I'm with Stupid (30 page)

For the rest of the day I work, taking occasional time-outs so that my father can introduce me to customers, who lavish praise on him. He passes out candy (“It’s the stuff that’s about to expire anyway,” he whispers in my ear) and gives shots to all takers (“I got a second free bottle of vodka,” he crows, “I’m not spending a dime”). As I watch him interact I realize something. He’s not cheap. I mean he is, when it comes to paper money. But he makes up for it with generosity of spirit. In this place, everyone knows his name, and they speak it with pride. “Good man, your father,” is the reverberating sentiment.

When business slows to a trickle Max, Libby, and I head to the stockroom to check in on William and Manuel. Max tries to convince Libby to show a little tit and get the dirt on Manuel’s father’s whereabouts. “Show him yours,” Libby responds. He promises he’ll give her a massage if she cooperates. This gets her attention. She could live in a day spa.

Manuel stands as soon as Libby walks into the back. He quickly rolls down his shirtsleeves, puts on his jacket, tightens his tie, and claps three times. “Time for our break!” he says to William, who sets down his pen. But Manuel, having just remembered something, addresses him again one second later. “Write down that I need to buy milk.”

William picks up the pen, scribbles in the notepad, and looks up. “Anything else?” he asks.

“Bing cherries.”

William jots it down and looks back up.

“That will be all,” Manuel concludes. He begins to say something to Libby but is upstaged by Max, who addresses William.

“Looking good today, hot pants,” Max says. William looks down at his aquamarine-colored tracksuit, which has a pink watermelon slice on the pocket, and which he has paired with his purple high-tops, and says thanks. Maybe he’s color-blind? “I meant the face and the bod,” Max clarifies.

“Oh,” William responds.

“You’re doing good, though?” Max asks, like he never sees him.

William nods. “Doing great!”

Max nods back. “Good, good.” He sighs and admires him for a second longer than is appropriate, then shakes his head. “Sometimes even I can’t believe how hot you are,” he whispers. And then more loudly adds: “Do me a favor?”

“Sure!” William responds. “Anything!”

“Say my name.”

“Your name?” William asks.

“Say Max.”

“Max.”

“Say it again. Say it like we’re in the dark together.”

I hit him. That’s enough.

Manuel clears his throat. He grips his lapels and announces that he’s been bitten by the acting bug; he will be appearing next Wednesday in a local production of
Fiddler on the Roof
. “Of course I have secured the title role of Fiddler,” he brags to Libby. He hands each of us a flyer for the play, then proceeds to summarize the plot of
Fiddler on the Roof
, the story of an honest, hardworking Jewish family living in a farming village in turn-of-the-century Russia. They endure anti-Semitism and, along with the rest of the villagers, are eventually, tragically, made to abandon their homes, leaving their futures gravely uncertain. I refrain from telling him that Libby loves
Fiddler on the Roof
. We both do. Manuel asks if she will do him the honor of attending and tells her she can take all the time she needs to think it over. She informs him that she doesn’t need time.

“Wonderful,” he says. “I will make the necessary arrangements. William will make a note of it.”

William picks up the pen while Libby raises a finger in objection: “Babe, that is not what I meant.”

Max hits Libby’s shoulder, then begins massaging her neck. He means for her to get down to business.

“Manuel,” Libby coyly says, elongating his name to the length of William’s penis, “you never told us what happened to your father.” Manuel seems touched. Finally she’s warming up. He appreciates her concern; it is reassuring. He begins talking in circles about his father’s spotless reputation. Max quickly grows impatient. He starts doing push-ups. As Manuel is telling Libby about his father’s lucrative investments, Max jumps back up and snaps his fingers. “Quick question for ya, Bobby,” he says, “is Daddy involved with drugs by any chance?”

Max turns to Libby. “Sorry,” he says, “but I just realized that your way would take longer.”

A silence falls over the stockroom as Manuel straightens his back. He’s appalled by Max’s inappropriateness. Even his black locks seem to flatten. He sits down on the crate then gets back to his feet in an effort to defend his family’s honor—if he had a white glove he’d have already used it to slap some cheeks. He sees William writing furiously in the notebook even though no one is speaking. He takes the pen out of his hand. Libby’s mouth is slightly open—she appears shocked by the suggestion that Manuel could be mixed up with drugs. Had it never crossed her mind? She leans in: “Was he?”

Manuel puts out his arms as if ready to embrace her. “Libby, not you, too,” he says in the tone of a disappointed parent. “I am both startled and dismayed that you would presume such a thing.” Max leans up against the wall and points out that Manuel shouldn’t look so hurt. He had a heliport, followed by a name change. It was bound to come up.

Manuel begins to pace from one end of the stockroom to the other. It’s not that big so it doesn’t take very long. If he needed a journey of self-discovery, that wasn’t the one to take. “We are wealthy!” he finally exclaims. “Or, we were wealthy. Yes, I had a heliport. Yes, I had Chinese porcelain from the Qianlong period of the Qing dynasty. I was a tube sock magnate! Of course I had such things. Of course I lived resplendently, like a king. I was my father’s only son. He cherished me until . . .” He shakes his head. Qianlong period of the Qing dynasty? I bet William is relieved to have gotten out of spelling that. “I cannot stress this enough to people,” Manuel continues, “tube socks are big business. Everyone wears tube socks.” He hesitates, as if searching for the right expression. He closes the stockroom door and goes on. “And just because they could be made infinitely more profitable if stuffed with cocaine does not mean my father would do such a thing. I resent the very implication of your question. He is not a narcotics and weapons attaché, he is not connected to the mob. He is merely a businessman with a Swiss bank account! A deeply religious tycoon whose life took a grim turn.” Manuel pauses. “And as for the name change, well, I longed for anonymity—I longed to recede into the ether after what happened to me . . .”

“So where is he now?” Libby asks Manuel, who begins nervously tugging at his left ear.

“He was required to stay behind in Mexico for the sake of his health,” he quietly informs us. Libby encourages him to go on. She should take her top off. Manuel shakes his head: “My father, as you know, is a premier citizen of aristocratic lineage. He was never the same after receiving the news. Where he is is hard to say. Could he be enjoying a mandatory respite in a sanatorium on the outskirts of the silver-mining town of Taxco? Perhaps. Could he be trying at this very moment, nerves frayed, to have a conversation with a chicken? I do not know. Alas, wherever he is, it is for his own good, as well as the good of my mother. She has sacrificed much during this period of transition.” Manuel sits down. “Can we please discuss something more pleasant before I get a nosebleed?” he asks. “Do you have any croquettes or canapés? I am rather famished.” William asks what canapés are, leaving me to wonder if he knows something I don’t about croquettes. An exasperated Manuel clarifies: “Delicate pieces of bread served with a spread as an appetizer.” William looks at me. He asks if we have any delicate bread to be served as an appetizer. I’m afraid we don’t, no. I’m fresh out of delicate bread. William has a plan: We can go get some. We? Manuel tells him that would be lovely. Of course he will wait right here. He claims there’s a chill in the air and tells William to pick up a cashmere sweater while he’s out. “Please be sure it is not a blend,” he stresses.

I tell William to stay put. Then Max’s cell phone rings. He looks at the number but doesn’t pick up. Instead he begins texting furiously. Libby gets up. Manuel gets up, too. Where is she going? he asks in alarm. Was it something he said? He takes a tentative step toward her. “Please, sit,” Manuel coaxes, “William will procure the canapés.”

Max closes his phone. “No one’s procuring anything,” he says. “Don’t be such a bastard.”

The comment is a finger in the eye. Manuel sits back down. “I am all but spent,” he says. “The discussion of my father’s perfectly legal business transactions induced a migraine. I need to recompose myself. William, bring a damp cloth for my forehead.” William tells him we don’t have that. Manuel removes his handkerchief from his pocket and drapes it across his eyes. “Thank you anyway, Salvador,” he groans. I look at Max.
Who’s Salvador?
he mouths. I shrug. I probably don’t need to know. I bet he was one of the many servants who warmed Manuel’s bed before he got into it at night. God forbid Manuel should do anything for himself and ruin his image as a generous sock heir whose father’s perfectly legal business transactions induced a migraine.

As Manuel rests, his eyes covered, Max opens his phone and starts furiously texting again. Libby begins walking toward the door, but when someone knocks, she freezes. I open the door and immediately duck as Spanish expletives fly like poisonous arrows. It is the end of the world! It is the one and only señora, followed by Manuel’s uncle. Manuel throws off the handkerchief. I can’t even imagine what his head feels like now. His mother marches over and grabs him by the ear. She continues to scream without catching her breath. It is like one long word whose definition is anger. “It is time for me to leave,” Manuel says to Libby. “My mother suspects that you are an informant. I am in the process of convincing her otherwise.”

He leaves with his mother. The uncle, who may just be the only normal person in the family, gives me his hand. “I’m very sorry for the interruption,” he says. “Manu . . . Bob snuck out after his mother told him not to leave the house. She made me tell where he went. I had no choi—” Manuel marches back over to the door, his mother still holding on to his ear. He grabs his uncle by the ear and orders him to be quiet: “You’re ruining everything,” Manuel snaps. The three leave, Manuel’s mother squeezing his ear and Manuel squeezing that of his uncle. They’re a Mexican chain gang, basically. They leave the stockroom door ajar.

Within seconds my father pushes it open with one of his crutches. He’s got the vodka bottle in hand. Henryk is with him, holding a flyer for
Fiddler on the Roof.
My father asks what the Leona’s waiter is doing here. I shake my head. Leaving, that’s what. He lifts the vodka bottle and asks if anyone wants to try more. I think he’s tipsy; he’s looking a little wobbly on those crutches. Henryk puts his arm around him for extra support and chuckles. My mother comes in after them. “Put that down,” she says and takes the vodka bottle out of my father’s hand. She makes a motion for William to come over to her. “I want to introduce you to some nice ladies,” she says. “Come to the front, dear.”

There’s a message on the machine that night from Manuel informing William that the book is being put on indefinite hold. William is disappointed—probably because he must now continue not writing his own book. Manuel reminds us that he is performing in
Fiddler on the Roof
at Brooklyn Community College. As a way of apologizing for his uncle’s intrusion—he points out that his mother is a dignified woman who never would have barged in had it not been for the uncle, who is a fool—he adds that we will all be treated to front-row seats. William is eager to go. I remind him that he should work. “Maybe you’re right,” he says, “I should work on my book about the political situation in Monaco.” He smiles at me lovingly. Tomorrow is Sunday, he reminds me, and he plans to get up early. I nod. Let’s hope he’s not using a Dictaphone at daybreak. “There’s a program on Animal Planet about bush babies that I really want to see,” he adds. “I can’t wait.” Of course he can’t, and neither can I. We’re certainly on the same channel. I take a seat on the couch and my thoughts immediately drift to S. Konrad, which they’ve been doing a lot since I read that book. We meet in a few days. I wonder if he’s cute . . .

Barbara is at her wit’s end, or so she tells me when I see her on Monday. I would buy this argument if I suspected she had wits, which I don’t. Lately Barbara’s brain cells have been shooting out of her nose like marbles. She’s completely flipped out; wits are not an issue. She and William, who watches more Animal Planet marathons than any human in history, should get together. I try to move past her desk without stopping. She sits right next to my boss’s office, and I am desperate to avoid him. I have a sinking feeling about that rejection letter I accidentally sent. Over the weekend he sent me a link to the spurned author’s blog on which the guy slammed our agency.

Barbara sees me looking over at his closed office door. “He’s not in today,” she says with a sigh. “He wanted me to remind you that you are meeting with the Konrad author on Wednesday. And you also need to see this.” She hands me a piece a paper. It’s a memo. “I was supposed to make you a copy but I’ve been busy.” I read it. “Things are changing here,” she adds.

It seems our boss has finally decided to enforce an office dress code. The memo states that we are a professional organization and that our attire must reflect that. Consequently, we are no longer allowed to wear jeans or “sporty gear.” No more jeans? Damn. I don’t even own business attire. Barbara seems to be taking the news particularly hard. She sighs again. She will no longer be permitted to wear her trademark New York Yankees baseball jerseys. She can’t believe it. When I hand the memo back to her, she crumbles it into a ball and throws it. It hits me in the stomach. “Sorry,” she gloomily offers. I start to walk away. “Do you want to hear the worst of the news?” she calls after me. I stop. Not really. What could be worse than not being allowed to pair Yankees baseball jerseys with wool skirts five days a week? “I’m in love,” Barbara reveals. Oh. I ask how that is a bad thing.

Her eyes begin to water. “He doesn’t love me back,” she says between deep breaths.