I'm with Stupid (27 page)

Manuel’s soap bubble bursts. “I’m in the middle of a conversation,” he says distractedly. “And how many times must I tell you to refer to me as Bob? That is my name. Bob. I know of no Manuel.”

“Have you taken their order yet?” the manager asks. My father pipes up that he’s most certainly ready to order. The manager apologizes and urges Manuel to please take our orders. Manuel rises from his chair as if it is a throne and asks what we would like for dinner. My father, the most eager, orders first. When it is Libby’s turn Manuel can’t help but talk over her. “I will have . . . ,” she begins.

“Do you remember the enchanted evening we spent in the swimming pool?” he asks. “Those were inspired nights, the world held such promise . . .”

“. . . a glass of red wine,” she says.

My disapproving mother asks Libby when she shared a swimming pool with the waiter. Let me guess: Abstinence before marriage makes the heart grow fonder? “We were all in the pool,” Manuel says to no one in particular. My mother scowls at me. “Were you in the pool, too?” she asks. I shake my head no; he doesn’t mean me. I make sure not to look at my father.

William places his order next. It comes in the form of a question: “Was it an arsonist who burned down the factory?” he asks Manuel with concern.

My mother leans in. “Yeah, was it?” she wants to know. As long as we are not talking about premarital sex or bugs she’s doing great.

Manuel sighs: “That is yet to be determined, though it has been confirmed that the tube socks were not made of one hundred percent cotton as previously thought. They were a blend, at least fifty percent polyester.” He momentarily looks back at the kitchen in disdain. “But that wasn’t the worst of the news. As devastated as I was about the tube sock factory, what happened to my father was worse—”

My own father interrupts to say that he thinks he’ll have the lasagna after all, but with an order of meatballs on the side. Manuel looks up. He forgot where he was. My mother folds her hands in her lap and praises Manuel for his ability to tell a story. She recommends he write a novel because everyone is doing it. Manuel responds by again pulling out the empty chair. My father warns him that whatever he does he should not sit back down. Manuel sits back down and shakes his head. “I am afraid that would be impossible,” he says. “I have discarded every one of my many journals. You see, I am a superstitious man . . .”

“How are you a man again?” Max asks.

“As I was saying,” Manuel continues without answering, “I am a superstitious man and have not written a word in my own hand since that fateful day. The last time I tried to write my family’s tube sock factory was burned beyond recognition. I do not wish to invite more devastation . . .”

My mother tells him that William is a writer. She asks to see the book. William admits that he didn’t bring it because he didn’t think he had written enough. Yes, and that’s because he’s been too busy composing acknowledgments pages—acknowledging events that have yet to happen. It’s amazing how little someone with so many inspirations—the fez, the flag, the psychic—could get done. But, as I’ve come to realize, there are always excuses: The pencils aren’t sharp enough, the timing is not right, then of course there’s the television set. It glows like the ultimate inspiration, illuminating the brain with static.

Manuel considers my mother’s words. He’s like a wicked stepsister watching Cinderella try on the glass slipper. “But he’s a lowly park ranger,” he utters in disbelief.

“Not anymore,” Cinderella says. “I’m writing a book.”

My mother assures Manuel that William is a writer.

“Is this true, William?” Manuel asks, growing curious. “Are you a writer?”

William squeezes my knee under the table. I wish he wouldn’t do that. He smiles at Manuel in confirmation of the fact. My mother puts out her hand as if to say,
I told you so, William has talent.
Talent, I’d like to point out, is not the same thing as good looks. I fell for it, too. Don’t be taken in, Mother dear.

When Manuel expresses interest in having someone write his biography, Max suggests placing a call to Tom Clancy. Manuel has never heard of Tom Clancy. He closes his eyes. “Perhaps, and this is just a thought, I will commission William to help commit a book about my life to paper,” he says.

“No!” I abruptly protest. My mother immediately scolds me for being rude. The boy lost his factory. Why am I being insensitive? William tips his fez: He’d be more than happy to lend his expertise. Manuel next asks William where he now lives. “With my girlfriend,” my boyfriend beams. To Libby’s great dismay, William proceeds to reveal that she lives across the hall. I look over at my mother: William is sleeping in the tub and leaving this Sunday, et cetera, et cetera. Please believe me, I would never lie, et cetera, et cetera.

William tells Manuel that he’d be honored to help with the book. I hit his leg to signal that I would not be honored to have him help. No response. I consider trying again with an anvil. Manuel approves. “Of course you would be honored,” he tells him. “You would be a fool otherwise.”

William readjusts his thinking cap as Manuel announces that he will be arriving at my apartment tomorrow after the lunch shift. As soon as I hear this I make eye contact with Max from across the table and begin frantically tapping my finger against my nose. I don’t care if William is a virgin and I don’t care about the rent money. William can stay with Max; I can’t take both William and Manuel hanging around me.

Max knits his brow and shakes his head no, just as my mother catches a glimpse of me with my finger on my nose. “Don’t pick your nose, honey,” she says, puckering her lips like she just sucked a few lemons. “That’s not nice.” I take my hand away. Oh my God.

Max begins talking to me from across the table, he doesn’t care who hears him. “No way,” he says. “All bets are off now. You’re on your own with that guy, sister.” He points at Manuel, who continues to stand over the table, looking deep in thought. When my father asks him for bread, he gets no response. We should go in on an anvil.

It is William who finally gets his attention. He asks Manuel why he decided to come to Brooklyn. Manuel explains that he and his mother have taken up temporary residence with his uncle, a failed entertainer turned failed dishwasher turned failed Leona’s manager. He elaborates as only he can: “You may have noticed him earlier. He was the hack who forfeited good judgment when he told me what to do.” Manuel flippantly gestures toward the manager (now his uncle), who is standing at a nearby table talking with a customer. “He arranged for this job,” Manuel continues, “which I am working at my mother’s request. It is her impression that we would both benefit from the experience. As you know, I would never go against a parent’s wishes.”

Max takes the opportunity to ask Manuel where his father is now. Manuel turns up his nose: “That is a crushing story and one that, in light of recent developments, I do not care to reveal. You must wait like everyone else.” Max’s eyes narrow. He was just told to wait! Ha-ha. Waiting is not his strong suit. If someone dares put him on hold he simply hangs up the phone. Manuel smirks at Max: “I invite you to read the book.”

William looks up. “What book?” he asks as if emerging from a heavy brain fog.

“The one I have commissioned you to assist me with,” Manuel explains. “We begin tomorrow. I wish I could say that you will be composing a carefree roman-fleuve but it cannot be.”

“Great!” William cheers. “I’m so excited!”

I turn to William. I ask how he’s going to write two books. William gives me a merciful look. “But don’t you understand?” he says. “By helping Bob I am helping myself. It is my duty to help people. If I don’t help Bob I will have disappointed everyone.” If William helps Manuel he will have disappointed me. “Besides,” he continues, “Miss Celeste told me someone new is going to enter my life, a mystery man. I think that somebody is Bob. I have to help him. And it will be good for my writing career. I’ll get extra practice. You understand, don’t you?”

I don’t understand and make sure William knows it. He needs to focus on his own life, and he needs to stop calling Manuel Bob. “I have to do unto others what I would have done unto me,” he says, “that’s what Miss Celeste said and I think she’s right.”

I just nod. Jesus, there’s no convincing him now. He thinks he’s saving the world.

When he asks if I am not the least bit interested in finding out what happened to Manuel’s father—maybe he needs help, too, he adds—I inform him that I’m not, even though I am, just a little bit. When he tries to kiss my cheek I jerk away as if from a scalding cinder. Not in front of my mother—I have a virginal persona to maintain. He pats my knee under the table. “I love you,” he coos. “You are such an honest person. I am so glad we met and that I trusted you. Helping Bob with his book is the right thing to do.” William again squeezes my knee. “And I meant what I said about the rent. I will pay the whole thing this month. I want to and I won’t take no for an answer. My arms and my pockets are open.” He spreads his arms, raises them toward the ceiling, and looks up, like he is channeling something from the beyond, or perhaps preparing for his ascension into Heaven.

After an excruciating forty minutes and a great deal of shouting at his fellow staffers, Manuel brings out our food. We are eating our entrées when he returns to the table. My father begs for more bread. Manuel nods but doesn’t make a move to get it; he claps his hands to get our attention and announces that he has a special treat.

My father begins to grumble as William looks up from his plate. A piece of spaghetti hangs from his chin. I peel it off for him. He needs a bib. Manuel continues: “As you know, I excel in many arenas, often eclipsing even my own expectations: Archery, fencing, skydiving, calligraphy, martial arts, glassblowing, bullfighting, puppetry, I have bent them all to my will. I pride myself on being a Renaissance Man, someone who bedazzles large groups on a whim with feats of daring. But there is one sphere I have not mastered, one corner of the cultural globe I have yet to successfully navigate . . .” My father raises the empty breadbasket and points inside. He just wants one roll, just one. “Music!” Manuel shouts. My grandmother drops her fork and grabs her heart. “I have yet to master the art of making music. I realize this revelation comes as a shock to some of you.” Manuel looks at Libby, who gives him a
Who me?
shrug. “Rest assured that this lapse in my résumé has been accounted for. I have taken it upon myself to learn an instrument with the hope that I may someday play music—the kind of music that could soothe a savage breast—as freely as I do so many other things, including pleasure a woman.” Manuel winks at Libby and pulls a long tube out of his apron. “This, my friends, is a recorder. It is an instrument whose beginnings trace back to antiquity. Thus far I have only taught myself one song. I acquired the sheet music from a beggar woman selling paper flowers near my temporary residence here in Brooklyn. I would like to take this opportunity to play the melody I have been practicing since yesterday. And now, without further ado, a taste of things to come.” Manuel takes another look at Libby. He readies his instrument of love and blows.

He is playing the instrument with every part of his body. His hips are swaying like those of a schoolgirl defying logic with a hula hoop. He is moving the recorder up and down and side to side. He is tapping his foot to the beat of a nonexistent drummer. He is playing his amorous jingle loudly, he is playing it softly. My father puts down the breadbasket as Manuel continues to play with undiminished vigor, even as Max gives him the finger, even as Libby dozes off, even as a Dean Martin song blares through the restaurant’s loudspeakers. Manuel grows more daring. He is just warming up, steadily increasing the volume in order to drown out things like “when the stars make you drool just like pasta fagiole” and “when the moon hits your eye like a big-a pizza pie.” Manuel continues to play as a fellow restaurant patron, who had been sitting at the next table with his family, flicks Manuel’s shoulder. He is attired in a black Harley-Davidson T-shirt and black pants. A red bandanna is tied around his head.

“Hey, bandleader,” the man says in a heavy Brooklyn accent. “Listen up.”

“What did he say?” I hear my grandmother ask.

Manuel lowers his recorder and stares cockily at the man. “Stop the tootin’, okay?” the man says. “We’re not at a Mardi Gras.” The man begins walking back to his table, confident that the waiter will heed this warning, no questions asked. He’s a big fella, about three hundred pounds, the kind of dude who gets heard the first time; his stomach is like a hill. Manuel pushes out his neck like a rooster. “Pardon me?” he challenges. Great, just what we need. The man strolls back over. “I’ll tell you what,” the man says, reaching into his pocket. I peek under the table. There’s plenty of room if things get ugly. The man pulls out a coin and puts it in Manuel’s hand. He very slowly closes Manuel’s fingers around the money, one finger at a time. “Are you hurt?” he continues, now looking Manuel in the eye. “You got problems at home?” Manuel remains silent. The man continues: “I don’t know, either, but if it’s change you need, you got it. Now go buy yourself an ice cream soda or a jawbreaker. Do anything you’d like, pal, just lose the fricken piccolo. I don’t know what kinda parade you’re rehearsing for but the show’s been canceled, you know what I’m sayin’? Trust me on this one.”

“It’s a recorder,” Manuel corrects him.

“Wha?” the man asks, putting a finger to his ear. “What you say to me?”

“This is not a piccolo,” Manuel clarifies. “It is called a recorder and it rivals the best instruments of earlier ages, including the crwth, the shawm, the panpipe, and the portative organ.” The man shifts his weight from one large foot to the other. He silently pats his stomach, leaving me to wonder if he’s considering eating our waiter. But Manuel remains unaffected, even though he’d need a harpoon to take the guy on. Across the table I hear my grandmother tell my father that her husband was a great man who died too young. He didn’t even make it to a hundred. Manuel sighs: “You see, it is exceptionally simple if you know anything about woodwinds, which you obviously do not. Most musical instruments fall into three categories: the strings, the winds, and the percussion. Among the stringed instruments the violin is perhaps the best known; others include the cello and the double bass. The percussion instruments are the least appealing. They include the kettledrum and the cymbals. In fact, you seem like the sort who would play a kettledrum. Moving on, both the piccolo and the recorder are considered wind instruments. The piccolo is a small flute with a hole in the side. It is set an octave higher than—”