Buck Thor Emberg and Joan Dehle Emberg
Pic: SB
Part 3
Not knowing what to do, Fred found himself watching the Seven O’clock news on KIRO. His corporation owned the station and they frequently ran pro-developer stories about the greatness of capitalism and job producing industries such as the mooted giant open-cut mine in the Cascade Mountains, not far from Mount Baker. He did not even remember turning the TV on. Lebanon was flaring again. Moscow had walked out of another peace conference concerning the Middle East and blamed America for everything wrong in the world. Central America was in turmoil, especially Guatemala.
‘‘Nothing changes! Damn! Nothing changes!” Fred found himself shouting loudly to the empty living room. “The world doesn’t change. I don’t change. Every day the same. Week-ends the same. Nothing changes. Holidays the same. I’m just a robot…a fat friar of fiduciary fantasies! And…it’s all my fault. Shit! What’s it all about Alphie? What’s it all about?”
He jabbed at the button on the TV with his foot and missed. He had made a mark on the screen with his shoe. He stepped back and kicked again, this time at the cabinet. He made another mark. It felt good…he was no fan of corporate television anyway. The third kick landed on the side of the knob, which broke and flew skittering across the polished Japanese wooden floor. He felt satisfaction.
“No more hard stuff”, he blurted to the TV. “Instead…I’m going to get the best bottle of claret I’ve got in the vault…an Australian Penfold’s Grange…best of 1959…and make myself a giant poorboy…a great big, sloppy poorboy that falls outta the bread roll and spills over.” He went into the basement, perfectly paneled with a bar of a thousand desires and a large, unused billiard table. He was very proud of the many vintages he had collected and those the corporation had sent by Parcel Post. His specialty was claret. His favorites were the heavy, dry reds from South Australia. Californian reds were weak and fizzy. “Coonawarra, 1939, gold medal. Forgot about you Old Buddy. Today you are going to meet a friend…my gut!” He held the bottle up to his wine light and carefully wiped the dust from the top, taking care to leave the dust on the bottle. He put the bottle onto the silver salver and carried it upstairs in an exaggerated manner where he uncorked the beauty and poured it into his crystal Swedish carafe. Next was Brahms for contemplation and a half hour for the wine to get itself ready for his gut.
The kitchen was the scene of the creation of the largest, messiest and sloppiest poorboy ever made. His sandwiches were the bane of Beverley’s kitchen cleanliness fetish. He cleaned nothing after himself. As he put the sandwich on the plate he opened the frig door, took out an egg and dropped it on the floor; it splattered and oozed nicely. He said one word, “Beverley!”
It was the first poorboy Fred had ever eaten in the living room. He would never have even thought about doing such a crime before…too many household problems there. Now he could do what he wanted. There was no one…NO ONE…to tell him what he could and could not do in his own home. He disrobed one item at a time. He flung a shoe to the end of the living room. The other he tossed into the dining room where it struck an expensive Japanese jar, shattering it. He jerked off his tie and dumped it on the reading lamp next to his chair where it drooped forlornly. Then he flung his Van Heusen shirt over the expensive Japanese rice paper portrait of a Japanese warrior…one of Bev’s favorite possessions. It felt good. His Stark Brother pants he pulled off and crumpled on top of the coffee table. Off came his t-shirt, which he dumped over the back of his chair. He hurled one sock at the television. It landed on the Bev’s prized porcelain vase, scattering the white roses and smashing the vase to pieces. The other sock dangled delicately over Beverley’s recliner chair.
“Why not?” he asked himself boldly. He slid his underpants to the floor and stepped out. “Like a jaybird…” Fred muttered contentedly. He had never been naked in his house except in the shower and rarely in bed. He was feeling exhilarated. Fred walked over to one of the full length mirrors. They were freshly shone. I see the house cleaner’s been here, he thought absently. The poorboy dripped gloriously down his belly. Turning on the light, he stared at himself and winced. “I’ve almost never had the courage to look at you since I hit forty”, Fred muttered to his reflection. He did not like to be brutalized.
“Jesus,” he whispered hoarsely, “is that me?” He was looking…full frontal. He turned to get a side view. “Shit! It is!” He remembered the days when he was an Adonis, slim and muscular with girls ogling his every movement as he lifted weights in the gym or flexed his muscles on the beach.
His poorboy dripped more mayonnaise on the floor. Fred ground it down with his bare foot. He licked the ketchup off his fingers, put the sandwich on the vanity, stepped back and scrutinized himself carefully.
“Alright Buster Brown, let’s take a good look…a real honest look.” Fred was aware of the humor of the situation and knew no one would interrupt his intimate soiree.
“First, the head…” He squinted and stepped back. Then he went back to his chair to get his reading glasses. “Hmmmm…I see a head with some blonde hair and a splash of gray. Pretty nondescript. This head is not bald but certainly growing skin at a rapid rate. I would say he has seventy-five percent of his hair left. This head has a mole under the left eye. The head’s eyes are a washed-out blue and they’re getting bags…not big bags, but bags nevertheless. This head appears to have stress. Look at the wrinkles. Gray hair at the temples looks good and if this head had a full beard it would be almost pure white. This head tops out a body which would appear to be about six feet. The chin looks good and the ears are flat to the sides of the head. Very good head. Interesting nose…it’s been broken a few times which makes for an interesting feature as does the slight razor slash on the left cheek. On a continuum of zero to ten I would give this head an eight…no, be honest…noting the beginning of jowls…a seven and one half.”
“Next, the torso…” Fred flexed his arms as if posing for a muscle magazine. “This torso, ladies and gentlemen, was once a good-looking torso. The arms are still strong and manly looking with a reasonable amount of hair but not too much. It would appear that this torso plays a bit of golf and perhaps frizbee softball. But the gut! Oh Lord, your gut Mr. Reflection…a disgrace…terrible. If you had a belt on, your gut would hang over…you only get a three and one half for your torso. Take away the gut and you get…maybe…a seven.”
“Next, your man parts Mr. Reflection…our gut is terrible but let’s be brave and have a look. Holy balls! My privates are getting gray! He tugged…they were his. “Mr Fridley, get your hands off Mr Reflection’s privates. This is a serious examination. For your man parts you get about a six and a half…not bad. Not large, not small and certainly not Jewish. They are not worn out, yet.” Fred cackled at the thought of wearing them out. Beverley never called for too much bedroom gymnastics.
“Legs and feet and hips are worth about six points. Mr. Reflection, I think you are one unholy mess. If I were you I would do something about it NOW. You are disgusting…take care of yourself. You are a candidate for Evergreen Lawns.”
Seriously stung, Fred went back to the living room. He poured himself a glass of the Australian claret and took another bite from the poorboy. Mayonnaise dripped onto his penis and dribbled on his chair. He smiled and wiped the offending goop with the armchair cover. “Wouldn’t Bev be wild?” he mused with great pleasure.
Fred sat for an hour or more listening to Brahms and sipping the elegant wine. He thought of little in particular but his mind whipped in and out of images of the boys when they were young…the recent wedding when he got full as a boot and Bev had to drive home. The presidential parking spaces. Brian who he hated. The pretty young secretary he had just hired. What was her name? His lovely office in deep walnut. He thought of his last trip to Europe which was supposed to be a business trip but was really a bonus from the corporation. Bev had not gone. He had a wonderful time on Europe’s best golf courses.
Interestingly, he thought very little of Beverley. He seemed to have wiped her out of his mind. She was, for the moment, no more important than an old high school girl friend, perhaps even less.
“What IS the matter? I should be in grief. I should be getting drunk or going out and looking for her…making calls…finding out.” They had been together for twenty-seven years. It appeared everything was over. Kaput! Why didn’t he feel badly? His lack of feeling both puzzled and depressed him.
Using the power of concentration that he had developed into a keen management tool, Fred began to sort out the problems and issues. He had learned to divide problems into two parts. First was the philosophical part about what to do with his life. Where to put his body was the second. The second, being logistical, was usually the most difficult. How was he going to decide what to DO? Where was he going to put his body for the next few years? The thought of his office almost gagged him. The problem was simple. He was single. The solution was not.
At about two o’clock the door bell rang. “It must be Bev…it has to be.” Fred didn’t know if he was pleased or angry. No, it could not be. She had her own keys. ‘Yes, who is it?”
“It’s me…Tony. Couldn’t sleep. Still traumatized by Wagner. He ain’t improved over the years. Couldn’t sleep… sort of worried about you. You alright?”
“Yeah, come on in. I’ll get some beers.”
Tony looked at his naked neighbor unsurprised. “I’ll go get a bathrobe,” Fred said.
Tony walked in and sat down in the living room. He viewed the mess, the half-eaten poorboy, the partially finished carafe of wine, the strewn clothing. “Had a party already Fred?” Tony yelled.
Fred appeared in with his snow-white terry cloth bathrobe which hung loosely. “Not much. Opened my best bottle of claret. Want some? Coonawarra, 1959…Australian.”
“Is the pope Catholic? You betcha. Might wash a bit of dusty Wagner from my throat. Must be worth a mint.”
“Yeah, about $250 I’ve been told. Present from the corporation. About the best I have ever tasted. Go ahead, help yourself. Business trip to Australia and the Barossa Valley…what a place for wine lovers. Said I’d keep it for an important day. Guess tonight is the night. Thanks for coming over buddy. Good of you. Cheers“. They clinked noisily.
“You go berserk? I mean, look at the place.”
“Nope. Tony, tonight, for the first time in twenty-seven years, I was able to do exactly what I wanted to do. Bev was a good housekeeper…in fact too damn good. Always cleaning, cleaning. It was terrible to have to be so clean all the time. I am a secret grub in my office…my drawers are a total mess. I like to make little nests here and there. I like caves, boats and sleeping in tents. She always made me clean everything up after myself. She used to wait for me to finish a cup of coffee and then whisk it away before I could set it down. Tonight, Tony, I did what I wanted. Made a giant poorboy and left the mess in the kitchen. Ate it in the living room and even dripped on…ah…the floor. No one said a thing. No one yelled at me. It was pure bliss Tony. Pure bliss. I even kicked the television and played Brahms as loud as I wanted”.
Fred sat down on the arm of his high backed chair and leaned forward. “You know Tony,” he whispered as if Bev was in the next room, “I think she may have done me a good deed…Bev leaving doesn’t hurt at all. Being alone is great.”
“Great buddy but bet you don’t say that after the lawyers get hold of your balls and you stock options”.
Tony picked up his wine glass, rolled it and examined the legs as they slid down the sides of the cut crystal. He sniffed, sipped and smacked as a good wine drinker will do. “Ah, yes, that is the best claret ever…but no shit…I love it”.
“Does that mean you are out of mourning already? Shortest funeral I have ever known…and not even a body.”
Fred poured himself another small dollop and turned to face Beverley’s chair. “Tony, I cried for a moment when I talked to the boys…but only a minute. They were neither surprised nor even apparently terribly upset that Bev had left. They all said to let her go and get a new life. What a fool I have been to not see what was happening to Bev, to me, to our family?”
End of Chapter 3
