The Trouble with Tulip (18 page)

He paid the three-dollar price, carried it outside, and walked to the end of the block. There on the corner was a bar, a dump that didn't even have a name, just a few neon beer signs in the window. Simon went inside. Blinking as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he walked to the barstool most visible from the front door, set the rocking horse on the stool, and then sat himself on the next one over. The bartender was chatting with a gal at the end of the bar, but after a moment he came to Simon, wiped the shiny wooden surface in front of him, and asked him what he was having.

“Jack Daniels,” Simon said. “Neat.”

Simon had never been much of a drinker, especially not hard liquor, but he needed to look as though he belonged there. Once the drink came, he slouched down and focused all of his attention on it. He wasn't rude, but he also attempted no conversation with the bartender or the lady at the end of the bar. He simply sipped his drink and occasionally glanced at the game on the television in the corner.

“Hey, buddy,” the bartender finally said, gesturing toward the horse. “What's with the toy?”

Simon glanced at the horse and then back at his drink. He shrugged.

“I just bought it at that thrift shop down the street. Thought my grandson might like it.”

The bartender chuckled and the woman giggled.

“It's lookin' a little used, ain't it?” the woman said.

Simon glanced at it and then at her.

“Yeah, well,” he said, “maybe I'll slap a coat of paint on it 'fore I give it to him.”

He was quiet again, focusing on his drink and the TV. They went back to talking to each other.

After about ten minutes, Simon stood.

“Hey,” he said to the bartender, “you got a john?”

“In the back,” the man gestured. “Second door on the right.”

“Thanks. I'll leave the horse here if that's okay.”

The bartender didn't reply but merely shrugged and returned to his conversation with the woman.

Simon followed the directions to the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind him. Checking his watch, he waited exactly five minutes, trying to listen. He couldn't make out the words, but he definitely heard a third, higher voice. Finally, when it was time, he flushed the toilet, ran the faucet, and came out.

When he got back to the bar, the bartender's demeanor had changed considerably, as had the woman's. They both looked at him with interest, exactly as Simon had anticipated. Everything must have gone perfectly with Wiggles.

“Listen, I was thinking,” the bartender said, “that's a pretty good toy, actually. I bet my kid would like it.”

Simon played dumb.

“That's too bad. I think it was the only one they had in the store. They had some other good toys there, though.”

“I was thinking I might buy that one. From you. I'll give you ten bucks for it.”

“Ten bucks?” Simon cried. “That's what I paid for it at the thrift shop.”

“Fifteen, then,” the man said. “Five extra bucks to make it worth your while.”

Simon shook his head and took a sip of his drink.

“It may look faded and old to you,” he said, “but I really think my grandson's gonna like it. I'm gonna paint a little face on it and everything. I couldn't part with it for a lousy fifteen bucks.”

“Twenty bucks,” the bartender said.

“No way, I—”

“Each,” the woman added.

“Hey!” the bartender cried, looking at her. “You mind?”

She crushed out a cigarette and gave him a meaningful look.

“We said we'd go in on it to-ge-ther,” she told him slowly. “How 'bout fifty bucks, mister? Final offer.”

Simon looked at the horse and then back at them.

“Fifty bucks for this piece of junk?” he asked.

“Cash,” she said. “Twenty-five from each of us.”

“Plus my drink on the house?” Simon asked.

“Sure, why not?” the bartender replied, glancing at the door.

Simon stood, lifted the horse onto the bar, and held out his hand.

“You got it,” he said as they dealt the dollars onto his palm. “The toy is all yours.”

He walked out of the bar, down the street, and around the corner, where a rattletrap of an old car was waiting for him. Climbing inside, Simon sat and then grinned.

“Fifty bucks,” he said, handing half of it to Wiggles. “What'd you tell 'em?”

Wiggles pulled away from the curb, shakily pocketing his share of the cash as he drove.

“That I was a rare toy collector and that it was worth two or three hundred dollars. They think I'm out looking for an ATM machine to get that much cash and come back and make you an offer.”

“The greedy idiots tried to take advantage of me.”

“Yeah,” Wiggles said with a laugh, turning onto the highway. “Too bad I ain't coming back—and that the toy ain't worth more than a few bucks!”

After lunch Jo checked her voice mail and found a message waiting from her agent, Milton.

“Hey, doll, I know you're on your honeymoon right now, but I thought I'd leave this for when you get back. We got the final word on the syndication deal, and I wanted to talk to you about it as soon as it's convenient for you.”

Of course, this was the moment Jo had been waiting for, the opportunity to recover her lost newspaper markets and vastly increase her income from the column. She called Milton's office right away and made an appointment for in an hour. That gave her just enough time to drive to Moore City, find a parking garage, and walk to Milton's building.

Jo had known Milton most of her life, and she trusted him implicitly. Her biggest dread was of his retirement, which would be coming in the next year or so. She had thought him old when she was a little girl. Nowadays, he was practically ancient.

A few months ago Milton had taken on a partner, a woman about thirty years his junior, to whom he was showing the ropes. Her name was Annette and their intention was for her to slowly take over the business. Jo liked Annette well enough, and she seemed to know her stuff, but no one could ever replace Milton. He wasn't just the man who managed Jo's column, he also did her bookings for television and radio, sort of an all-purpose literary/entertainment agent and publicist. There weren't too many guys like Milton around anymore.

Jo stepped into the office, greeting Annette with a handshake and Milton with a strong hug and a kiss to his cheek. It felt leathery and paper-thin, which made her sad.

“What are you doing in town?” he asked, sinking heavily into his chair. “Shouldn't you be on your honeymoon?”

“Canceled.”

“Canceled the honeymoon or canceled the marriage?”

“Both. Bradford had a last-minute change of heart.”

“You're kidding,” Annette said, pulling up a chair on Milton's side of the desk. “Are you okay?”

Though Jo wasn't eager to discuss it, they seemed genuinely concerned. She gave them the short version of what had happened, knowing how pathetic it sounded in the retelling.

“I couldn't wait to hear the news about the syndication deal,” Jo explained, “so here I am. Now that the wedding's a wash, I'm eager to get back to work on my column.”

Their response wasn't exactly what Jo had expected. Rather than give her news that would match her optimism, they shared a glance that told her all was not well.

“Is something wrong?”

Annette averted her eyes and Milton sighed heavily, folding his hands on the desk.

“It's not working, kiddo,” Milton said solemnly.

“Not working?”

“The household hints angle. The syndication deal fell through, but it's not just that. Your markets are down, Jo. We've had about ten more cancellations in the last month.”

“Ten?”

“Honey,” Milton said, looking as if this were breaking his heart, “in your grandparents' heyday the column was carried by more than two hundred newspapers.” He reached for a file on his desk and opened it. “Right now, Tips from Tulip is in twenty-three.”

“Twenty-three?” Jo asked in a small voice. “That's all?”

“I'm afraid so.”

She looked away, feeling the terrible weight of her grandparents' legacy crashing to the ground around her. She had failed them. Miserably.

“I'll do better,” she said hopefully. “What happened with syndication?”

Milton began paging through the file, reading out comments he had scribbled there.

“‘Old fashioned.' ‘No interest level.' ‘Not applicable to our readers.' They all basically said the same thing. This is the twenty-first century, Jo. Nobody cares about household hints any more—at least, not in any of the desirable demographics.”

“Desirable demographics?”

“Young women, eighteen to thirty-nine. They don't care. We live in a disposable, use-it-and-toss-it age. Who has time to bother with the old-fashioned way of keeping house?”

“My column has plenty of regular readers,” Jo protested.

“Yes, white-haired old ladies!” Annette said, obviously unable to hold her tongue any longer. She also reached into the file and pulled out some clippings of the Tips from Tulip columns. “Jo, last week alone you referred to witch hazel, borax, and glycerin. Who the heck even knows what those things are anymore? Women today are juggling jobs, kids, households. They don't have time to rinse out and reuse their baggies.”

“It would be a better world if they did,” Jo said softly.

“But they don't. You're out of touch. You've lost relevance to today's women. Sweetie, you don't even have a website!”

Jo nodded, stunned at this turn of events. She always had felt a little out of step with the rest of the world. This just confirmed what she'd known all along: She had no idea what “normal” really looked like. Maybe she never had.

“What can I do?” she asked finally. “Is it time for me to call it quits completely?”

Milton closed the file and sat back in his chair.

“You should probably start thinking in those terms,” he said kindly. “At least start making plans for some alternative source of income. The column isn't going to be worth doing if you lose many more markets.”

“An alternative source of income?”

“You teach home ec, don't you?” Annette asked. “Can you support yourself with that?”

“It's just part-time. For fun.”

“Well, you have a little time, I think,” Milton said. “You should be able to muddle through for a while.”

“What about everything else?” Jo asked. “The speaking engagements? The radio?”

Annette nodded.

“Glad you asked. Your radio show has strong ratings, actually, and your television appearances have always gone well. I suggest you focus on those markets, capitalize on the fact that you're young and beautiful and smart.”

“Oh, I don't—”

“The whole Smart Chick thing,” Annette added. “‘Chick' is a good word, very
now.
If you could find the right angle, we could even pitch a book for you. You just need to find your focus, Jo, change your media, and come up with some way to offer relevance to young women.”

“And if I can't?” Jo asked. “What if there's no relevance to be found?”

Milton leaned forward, putting a wrinkled old hand on hers.

“Then at least you could say you gave it your best shot, dear. You had a good ride.”

“This business gets tougher all the time,” Annette added. “You can't imagine how hard it is to carry a successful column for as long as you have. The failure rate for attempted syndication is tremendous.”

Milton squeezed Jo's hand, and after a moment she squeezed back.

“Whatever you decide,” he added, “I know this: You carried on as best you could for as long as you could. Your grandparents would be proud of you regardless.”