn’t want to and so did not go into the details of my child’s forthcoming diminution, but he was asking a very good question. “I haven’t thought that far,” I said. “We’re told she has a few years. She’s always wanted to go to Paris.”

  Huckster raised his brows and nodded.

  It was a good idea. Meg would like it. Sarah could have the trip while she was still with us, cogent enough to enjoy it. “Thank you, Finley.”

  I don’t think Huckster knew why I was thanking him, but he said, “Of course, that’s what we humanities types are good for. Family advice and five-year plans, those are our specialties. I like to include reference to the next five-year plan in the current one. Art, my boy.”

  Nc3 Bb7

  I took a guiltily long shower. The steam was serving to clear not only my sinuses but my thinking as well. Huckster was already dressed by the time I came back to my locker.

  “Zach, I’m really sorry about your daughter.”

  I nodded.

  “Who knows, perhaps someone will come up with a treatment in the next couple of years.”

  “Thanks, Finley.”

  In my office I did what I always did in my office, which was basically nothing. I kicked my feet onto my desk and looked out the window at the skyline of Los Angeles, tried not to think; in other words, I tried even more aggressively to do absolutely nothing. Then I noticed Hilary’s folder under my boots. I picked it up, opened it, started to read.

  It was hardly raw data. I did not work in Hilary’s field, but I could understand it. I could not assess whether her work was cutting edge, new, or derivative, but I could say that it was clearly written and compelling. Her work focused not on the predictability of earthquakes but on the predictability of frequency and strength of aftershocks given location, depth, and strength of the initial quake. It seemed to me that the work was solid and ready to be sent out. I was confused.

  I shouted out, “Hilary! Professor Gill!” I looked out my open door and saw a passing graduate student. “Is Professor Gill’s door open?”

  He looked. “Yes.”

  I got up and marched down the hall, stood at her doorway. “Did you not hear me shouting your name?”

  “I did not,” she said. She was sitting at her desk, reading exams.

  “I was looking at your so-called raw data.”

  I could see her tighten.

  “This is not raw. Obviously, I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but why haven’t you sent this out?”

  “What?”

  I stepped inside and closed her door. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but this appears to be good and fairly polished work. I’m confused. I thought this was going to be a bunch of meaningless numbers. It is not meaningless numbers.”

  “You like it?”

  “It doesn’t matter whether I like it. What is this approval you keep looking for?” I was sounding harsh, but I didn’t care. She wouldn’t have believed me if I hadn’t been harsh. “I want you to send this out right away. Don’t ask me where. Talk to Flint. It’s his area. Has he seen this?”

  “No.”

  “Show this to him. Please, show it to him.” I dropped the folder on her desk with a loud plop. “I’ll go have a word with the chair.” I walked out, muttering. I thought the muttering was a nice touch.

  Bg5 Bb4

  Odd for a paleontologist, my having to deal necessarily with not only the past but the distant, fossilized past. My philosophical method in most situations was to proceed without any consideration of the past, to forget the history of the problem, to forget all that came before, and to operate solely by investigating what facts were present at the time. I didn’t care that Hilary Gill might have been seen as pissing away her six years of tenure clock. I didn’t care that she, for whatever reasons, had sabotaged herself. I cared only that a scientist down the hall from me was making good work. Fuck clocks.

  I went directly to Mitch Rosenthal’s office. “I understand that you’re the chair of this carnival.”

  “For a while, anyway.” Mitch was a petroleum geologist, more suited for Exxon than academe. Though he was decent enough, he was no overachiever, though he could be a stickler.

  “I just looked at Hilary Gill’s research.”

  “It’s sort of a done deal, don’t you think?” />
  “I don’t think,” I said. “She’s made some good work. It’s not just the raw data she advertises. She’s going to take it to Flint. He’ll know what to do for her.”

  “She’s done nothing in the past six years.”

  “Apparently, that’s not true. The work didn’t come out of thin air. I don’t know why she kept it to herself. Maybe dudes like us scare the hell out of her or some shit. I really don’t care. You need to go to bat for her.”

  Rosenthal twisted his fat ass in his fatass chair and embarrassed himself with a fatass sound. “I don’t know.”

  I was getting angry. Of course, I had come into his office fully prepared to be angry. “If you won’t go to the dean, then I will. Flint will go with me.”

  “You’ve talked to him?”

  “No, but I know him. He’s got these things that hang down between his legs. I think they’re called balls.”

  “I’ll talk to the dean.”

  “She needs a little more time,” I said.

  “Okay, I’ll talk to her.”

  I left Rosenthal’s office feeling a little like I had felt when fleeing the bar the previous evening, though this time I felt a little more like a bully. I didn’t feel bad about it.

  e3 h6

  Someplace along the way, philosophers (a troublesome tedious lot at best) strangely decided that we cannot directly perceive things—the material world, sidewalks, carpets, rivers—but only our ideas of these things. This was a move in thinking that happened quite casually, without proof, as is the wont of such people. Would that their assertion were true, then I would not be experiencing my daughter directly, but only the idea of my daughter and so only the idea of the condition that would kill her. If that were true, then I could manipulate my idea as I might a dream, change the world around me. Just a little thinking dismisses the idea of sense data. Where do the ideas come from? Is an idea real? Is there anything between the idea and my perception of it? This is what I was thinking about as I placed the final row of pawns onto the board.

  Sarah was just home from school, in good spirits, though not cheery. She was eager to play our game. She always enjoyed reducing me to a king scampering hopelessly around the board.

  “I see you’ve changed clothes,” I said to her as she took the seat across from me at the little table in the den.