Easy and Hard Ways Out (30 page)

The fucks, thought Brank. He pulled away from the curb.
No, impossible
. After what LoParino had said about them, how could he ever make a deal? It was counter to his entire philosophy, his entire sullen and uncooperative attitude. Brank headed back toward the parkway. But then again, nothing LoParino said was deeply felt, no position really firm, incapable of reversal.
Thet wan
. He got back on the parkway, a gelid necklace of ruby tail lights. Wind-whipped snow lashed at his windshield, his wipers gradually encrusted with grayish ice.
And they didn't even think enough of me to bother with
. And instantly he knew he was heading, not home, but for Schnerr's office. Proceeding as planned. Self-image: a martyr, a loner, Marlon Brando in
On the Waterfront
. Take care of LoParino, and Brank will quit, they thought. Bestards. They needed showing. This would be his function in life, to show those who needed it. At least if he couldn't enjoy his work he could retain some tiny remnant of personal integrity (an insect perhaps, but one that was annoying and hard to squash). What else was left to him?

b. “See? He Agrees.”

It took nearly an hour to arrive at the Congressman's office in Garden City, and he looked like a degenerate when he got there. He'd been stalled in traffic, and his windshield had become glazed with a quarter inch of ice. When he'd emerged in order to clean it, he'd dropped, and then somehow kicked, his scraper, which led to his groveling in the filthy snow beneath the car, the freezing wetness soaking into his pants and shoes, his jacket acquiring several blotches of blackened grease.
This is some kind of test
, he'd thought then, the headlights forming shimmering rings in his tearing eyes, ice congealing on his lashes, a cacophony of maddened horns insulting his eardrums.
If I get through this and get to Schnerr, I'm going to be rewarded. Everything will work out especially well
.

“I'm here to see the Congressman,” he said to the comely blonde sitting at the desk in the tiny outer office. He was acutely conscious of his dishevelment, the blots of wetness on his thighs, his fly. I am here on a legitimate matter of national interest, he wanted to add. Despite my appearance, I have not urinated, or ejaculated, or knowingly released any other bodily fluid inside my trousers.

The blonde stared at him over her typewriter, then leaned forward and said in a hesitant, near-whisper, “He … the Congressman, that is … he's, well, with someone. If perhaps you could just … have a seat.…”

Instantly, Brank was in love with her confidential manner, felt as if he were sharing personal secrets. She could've told him the Congressman would be busy for the next sixty-seven years; Brank would've gotten a sleeping bag and books from the library, had food sent in. He watched her as she typed, pictured himself married to her, forgoing TV for a lifetime of blond, whispered intimacies. After twenty minutes, however, the inner office door opened suddenly, and as she got up and walked toward it he saw she had heavy legs and, worse, a squarish, flattened behind. Immediately the treasured intimacies became childish trivia, the blond lifetime a whining, heavy-legged purgatory.

“You're full of S–H–I–T,” said a bulky, red-faced man over his shoulder as he stormed through the door. “You're a lousy H–A–C–K like the rest of'em.”

He strode rapidly across the room, snatched a leather jacket from a chair, and glared at Brank as he put it on. The secretary, who'd remained near the inner office, motioned to Brank to come forward. He did so uncomfortably, feeling as if he were betraying the red-faced speller. He guessed that the man was probably voicing opposition to the current aid-to-education bill.

“I just happen to be N–E–X–T,” said Brank sheepishly as he passed through the door.

Congressman Schnerr was totally bald and had a quick, sharklike smile. His deep, tennis-playing tan contrasted sharply with Brank's pale and sedentary winter white. His desk had the ordered neatness of one who does no work, although actually he did a great deal of work but just happened to be neat. Schnerr was a better-than-average representative; although not accomplishing much, he didn't hurt anybody, and never became involved with strange women. He was an excellent politician. Liberals thought he was a bit too conservative; conservatives felt he leaned uncomfortably leftward. But he always emerged as less repugnant than the alternatives, and had served five consecutive terms in office, his major achievement being passage of a bill authorizing planting of azalea bushes alongside federal roads. He extended a sun-browned hand.

“Harvey Brank,” said Brank.

“I opened this office four years ago because I believed a representative owed it to his constituency to be available,” said Schnerr. “But the constituency stays home and has no views on anything, and the lunatic fringe is what I get. And the fringe is getting wider. Woman last week demanded compulsory vasectomies for all men smaller than five foot six. Short men are your real threat, she says. Same night, a guy comes in, an assistant professor, he's after my help in obtaining a federal grant. Five thousand a year, he's planning to study poverty in Fort Lauderdale. Is that something?”

“I guess so,” said Brank. “Yes.”

“This guy walked out of here just before, represents some refugee group, wants the U.S. to launch a pre-emptive nuclear strike against Lithuania. Four years, Brannek. You see what I'm up against?”

“I see,” said Brank. “But I'm not asking any pre-emptive attacks. Actually the reason I'm here is—”

The Congressman stood up. “I know why you're here, Brannek. On things like this I get phone calls. Which reminds me of another thing: pressure groups. I mean, you take Auerbach Labs, for instance. Last year old man Auerbach contributed thirty grand to my campaign, plus lining up triple that from his friends. He speaks to his shop foremen and they speak to their crews and all of a sudden I have campaign workers, tough men, not kids, and they stick with it, week in, week out. Now I'm in office, and theoretically I owe nothing to no one. Except that there are three dozen people like Auerbach, and they don't want vasectomies or grants, in fact that don't want anything except once in maybe four years something really very, very tiny that's for everyone's good anyway and they're very, very polite and I get a phone call. Absolutely discreet, no crudeness, just a call with a suggestion. No pressure—that's the worst pressure of all. So. Here's what I recommend. In this order. I don't know what happened to you, but get cleaned up. And then go home to your girl friend or your wife and get in out of the snow and go to sleep. Does that seem reasonable?”

“It seems reasonable,” said Brank, trying not to think about his appearance. It was one more disadvantage—nude patient disputing the fee with a clothed doctor. “I had some troubles with my car,” he said. “I have a petition.” He pulled the folded paper from his jacket pocket, opened it on Schnerr's desk. The pot roast spots had expanded into meaty blotches; the number of signatures was pitifully small. Every aspect of this is stained, thought Brank. He was conscious of how much he needed LoParino, his manic support. Schnerr glanced peremptorily at the paper, nudged it back in Brank's direction.

“You know I see this type of thing all the time,” he said. “Worms-in-the-fish petitions, too-many-rapes petitions, landlord-gives-no-heat petitions. They're almost always contrary to facts. You have one or two leaders and the rest, the rest will sign anything—ban the use of garlic, Stalin for President, anything. After all, isn't a petition just a mob on paper?”

Brank pictured himself blindfolded in a large stone courtyard, hands tied behind his back, Schnerr in command of the firing squad. He has just finished a detailed, entirely reasonable explanation of why Brank must die, requesting, finally, Brank's affirmation, which, despite the fantastic duress of the situation, Brank can't seem to help giving. “See? He agrees,” Schnerr says to the squad. As they take aim, the men feel much better.

“Maybe in general,” said Brank. “But these are engineers and technicians, and this thing that's being built isn't going to meet the specifications. I worked on it myself.” He had, even as he spoke, a sudden, acute sense of failure. It was too late to be a premonition, he was already in the process.

Schnerr moved around behind him. “Brannek, the Air Force has long experience in building aircraft. It's their business. If there's something wrong, they'll find it. This is still a preliminary stage here. Your accusation of conspiracy to suppress true data is probably just some misinterpretation of yours. I mean surely you're aware that you have only a worm's eye view of things from a company standpoint. No organization like Auerbach could get away with something like this, and you could never get enough people even within the company who'd agree to it. Think about it. Isn't it at least possible that you've just blown some small things out of proportion?”

Brank, ready to fold, said dejectedly, “It's possible. But I don't think so. Each guy is afraid of his boss. It's transmitted down the line.”

Schnerr returned to his seat, put on a pair of glasses. He looked sternly at Brank. “I know Conrad Auerbach personally, and I know his integrity. What you are suggesting here, Mr. Brannek, could mean potential unemployment for six thousand people by the time the production contract comes in. Think of it, six thousand families. And there are groups who would seize on this, you know, companies in other states who'd love to grab off this contract for themselves. So. If you really wish to press this, the first thing you should do is get a good lawyer because of your own involvement. And then you'd better find a bodyguard because, in addition to the Auerbach management, you will have every aerospace union and every local politician for forty miles just aching to put a foot on your throat. In fact, you'd probably have to move, don't you think?”

“I think,” said Brank. “Or I think I think. I don't know. I guess you feel it's best to forget it, huh?”

“Look, let's just say you leave that petition here,” said Schnerr, “and give it further consideration. Let's just say that I'm investigating your charges but that the conclusions will take some time to formulate. I never dismiss a complaint from one of my constituents, see.”

“I see,” said Brank, standing now in the doorway.

“Nice speaking with you, Mr. Brannek.”

“Brank,” said Brank.

“Brank,” repeated Schnerr. And then, almost to himself, “Sounds like something that fell down a flight of stairs.”

Brank moved dejectedly through the outer office.

“The Congressman,” said the secretary uncertainly, “he … well … he's not good at, uh … names.”

“No intimacies now,” blurted Brank with irrational sternness. “A bad thing is happening to me.”

But even in his pique he knew that if her buttocks had been better, he would've controlled himself.

c. “For Money You Get Honey”

The storm had stopped, and Brank paused for a moment to stare up at his snow-laden house. In the glow of the street lamp, with the myriads of glassine stalactites shimmering from the eaves, Brank could banish defective cesspools and blighted lawns from his mind, think of the house as a Swiss chalet, isolated and pristine, something from a child's fairy tale. He went inside and removed his coat. Joan was still up.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“How's everything? How did it go?”

“Like water down a drain,” said Brank. “Any coffee left?”

She poured him a steaming cup. Without coffee, he'd be too tired to fall asleep; with it, he'd awaken enough to doze right off.

“I didn't get that water-down-the-drain thing,” said Joan. “Does that mean good or bad?”

Brank shook his head. “It means I looked like a foolish little boy. LoParino never showed. He's gone, moved.”

Surprisingly, whatever bitterness he'd felt toward LoParino had quickly drained; it was not a genuine emotion. He'd been friends with Lo for too long, understood their similarities too well. The “little boy” description applied to LoParino too. He'd simply decided he didn't feel like playing anymore. How could anyone remain angry with him?

“You had a lot of signatures on your petition?”

“Some,” said Brank. “Not a lot.”

“You saw the Congressman by yourself? He won't help at all? I don't understand, he's supposed—”

“He doesn't want to make waves. He's like everyone else. He owes Auerbach favors, he doesn't want layoffs. He's like everyone else. How're things here?”

“Fine,” said Joan. She wore a thin yellow robe and had her hair down and sleep in her eyes; Brank felt like sex, except he was too tired. “Your father called,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“He said to tell you to buy a new winter coat, the one you have now is no good. He said stay away from bargains. ‘For money you get honey,' those were his words.”

Brank nodded, and finished his coffee.

“Are you faking that sheet tomorrow?” said Joan.

“I don't know,” said Brank. “I'm tired. I don't think so.”

“I just wanted to say—I've been thinking—I think I was unfair the other night. I don't think you should do anything you feel is wrong. There are more important things than just a job. You'll find something. I have confidence in you. Stand up to those … fucks.”

The word, so unnatural in her mouth, made Brank smile. He got up from the table and they hugged, an embrace of affection, and sweet lust, and small, huddled, animal fear of the unknown.

Later, Brank looked in on Brucie, legs drawn up almost to his tiny chest, mouth open. He experienced, at once, an immense, irrational sorrow for the boy. Something he could not understand. All right, he had the bad day behind him—deserted by LoParino, nearly murdered by J. Roth, rebuffed by Schnerr—but this, what was this? He thought about it for several moments, but was unable to figure it out.