The Global War on Morris (11 page)

“Well, that's how I feel sometimes.”

“Sometimes? This is Hillel talking. From a bathroom mirror. It's kind of hard to put one over on me, Morris. My point is that you shouldn't feel guilty when you feel the need to do something for Morris, Morris. You know, show a little chutzpah. Stand up for yourself. Make a wave every now and then!” Rabbi Hillel gave Morris a thumbs-up in the mirror, which is something Morris never would have imagined the great scholar doing.

It was a sign.

Prayer heals. And at that moment, Morris's communing with the ancient sage cured his nausea and strengthened his spirit. He opened the bathroom with a click of the latch, and headed straight for Victoria, across the ten-yard expanse that had earlier sent him scurrying in the opposite direction.
A journey of many miles begins with a single step
, he thought. But he was certain that didn't come from Rabbi Hillel.

“Are you okay?” Victoria asked from the bed. Her hands were folded on her lap, and her knees and lower thighs peeked out from under her skirt. Morris noticed that her lips had a fresh gloss, her hair had been brushed to a lustrous sheen, and her cheeks had a pink glow. This transformation had happened while he was in the bathroom, studying Hillel.

“Do you want to sit down, Morris?”

“Yes. I'll sit,” he said, with all the officiousness of a diplomat accepting his chair on the United Nations Security Council. As he pressed down on the mattress, it caved in with the fatigued squeak of
some springs, and the laws of physics pulled Victoria's body against his. “Oooops,” she giggled, as she scrunched up against him.

Now what?
he thought. The last time he was in similar circumstances was with Rona, two years before they got married. It was after their fifteenth, or maybe it was their twentieth, date. They had been roller-skating. Or bowling. Or it might have been the movies.
Well, it doesn't matter
, he thought. All he could remember was that he had forgotten all the rules of the first kiss. And even if he had remembered, Morris reasoned, it wouldn't make much difference. Rules change. It's not like baseball, which you could have watched forty years ago, then watched again forty years later, and understand the intricacies of every play. Except for the designated hitter rule.
But now is not the time to debate the designated hitter rule
, thought Morris.

Now what? Should I just kiss her? Do I ask permission? Is there a disclaimer? A fair warning? Do I say, “Now I am going to kiss you but you have five seconds to opt out?” Is there a form? Maybe we should talk first. Or maybe turn on the TV. That would be a good icebreaker. Turn on the TV and find the Mets pregame show. Except that I'd probably have to flip through all the porn channels to get there. How awkward would that be? I mean, if you're gonna watch porn with someone on a motel bed you might as well just kiss her . . .

Victoria could tell Morris was nervous. She gave him a gentle pat on his thigh and cooed, “Are you sure this is okay?”

Where lovemaking is concerned, men like Morris—hesitant men, insecure men, but ordinarily decent men—require clear and unmistakable signals. Aggressive, insensitive men believe the appropriate signal is that a woman is breathing and her pupils aren't dilated. Morris, however, needed something more explicit.

He now had three such signs.

First, Victoria was leaning against him in a demonstration of “joined at the hip” in a motel room. On a bed.

Second, Rabbi Hillel had blessed it. It was the Rabbi himself who
preached to Morris, “If not now, when?”—a rabbinic way of saying, “Go for it, dude.”

And third, Victoria's hand patted his thigh, in the geographic center between his knee and his crotch.

The convergence of these signs lit Morris up like a firecracker. His instincts took over, hijacking his body from his good senses and sending it into a frenzy.
Whoooooa,
his mind screamed, but his arms didn't listen. They wrapped themselves around Victoria's shoulders like a snake around its prey. Morris had experienced the pleasure of having his arms around only one other pair of shoulders in his life, Rona's. These seemed narrower, and sturdier. And as he adjusted to this change in circumstances, he screamed at himself a second time:
Wait!
But his fingers moved through her silky strands of hair, and then down her neck.

And before he could summon the strength and the discipline to stop, Victoria was falling into the mattress, and pulling Morris with her.

Gottenyu,
he thought.

Earlier, as he walked to Victoria in the Bayview parking lot, Morris had learned that there are forces that propel men to do things they will regret. And now, with Victoria's skirt somewhere in the vicinity of her knees and heading south, he learned that there are forces even more powerful. Supernaturally deflating forces.

Like guilt. Guilt, when dispensed in the circumstances Morris occupied, is the anti-Viagra. It is what some people call “a mood killer.”

He felt his body grow limp (like one of those high-speed films of a flower wilting). But he wasn't sure whether he and Victoria had finished what they had started out to do. He was pretty sure nothing had happened to him. He thought he had detected a satisfied moan from Victoria. And so he looked at her, smiled, and offered a polite “Is everything okay?”

She narrowed her eyes, bit her lip as if to chew over the question, and whisked some stray blond hairs away from her face. “Yes. That
was nice. It was very nice.”

Which didn't tell Morris much of anything, except that whatever “that” was, or wasn't, it was nice.

Victoria pulled herself up from the bed. Morris tried not to stare at her while she pulled her blouse down and her skirt up. He distracted himself by staring at the artwork on the wall and wondered if it was indeed a map of Long Island, where Great Neck was. That's where Rona was waiting for him.

“The bathroom is right there?” Victoria asked.

“Yes,” Morris said. And then thought,
If you meet Rabbi Hillel in there, don't listen to him!

Morris made the bed.

Maybe it was a nostalgic tribute to Rona, who was obsessive about prepping their hotel rooms for the maids each morning. (“Why are you bothering, Rona, let the maid do that,” he would insist. “Why should the maid see our filth? What would she think?” was her response.) Or, it might have been a guilt-induced homage to his wife: “Yes, I did go to bed with another woman, but don't I get any credit for making the bed when we were finished? Isn't that what you would have wanted?”

Whatever motivated Morris to neaten the bed was irrelevant. Neatness counts, but in this case it would count against him.

S
ully checked his watch and smirked. Twenty-two minutes. It took twenty-two minutes for Subject A and Subject B to enter room 205, occupy it, exit it, return to their vehicles, engage in an awkward and hesitant hug, and drive, as fast as seemingly possible, in opposite directions on Merrick Road.

Twenty-two minutes.

Sully had spent an entire career observing criminal behavior and the darkest possibilities of human nature. He could time his watch to fifty separate felonies. He knew how long it took for a person to be murdered, a drug deal consummated, a politician bribed, a currency forged, an illegal substance smuggled. Any of these could be
performed easily within twenty-two minutes.

But sneaking into a motel room and having sex? Not so fast.

Not at $49 for an entire night.

This encounter was not about pleasure
, Sully thought.
This was business
. And if his hunch was correct, this little meet and greet in the Bayview Motor Inn could lead to multiple charges of drug dealing, money laundering, and tax fraud, and ultimately lead him directly to the king of medical counterfeiting, Ricardo Xavier Montoyez.

N
ICK was aroused. He purred with curiosity.

He may have been the triumphant integration of microcircuits and silicon wafers, but NICK understood human nature better than any human being. Show NICK a covert stay in a cheap motel, and NICK's programming could show you a behavior pattern that could turn against the interests of the United States government. A reckless pursuit of self-gratification. A vulnerability to blackmail. A predictor of even greater perfidy. So, once Morris inserted the key in the motel door, NICK unlocked his grand sweep of keywords embedded in websites that Morris may have visited, movies he may have rented, novelties he may have purchased.

And it was all a matter of record.

A subject of interest to NICK may have accidentally and innocently visited www.buxomcoedcheerleaders.com on the way to, let's say, www.nationalpublicradio.org. They may have visited that site in the blink of an eye and a frantic and embarrassed click of the mouse, but that fleeting moment was forever recorded in NICK's hard drive. A hotel pay-per-view title might, as promised, “not appear on your room bill,” but it was permanently burned into NICK's memory.

Not Morris Feldstein. NICK couldn't find a single salacious website visited. No wicked pay-per-view titles ordered. Not even sex at the Bayview Motor Inn.

Morris Feldstein. Rated G.

Hmmmmm, gurgled NICK. If Feldstein wasn't guilty of adultery at the Bayview Motor Inn, what was he doing there? What was Mister Clean doing with the girlfriend of a known medical counterfeiter?

Suspicious, NICK calculated. And then NICK upgraded the threat assessment on Morris Feldstein.

A
gent Russell pitched forward in his seat, hugged the steering wheel to his chest, and watched the sudden evacuation of the Bayview parking lot. The groaning of engines and the burst of headlights. D'Amico's car rolling forward, then turning left into the harsh glare of Merrick Road. Feldstein turning right. Then the black sedans, pulling away like a presidential motorcade. A covert convoy, leaving the old neon
BAYVIEW MOTOR INN
sign behind, winking knowingly at them in the steamy August night.

BREAKING UP IS HARD TO DO

FRIDAY, AUGUST 20, 2004

“M
orris! Morris! Are you sick?”

Morris heard Rona, and he felt her hands shaking his body in bed. “I'm fine,” he grunted. But he wasn't fine. Not at all.

As his eyes opened, a heaviness pushed him into the mattress. It tightened around his throat and fell into his chest, it pressed against his heart and squeezed at his stomach. Morris wanted to bury his head in his pillow. Bury it along with the shame and guilt from the prior night.

“Morris?”

He didn't want to get out of bed. He didn't want to shave or dress. He had no interest in reading the
Newsday
sports section or eating his bagel. And the thought of getting in his car and making his first sales call—to Dr. Kirleski—tightened his chest even more.

The clock on his nightstand blinked 7:30.

He wanted to stay right there. In the safety of his bed where there was no tempting receptionist and cheap motel, no cheating on Rona
and fudging Celfex expense reports. No waves. Or maybe sit all day in his RoyaLounger 8000. Watching those comforting black-and-white movie classics. Maybe some musicals or screwball comedies. And if there happened to be a movie that contained tsuris, Morris could simply mute it or change it or even end it with the press of a button on his remote.

Call in sick,
he thought.
Call my district manager, Laurie, and tell her I've caught something. Why not? What's one more crime in my new life of crime?

Morris had never improperly taken a sick day. That would upset the people who depended on him. But today—

“Morris,” Rona groaned into her pillow, and nudged his shoulder again.

Sure, take a sick day. Stay home all day. With Rona. Trying to look into her eyes. Without looking guilty.

He swung his legs out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom. Each step was like a step on death row. Like Cagney in
Angels with Dirty Faces
. When he looked back at Rona, cocooned in the blanket with one arm flung to the now-empty spot next to her, all he could think was,
How did this happen?

T
here was plenty of excitement blaring from Morris's car radio on the drive that morning. While Morris had been—or maybe wasn't—schtupping Victoria at the Bayview, the Mets had stomped the Rockies in a doubleheader in Denver. And while sweeping a doubleheader in August didn't mean a World Series, for Mets fans it did produce a similar euphoria. It was a new sign of hope.

For Morris, there were no such signs. Just the same shopping centers and Starbucks. Intersection after intersection, block after block, as he crept closer to the Roslyn Medical Arts Building, which was as bad as the crime scene. It was where the crime was hatched.

Morris drove to Dr. Kirleski's on the same route he always took,
but it was an entirely different course. The smooth and level ride that had been Morris Feldstein's life was now bumpy, and it rattled him. The straight center lane was now twisting, and Morris couldn't see around the next curve.

He stopped at a red light.
What do I say to Victoria? And shouldn't I say something to Rona? If I do, what? And when? Where is Rabbi Hillel when I need him? I could use a miracle. Like the Mets doubleheader last night.

Morris was so lost in thought that he didn't notice the light turn green, until every driver behind him was angrily pounding their horns.

He stepped on the gas and peered into the rearview mirror, cringing at the angry line of cars behind him.

I will tell Victoria that she is a wonderful, wonderful woman and I am flattered that she finds me attractive but I am married to Rona so we must never, never do anything like this again and I'm sorry I hurt her but let's just be friends and that she is welcome to any future Mets tickets which Celfex provides.

And as he turned into the parking lot, he knew this act would certainly create waves with Victoria. But it had to be done. Now.

“H
ello, Morris,” Victoria said with a nervous smile from behind the glass partition. She tapped a pen against her desk.

Morris jammed his hands into his pockets and jingled some coins. “Hullo, Victoria.”

Jingle-jingle. Thump, thump, thump
.

The lobby was empty. Which relieved Morris. Because this breakup, which might rival the Clark Gable-Vivien Leigh scene in
Gone with the Wind
, didn't need a live audience.

“Morris. We need to talk.”

“Yes, we do.”

“Follow me.”

She led him through a dim corridor, into Exam Room 1. The sharp scent of disinfectant stung Morris's nostrils. He was comforted by the industrial-size tissue box that sat on a stainless-steel counter. That would come in handy to absorb Victoria's tears.

Victoria positioned herself on the examination table, the disposable white paper crinkling under her. When she crossed her legs, and her floral summer skirt crept above her knees, Morris thought,
This conversation is going to be very hard, letting Victoria down. So maybe we should go out one more time. To get it out of our systems. Then never again. Ever!

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He said, “I'm fine. Are you okay?”

Her lower lip projected slightly and her voice quivered as she spoke. “Oh, Morris, you're such a good guy. And I had a nice time. But . . .”

But?

“But I think we should be friends. I mean, you are an incredibly sensitive guy, and I'll never forget what happened. Or didn't happen. But to tell you the truth, Morris . . . I-need-some-time-to-get-over-my-divorce-from-that-SOB-Jerry. And-it's-not-you-it's-me-Morris-so-please-can-we-be-like-really-good-friends?”

She stretched out her hand to consummate the arrangement with a brisk handshake. As if they had just agreed to sell a car instead of end their romance.

That was that.

After awkwardly writing up several orders for Celfex refills, Morris left Dr. Kirleski's office. Into the scorching sun. His shoulders dropped. His chin slumped into his chest.

He was not rid of the guilt over briefly cheating on Rona. But now he was experiencing the pain of Victoria's rejection. Like losing a doubleheader. Like the Rockies last night.

I do not know if I can take any more of this
, he thought
.

He opened the trunk and stared at the case of medical samples,
glittering in soft pastels. Beckoning him to help himself. Literally. He reached toward the Celaquel.
Just one. To lift me out of this funk. To smooth out the waves.

But that would be a flagrant violation of
Our Prescription for a Long Career: The Celfex Pharmaceutical Employee Code of Ethics.
As well as a possible federal crime. So he got in his car. Drew in the hot, oppressive air. And exhaled it with a long and labored “Oyyyyyyyyy.”