We’re parked in the Robards International lot when Mama instructs Ernie to press his barbecue prongs into the back of my neck. It’s just enough to send razor-sharp ripples down my spine.
I freeze. “Dude. Chill.”
The prongs press a little deeper.
“Okay, listen.” Mama lifts the Nike bag between us and drops it on my lap. “It’s pretty simple how this is going to happen.” She’s breathing hard. “Ernie is going to escort you back into the offices. Once inside, first you are going to find—now, listen to me—one of those red laser pointers. You understand me?”
More pressure from the prongs.
“Okay, fine,” I say. “One laser pointer.”
“Good. . . . Now . . .” She shakes the bag of cash on my lap. “Listen. . . . Number two, you’re going to locate Bobby Flanduzi, and you’re going to personally . . .” She pauses, then shouts. “. . . Hand. This. Over.” She drops her chin, gives me the eye. “You’re going to . . .” Another shout. “. . . Apologize . . .” She sighs. “. . . for your part in this. Meaning, you will acknowledge that you’re the biggest reason Bobby Flanduzi had to get involved in something like this in the first place.”
“Mama, c’mon. The role playing is getting really old.”
“Mama?” Cujo’s voice is soft and tender. “Was that really monkey drool?”
“Shut up.” Mama sighs hard, looks around. “I’ll be at the Playroom with the boys.”
The prongs recede.
“One question,” I say, and the prongs return. “This Bobby Flanduzi?” I try to look at Mama without moving my head. “Does he know who I am?”
“Of course,” Mama yells. “You’re Dick Rayborne. Mr. Paperwork. Master of the Goddamn HR Universe.” She puffs, looks around for the right words. “Master stripper of benefits and compensation. The Headcount cover boy? The man who’s made millions by lowering the average salary at Robards International.”
“C’mon, Mama. Enough with the Dick Rayborne crap.”
“You want me to call Sabine Rorgstardt in a sec?”
“Okay, fine.” I close my eyes, take a breath. “Does this guy know that I’m going to be dropping off forty-five thousand dollars?”
Mama looks at me, sunlight reflecting off her thick lenses. “Call it a bonus.”
The prongs recede, and I rub my neck, and feel blood.
Collin asks, “Can I come?”
“No, honey.” Mama sweetens. “You and I are going to have some fun with Cujo in his secret playroom.”
Collin brightens. “Cujo’s secret playroom? Really?”
Mama bites her tongue and winks.
“Where?”
Mama nods to the large expanse of bushes to our right. “Right over there.”
“The wild.” There’s wonder in Collin’s voice, and his eyes widen as he gazes into the bushes. “Of course his playroom is in the wild.”
* * *
Collin grabs his hair and pulls in opposite directions, a huge smile developing as he stands before the Playroom. It’s like he’s been presented a gift beyond his wildest dreams—nearly embarrassed, his legs spread wide, his mouth open. He releases an enthusiastic “wow” and laughs as he stands there and takes in the dirty mattresses, the glistening tri-tip perched over a bed of extinguished coals, the sea of empty beer cans, the dozens and dozens of strewn spare ribs and chicken bones, the tiny TV flashing a glimpse of Pops from the Regular Show.
“Honey.” Mama yanks my arm. “Snap out of it.”
I motion to Collin. “This is hilar——”
“Shut up.” She points to the manhole, her hand shaking. “Grab Ernie and get in there.”
Collin tugs on my arm. His eyes are serious, and his mouth is tight. “Do you realize what you’ve done?” His tone is hushed, and his lips are barely moving, and his eyes burrow into me. “You truly . . . really . . . truly . . . I mean, really . . . legitimately . . . have found . . .” He nods to the barbecue, where Cujo has picked up the tri-tip with his hands and is eating it corn-on-the-cob style, pulling off pieces with his mouth as he stares blankly into space. “. . . a true descendant of the Neanderthals.”
“Listen, buddy. I don’t think he’s really a—”
“No.” Collin grabs my arm, pulls it softly. “Do you realize?”
“What?”
He whispers. “Do you realize this is exactly how they lived? Minus the Cartoon Network, of course.” He surveys the area again. “Caveman times? They had no concept of waste management.”
“Honey, I think Cujo’s never learned to—”
“Hey.” Mama stands over the manhole, and Ernie’s head eases out of the opening, that silent jolly look on his face. “Ernie’s waiting. C’mon, lard-ass. Let’s get the show on the road.”
Cujo puts down the meat, wipes his hands on his jumpsuit, and slips into a tangle of brush with a deep giggle.
“No way,” I say. “Absolutely no way. I’m not taking the drainage pipe back into the campus. We’ll just walk in.”
From behind us, snapped twigs and rustling leaves. More deep giggling.
Mama puffs her cheeks, shuffles over, and slaps me. Hard.
“Hey.”
“Listen, you twerp.” She slaps me again, and my cheek burns. “He’s not like you. He’s a conployee.” She pauses as if she’s waiting for it to sink in. “Conployees aren’t like you suits. They can’t just walk out of the office anytime they want. He’s supposed to be at the—what do they call it?—the day-care place.”
A jolt ripples through me. “You mean, the Robards Happy Family Work/Life Balance Day Care Center?”
She blinks hard, annoyed. “Yes, yes. That.”
Gee, I wonder why that place is empty.
“If they see Ernie walking into the office with you, he’s fired.” She slaps again, this time lightly. “You understand? He’s on third-degree probation in there. One more documented ‘escape,’ and he loses his job.” She pokes me with a bony finger. “If Ernie loses his job, the next thing that will happen will be that his parole officer will get a notice, and then it’s back to jail for . . .” She shifts into sweet voice. “. . . my little helper boy.”
Crap.
“Okay. Fine.”
She shuffles around, swats me on the ass. “Get in there. See how the other ninety-nine percent live.”
From behind, loud rustling and branch snapping. And then, a blur. “You’re it,” Cujo hollers as he explodes past us. Collin spins and wobbles from the tag, his arms out for balance, his mouth open in pure joy. Cujo explodes through the empties, a wake of aluminum rippling behind him, and launches himself into the air, hollering “Collin’s it” as he kicks his feet high and slaps his butt before landing on his ass, sending cans everywhere.
Collin bolts after him, giggling.
“Collin’s it.”
Ernie giggles, climbs out of the manhole, and darts to the action.
“Boys.” Mama fights off a smile. “We have work to do. Ernie, get back in that manhole this instant.”
Ernie giggles as he prances through the empties taunting Collin.
“Boys!”
“Collin,” I say. “C’mon. Settle down.”
“Document this, Uncle Rick. The Neanderthals engage in free play.” He turns and chases after Ernie. “Just like us.”
Cujo circles the Playroom and comes up on Collin’s flank, grunting, “Time for the launch sequence.” Collin squeals as Cujo grabs him and flings him up. “Liftoff.”
I jolt at the sight. “Collin.”
Collin windmills his arms as he sails through the air. He shrieks and lands on one of the mattresses, causing a few empties to bounce.
“Collin.”
Collin picks himself up and throws his arms up, laughing.
“The boys are active.” Mama puts her hands up, like it’s out of her control. “And they need to get their energy out.”
Ernie spins in tight circles faster than I would have thought possible, rippling the empties.
Cujo exaggerates a tiptoe attack, hands at his chin as he approaches Collin. “Gonna get ya,” he says, giggling.
Collin backs up, smiles, bites his lip, and points to me. “Get my uncle.”
Cujo stops in his tracks, turns, and looks at me. “C’mere, Warden.”
“Cujo’s it,” Collin announces. “Cujo’s it.”
“Guys, c’mon. We’ve got so much to do.”
Mama shakes her head, folds her arms, and laughs. “They never get tired.”
Cujo slinks closer, giggling.
“Guys,” I say. “Seriously.”
“Life’s short, Warden.” Cujo explodes toward me. Cans shoot everywhere. Up close, another deep, wet giggle. And then I’m weightless, flying through the air until Cujo somehow catches me and tosses me back up, spinning me and catching me until he slides me gently into the empties.
I sit up in the empties.
Holy shit.
Everyone’s laughing.
I shake my head, hoping for clarity.
Ernie jumps onto Cujo’s back, and Cujo takes off.
“Rick’s it, Rick’s it.”
Cujo zips around the Playroom, Ernie holding on.
Collin runs up to me, whispers, “C’mon, Uncle Rick.” He tugs at my arms. “How many times do you get to play with a real Neanderthal . . .” He tucks his chin and looks at me. “. . . in the middle of a school day?”
Kid’s got a point.
I get to my feet, pick him up, and hug him, and he squeezes me back. “C’mon, Uncle Rick.” He squirms in my grasp. “We need to get them.”
Cujo buzzes us as Ernie holds on, still riding his back, giggling. I lower Collin, squat, and offer him my back. “Hop aboard,” I say. “And hold on.” There’s a tight squeal, and soon two little hands clamp on to my shoulders, legs gripping my waist, and I hear his sharp little voice in my ear. “Turn,” he shouts, and I do, until we’re facing Cujo and Ernie. “Charge,” Collin shouts. “Get ’em.” I lock my arms under Collin’s knees, tighten, and charge, nearly slipping on a can.
“Get the prey,” Collin shouts, his voice rising.
“Wait a minute.” I stop and turn my head back to Collin. “Prey? I thought we were playing tag.”
“Same difference,” Collin says. “It’s just that Predator and Prey appeals to their . . .” He lowers his voice. “. . . preference for hunter-gatherer, survival-of-the-fittest games.”
Cujo bounces past us with Ernie in his arms, making jet-engine noises. Ernie’s arms and legs are outstretched as Cujo twists and turns through the Playroom. Collin releases and slides off my back. “Airplane rides,” he gasps, the wonderment heavy. He looks up at me. “See? Here I was trying to adapt to Cujo, when he’s reminding all of us that—indeed—they’re perfectly capable of adapting to us.”
Cujo turns Ernie for a dramatic bank. He lifts Ernie high into the air and lumbers toward us. “Dive-bomb,” he announces.
Ernie makes shooting noises. Chicka-chicka-chick . . . Chick-chinnngg.
Cujo intensifies the jet-engine noise.
Chicka-chicka-chick . . . Chicka-chicka-chick . . . Chinnnnngggggg.
Collin tugs on my arms. “Let’s get airborne. Now.”
What can I say? I never could have guessed any of this. I never could have guessed the ensuing “aerial dogfight” between Ernie and Collin. I couldn’t have guessed reacting the way I would to Mama’s subsequent clicks—“I haven’t seen you boys play so well together in ages”—or asking for my own mini of Jack Daniel’s. I couldn’t have guessed taking a second mini after I got Collin airborne for another dogfight with Ernie that had us running out of gas quickly and making a rough emergency landing on one of the mattresses, followed by Ernie’s own emergency landing, the prongs nearly spearing me in the arm. I couldn’t have guessed Cujo picking up a beaming Mama and carefully lowering her onto the “family bed,” where she slowly eased into the middle of the most absurd group hug I’ll ever be a part of, with Cujo wrapping a leg around us all, with Ernie still making gunfire noises, with Collin in the middle, laughing uncontrollably, tears streaming down his red cheeks, with Mama saying, “Still hate families, Dickie?”
* * *
I crawl into the darkness, the Nike bag slipping off my shoulder again and again. There’s no good way to carry a bag of cash when you’re crawling through a drainage pipe, and kind of buzzed.
Never could have guessed any of this.
At least Mama finally called and left a message with Sabine Rorgstardt. That’s progress, right? I mean, this Sabine woman still needs to call Mama back and agree to meet us, but there is hope. Right?
I stop a moment. “Ernie?” I can’t see Ernie. Hell, I can’t see anything—all I have is the fading sound of his scampering and grunting as I crawl up the drainage pipe. “Dude,” I whisper. “Slow the fuck down.”
The scampering stops, so I quicken my pace, hoping to catch up.
“Ernie?”
Up ahead, giggles.
Cujo was right; it is remarkably clean in here. They really did come and clean it out; Cujo hadn’t been joking when he said, “Warden, what do you think would happen if one of your parole officers saw us walking around with muck smeared into our jumpsuits, old leaves stuck onto our asses?”
I crawl until Ernie’s giggle seems closer. Thank God.
“Wait up.”
He scampers up the pipe.
“Dude.”
Up ahead there’s a heavy thunk—cement on cement—and then a burst of light. I squint at the rays flooding in, can’t see anything but white. “Ernie,” I shush and crawl ahead. “Wait up.”
Finally my eyes adjust, and I can see Ernie’s legs dangling from an opening. God, yes, the manhole. I squat-run to the opening, growling, and Ernie’s legs disappear. When I reach the opening, I can hear people talking, someone laughing, and the hum of massive air conditioners. “Ernie,” I whisper-yell. “Don’t leave. Tell me how you—”
“Hmmmmph.” Ernie drops his head back into the pipe, grins, and puts a finger to his lips. “Shhhhhhh.”
He recedes, and I rise out of the pipe, the fresh air washing over me, and I feel like a kid again. Pure wonder. A sense of magic. The pride of doing something no one else is doing, something kind of cool that makes you feel you have powers the others don’t. I mean, a second ago, I was in a place that seemed so far away, in a secret “playroom” in the middle of “the wild,” and now I’m transferred back into Robards, fully formed, like I’ve teleported à la Star Trek.
Beam me up, Ernie!
We’re standing in a shielded area created by a dense cluster of bushes on one side and a wall on the other, and I marvel at how the boys ever found this spot, how they ever decided to go on an adventure through the pipes of Robards International. I suppose that’s what cons do—look for ways out—and I realize we have more in common than I’d realized. Ernie looks at me, matches my smile, and carefully lowers his prongs back into the drainage pipe. Gently, he picks up the cement lid, and lowers it over the hole. He straightens and looks at me, puts an index finger to his pursed lips, raises a brow. He makes the me-first signal. I nod and ask, “Where exactly are we?”
Ernie creeps closer to the edge of the bushes, listens intently.
“Ernie,” I whisper. “How do you—”
But he’s gone.
* * *
Paralyzed in the bushes, I stand and watch as Ernie passes by twice in five minutes, each time releasing a tight, high-pitched whistle to tell me the coast is clear.
But what if someone sees me from a window?
What if someone’s about to come around the corner?
How could I ever explain my walking out of a bush?
On Ernie’s third pass, I realize this is insane, and I step out in midstride, as if the bushes aren’t there, a hand slipped into a pocket, a determined look on my face, as if I’m consumed by the finer nuances of bottom-tier data transformation. In two strides, I’m off the grass and on the pathway that curls around the Invitation to Cooperate building—a.k.a. Cell Block A. Ernie lets me catch up, his toothy grin more crooked than ever, and offers me a fist bump. The look on his face seems to say, Pretty cool, eh?
“Yeah, not bad, Ernie.” I bump his fist. “Adds an entirely new dimension to pulling a Bob Watson.”
We enter Cell Block A. I have a guy in mind, a buddy who used to work with me during our early days in “cross-transfer subordination and documentation,” when we were fresh twenty-somethings. Now David Sagan works in HR as a sort of parole officer to one segment of the Robards conployee base—the “rehabilitated deviants” population, which the company has found to demonstrate higher degrees of innovation, ingenuity, and old-fashioned pluck. David’s job is to manage the “caseload,” ensuring that the rehabbed deviants don’t, well, deviate in ways that would expose the company to costly legal action. Of course, he has no training in criminal rehabilitation, but the company offered a 2 percent raise (the first in six years), and his size—six-foot-three, 230 pounds, with broad shoulders and long, lazy legs—afforded him some command presence with the “caseload.” I’m thinking David might be able to give me some background on this Flanduzi guy and, most important, tell me where he sits.
David keeps a small shatter-proof glass office in the center of Level 3 of Cell Block A, where hundreds of conployees sit in a call-center arrangement. Sales calls? Service and support? Career-transition support? Technical assistance? God knows, but I admit the place is buzzing with an energy that’s nearly palpable. A steady, edgy din permeates the floor as Ernie and I cross the call center, several conployees pointing at me, whispering, “The Warden.” Having worked on the other side of campus, I had no idea so many employees confuse me for Dick Rayborne, and I wonder if my only option—assuming Ana doesn’t give me the house-sitting gig and I can’t quit Robards—is to shave my head or grow a beard. How would “lumberjack chic” look on me? Could I pull that off?
We approach David’s office, and I have to touch the wall to stabilize myself—probably should have declined that second mini in the Playroom. I notice David is on the phone. I ease a little closer to let him know I’m here, but he’s focused on his phone friend. “Me?” he says into the headset, his voice deep and gentle. “Me, I’m a pretty large man, so naturally my genitalia are proportionate to the rest of my body.”
One of David Sagan’s favorite things to say.
I try to ease into his line of sight, but he swivels his back to me.
“David?”
He tries to wave me away. “Well, if you’re asking me,” he says, “I insist on thoroughly cleaning my lover with a warm washcloth.”
Someone taps me on the shoulder, and I jerk around. It’s a perfectly normal-looking man with carefully disheveled, light brown hair, an easy smile, and intelligent green eyes. “Mr. Rayborne,” he says, his voice clear, confident, and calm, “I just want you to know how much I appreciate the opportunity you’ve given people like me.” He nods to the expanse of conployees outside David’s office. “People who wouldn’t have had a second, third, or fourth chance.”
“Thanks, but I’m not—”
“And I want to let you know . . .” He nods to David, who’s now hunched over and whispering into his headset. “. . . I’m working with Mr. Sagan on the anger issues. I’m working on the fixation. I mean, sure, yeah, okay, I know I’m back to following Beth—she’s my crush from junior high, so it’s hard to shut that down. But anyway, I think that’s just because I feel that if she finally got to know the real me—the real Wayne Hardy, not the so-called monster who’s been bothering her for twenty-eight years, or the dude who killed her gerbils and lived in her attic for eighteen days—she’d see me the way you and the Robards International leadership see me: as a man who’s turning a new leaf, a man who has a lot to offer.” He pauses, bites his lip in pride. “A man who’s going places.”
David says into his headset, “It’s been a long time since a beautiful woman has urinated on me.”
Wayne takes a breath, opens his mouth, and—I place a hand on his forearm. “Wayne, I really appreciate you sharing this with me.”
David says into the phone, “Of course I’m aroused.”
Wayne says, “If you could let Mr. Sagan know that we spoke, and that you suggest the conduct reports be dismissed, I would greatly appreciate it.”
David crinkles his brows. “I do like goats, but not that way, sweetie.”
I look Wayne in the eye. “I try not to interfere with the individual cases.”
Wayne stiffens and reddens. A vein bulges from his neck.
“But maybe I can mention this with David,” I say.
Wayne eases, breaks into a smile. “Thanks, Mr. Rayborne.”
David’s gentle, nonjudgmental voice: “Of course I’m naked.”
Wayne says, “May I shake your hand, Mr. Rayborne?”
David giggles into the phone. “How does that work? Would I lay on a tarp?”
I turn and shake Wayne’s hand—it’s cold and wet. “You’ll see, Mr. Rayborne. I’m not the guy in Mr. Sagan’s files. Not anymore.” He closes his eyes, beams. “I haven’t made a pipe bomb in weeks.”
“Okay,” I say. “I need to speak with David.”
David smiles to himself and nods.
Wayne reddens, puffs his chest out. His eyes go hollow, and his jaw tightens. “I’ll take care of this, Mr. Rayborne.”
David soothes, “So, you refrigerate the semen?”
Wayne steps into David’s office and slaps the glass wall so hard that I jolt backward. The walls rattle, and David jerks around. Wayne leans forward and begins to pant, his nostrils flaring. “Mr. Sagan,” he yells, his voice going acidic. “Hang the fuck up.” He nods to me. “Mr. Rayborne is here.” He steps forward and practically leans over David. “And you’re . . .” Wayne takes a deep breath and shouts it out. “. . . making him wait.” His chest heaves, and he bites his lip as he stares down at David Sagan.
David turns and sees me, stiffens a sec, his eyes going wide, then exhales—Oh, it’s just you. He returns his attention to Wayne and cocks an eyebrow. His voice is soothing. “You’ve been doing so much better the past few weeks, Wayne.” He offers him his concerned look—a rising eyebrow and a puckered mouth. “This is unfortunate.”
Wayne straightens and balls his fists.
“Mr. Sagan and I can take it from here,” I say. “Thanks, Wayne.”
Wayne leans over David, who’s still seated.
“Wayne,” David says. “Remember what we’ve discussed?”
Wayne loosens and blinks.
“Deep breaths, Wayne.”
Wayne shakes his face, blinks.
“Remember your opportunities for improvement.” David’s voice is so sweet and gentle. “You know, anger management? Impulse control? Overcoming obsessive-compulsive tendencies? Appropriate workplace tonalities?”
Wayne steps back, turns, and saunters out of the office, humming to himself like he’s suddenly window shopping. Ernie sidesteps to avoid him.
David says into the headset, “I think I need to call you back, sweetie.” He frowns. “Honey?” He pulls off his headset and swivels to face me and Ernie. “Mr. Rayborne,” he announces, winking, glancing at Ernie. “Something about you looks different.”
“Tell me something,” I say. “Do I really look like Dick Rayborne?”
David allows an uneasy grin. I guess that means, Yes, you do look like him.
“What is it? I mean, I have more hair. I’m taller.”
“Yeah, but you have the same hairline.” David looks at me, thinking. “And general head shape.”
I feel my body deflate. I don’t want to look like Dick Rayborne.
“Here’s the thing,” David says. “I think it’s a matter of workplace context. People are at work when they see you, and they are viewing everything through that workplace lens. Then they see you, and their mind automatically associates you with another Robards person—Dick Rayborne. It’s like how an optical illusion works—their brains are trained too see Dick.”
His logic makes sense, and it gives me a little comfort.
“Listen,” I say. “I need to speak with you about something.”
“Ernie?” David says. “May I ask that you give us a few moments of privacy?”
Ernie gets up and meanders out of David Sagan’s fishbowl and shuts the glass door. David says, “Thanks, sweetie,” and Ernie nods and stares at us through the glass. That jowly smile.
“You think we’re horny?” David looks at Ernie, then at the expanse of seafoam green outside his fishbowl. “Just imagine how horny they were in jail.”
“I don’t want to think about it. David, listen. Dude. I—”
“You don’t want to think about it because you know what would happen if you and I were in jail together.” He tilts his head, enjoys the idea. “I mean, if we were cellmates.”
“Dude, I really—”
“I would have no choice but to overpower you.”
I nod to the Robards People Finder tool showcasing his phone friend. “David, I need you to look someone up.”
“I’d be forced to mount you.” He looks at me, makes his voice soft and gentle—but deep. “To get up inside you.”
“David, fine, keep going on the jail scenario. I don’t care. But I need you to look up an employee for me. His name is Bobby Flanduzi. With a z.”
He swivels the screen back to him, types in the name.
“Maybe he goes by Robert.”
David stares at the screen, furrow his brows. Sighs. “Because I am a good five inches taller than you, and a good forty pounds heavier.”
“Flanduzi. Does that name ring a bell?”
David stares at the screen, shakes his head no.
“As far as you can tell, he doesn’t have anything to do with the conployee program?”
David’s reading. “It says he’s in Finance. Conployees are forbidden from working in Finance. No exceptions.” He looks at me. “What’s this about?”
“Just don’t tell anyone I was here, okay?”
David looks at the screen again, returns to me. “You’re not here. Not even now.” We look at Ernie, who’s gazing at us, his eyes eager. “Dick Rayborne is here.” We turn back and look at each other. “Isn’t he?”
“Okay, fine.” I nod to his screen. “What do you have?”
He rotates the screen to me, and I twitch at what I see. The salt-and-pepper hair. The bushy mustache. The prominent ears and narrow-set eyes. It’s all so familiar, and I stare at his face, thinking.
Where have I—
And then, it hits me. I know exactly where this guy is.
David is looking at me. “And I wouldn’t share you with anyone.”
* * *
“What are the chances?”
Ernie does a few quick steps to keep up. Shrugs his shoulders at my question.
“I mean, there are probably eighteen or nineteen hundred people on this campus.”
Ernie offers another so-what shrug.
We walk past the hidden escape hatch, and I sling the bag of cash over my shoulder. As we approach my building, I nod hello to the security guy stationed near the lobby entrance, and I notice four surveillance cameras pointed at us. The brochures say conployees are allowed into the normal buildings, but the reality is that they’re about as welcome as vomit in a swimming pool.
“Okay, I know exactly where Flanduzi is.”
Ernie nods.
We walk past the guard.
“So we’re going to march in there and hand him these forty-five Gs and head back to the escape hatch. Make sense?”
He snorts, nods happily at my mention of the escape hatch.
We take the stairs. “But I may need you to lie low. You know, stay back a little.”
Worry spreads across his face.
“I’m just saying, we want to do this without getting caught. Right?” We turn another corner, and I feel the eyes on us. “Okay, Ernie. Let’s pick up the pace a little.”
This is a crucial Bob Watson tenet. When returning from your Bob Watson, you must walk like you own the place—your pace accelerated, your eyes steely, your body language unapologetic. Preferably, you have props in your hands—a pen and notepad, maybe, or a folder. And you must reenter the conference room in midstream—again, quick and unapologetic, as if you just darted out for a few minutes and came back as quickly as possible, as if you don’t want to miss a thing.
“Okay, Ernie.” We in on my cube, picking up the pace, like I’m trying to reach a ringing phone. “Let’s do this.” We reach my cube, I drop the Nike bag beside my chair. I pull out my chair, motion for Ernie to take my seat. I lean over my keyboard, pull up a blank Word doc. “Act like you’re working on something, okay?”
He giggles, nods, and begins to type nonsense into the doc.
“Stay here,” I say.
Time to pull off one of the more difficult moves in my Bob Watson tool kit—the delayed reentry.
* * *
Walking to the conference room, I begin to second-guess myself.
Is Bobby Flanduzi—this guy I’ve never met—really inside this room? Is he really attending the very same meeting I had ditched this morning? Seeing his photo in David Sagan’s office had triggered something in my mind—a nearly dreamlike memory of Flanduzi sitting there in the conference room, his shoulders sagging, his face so lifeless it seemed to be ready to drip into his lap, his whole body slouching, as Janice from Finance opened up the J-23 Incubation meeting with the precision of an anal-retentive dance instructor.
Yes, I had pornolized this guy in the workplace orgy.
And I allow myself to recall a fleeting thought from this morning, an epiphany that I’d wanted to shoo away as quickly as it came, that it wasn’t just me. That indeed, we were all miserable.
Time to roll.
I straighten my shoulders and puff out my chest a little, affecting that confident, assured body language that is so important for a delayed reentry. Instinctively, I reach into my pocket for my mobile phone—having it pressed to your ear is a great way to insinuate that you’d stepped out to make a call. But then I realize Mama has my phone, that she’s ready to call Audrey and my sister if this doesn’t work. Fine, I can pull off a reentry without props. The fact is, people don’t really pay much attention when you reenter a meeting—they assume you’d stepped out a few minutes ago, assuming they even notice you (they usually don’t). What they do notice is newcomers.
I approach the door, peek through the portal for a quick second. Janice from Finance is clicking through an eye chart for the ages, the conference room screen littered with tables of numbers so small I can’t imagine anyone being able to read them. She’s using a laser pointer to circle one column of numbers and acronyms on the screen—her audience barely awake, it seems—and I’m reminded of Mama’s order to bring back one of those red laser pointers.
I open the door and am hit with a hot, thick waft of stale air, trailed by a faint ripe odor.
“. . . which is why the Hathaway guys need to achieve a truly deeper thrust with the L-Docs in the tier six regions.” As I return to my seat—my notepad and pen right where I left them four hours ago—Janice never looks up. Neither do the others. Compared with this morning, they look utterly defeated now, so tired—their skin less buoyant, their eyes nearly hollow, five-o’clock shadows emerging, makeup hardening. “Because these metrics here?” The laser circles a set of blurry numbers on the screen. “It’s an opportunity to develop a truly rich hyperarticulation of the subcategories that need rationalization.”
My heart is racing as I scan the roomful of lifeless faces, searching for Flanduzi.
“If the J-23s are ever going to meet the new BMI segmentation requirements . . .”
And then silence. I glance up, and Janice is looking at me, zeroing in.
Shit.
I meet her gaze, lean forward, and pound my fist on the table. And I complete her thought. “. . . we’ll need to cross-pattern the L-Doc substantiations against the legacy process flows.”
Janice stares at me—chest rising, nostrils flaring—and my heart sinks.
“Exactly,” she pants, nearly breathless. “Exactly. That’s exactly what I told the Cando guys.” She looks down, straightens her pantsuit, and pivots toward the screen, the laser pointer in her grip. “I’m glad you’re with us today, Rick.”
I look around, and the others nod in agreement.
Okay, probably a good time to leave a final impression.
I rise from my chair, look around, and spot Bobby Flanduzi at the end of the table. He’s checking his phone. I stride around the table and approach Janice. “May I, Janice?” I nod to her laser pointer, and she hands it over. “This is the problem.” I aim the pointer at the screen, circle a new column of acronyms and numbers. “This right here. This is where we must harvest true ROI. Not just the process-mitigation stuff, but the true transformative value-capture.”
Janice stands back, nods again. I hold on to the pointer and meander back toward my side of the table. “Because . . .” I stop behind Bobby Flanduzi and point the laser to yet another column of data. “. . . this is the area that really concerns me, Janice. This is the area where I’m at a loss. I mean, how do we even start to document a new process over here?” There’s a murmur in the room, and Janice dives into a marathon monologue. I stand behind Flanduzi—nodding at Janice, maintaining the eye contact that is so important in any Bob Watson. After two minutes, I slip the pointer into my front pocket and take a knee behind Flanduzi. Janice barks out the acronyms—nearly breathless—and I lean in and whisper into Flanduzi’s ear.
“Hey.”
He jerks a little, stiffens, and turns around, his eyes wide. “Hey.”
I lean in closer. Whisper. “I’ve seen the monkey drool.”
He seems confused, then concerned. His skin pales. He tries to whisper without moving his lips. “What did you just say?”
I look around. Everyone is watching Janice unleash more acronyms. I lean in a little closer. “Monkey drool.”
He decides I’m crazy, that it’s just a coincidence. “Dude.” He frowns and pulls away. “What’s your deal?”
Janice acronyms poetic. “We must cascade the L-PARs through the ROI and the SWAT metric.”
“I’m sure there’s a more scientific name for it.”
“Dude. Seriously.”
“Like, baboon saliva?”
His jaw muscles begin to twitch, and he knows that I know about his monkey drool.
“So, what kind is it?”
“What do you mean, what kind is it? And were you in my house today?”
“The ‘drool’ in the vials. What kind of drool is it? Mama calls it ‘monkey drool,’ but I’m guessing it’s baboon saliva, or lemur, or orangutan.” We look at each other. “No?” Another long stare. “Regardless, the Robards Clown Posse delivered the cash to Mama and me.” A pause as we look at each other. “And yes, I was in your house today.”
Long silence.
“And once we complete the L-PAR thrust, we penetrate deeper with HyperPHY.”
“Who are you?”
“Rick Blanco. Bottom-tier data transformation.”
He searches my face.
“And I need you to play nice. I need you to do as I say, because—come hell or high water—I’m gonna take the totally cool chick I’ve been chasing for years, I’m gonna take her to the Greek tonight to see the English Beat. And I’m gonna show my sister I can be trusted with her house. And I will quit this shithole.” He looks at me like I’m absolutely nuts. “So, you will cooperate. You hear me, Flanduzi?”
“And we must spray the L-Docs all over the L-PAR.”’
Slowly, he nods.
“Okay. So.” I look for spies. “I have your forty-five K.”
His lids fall. “Okay.”
“So listen. This is what we’re gonna do.” I look around. “I’m gonna get you out of here. You just sit here, and when I tap you on the shoulder, I want you to get up and follow me out of this conference room. You understand? We’re gonna do what I like to call a Dual-Op Bob Watson.”
He frowns.
“I mean, I’m gonna get us both out of here. Okay?”
He bites his lip. “But Janice hates it when people—”
I raise a finger to stop him. “You want your forty-five K?”
Nods yes.
“Okay, then trust me. We’re gonna do this right under their noses.”
He straightens up. “Okay.” Deep breath, and then a glance at me. “Mama sent you?”
“And we’ll flank the Cando guys with the P-FIDs.”
“She did.” I look up at Janice. “Okay, when I tap your shoulder, what are you gonna do?”
Bobby Flanduzi closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I can’t. I feel like I’m gonna faint. I’ll make a scene.”
“You think I’m gonna pull you out and hurt you?”
Eyes still closed. “I seriously feel like I’m gonna faint.”
“Fine.”
I stand up, straighten my back, and watch Janice as she pounds her fist to an oddly rhythmic listing of acronyms—“First, it’s the R-PID, then it’s the L-Docs, and then it’s the L-PARs.”
I watch a little longer—nodding, making eye contact—and I realize Janice is so deeply engrossed, and her subjects are so deeply hopeless (lost in their own daydreams and meditations), that this Bob Watson is a slam dunk. No need to create a distraction or a new hot topic. No need to wait for her to turn her back or for someone to get into a debate. This one’s easy—for me, at least. The trick is, you just walk briskly to the door and leave, like you have every right, like you have a long-standing hall pass, and like you’re obviously coming right back.
I lean over Bobby Flanduzi’s shoulder. “Stay here,” I say. “I’m coming back with your money, and you’re going to answer some questions.”
Flanduzi nods, and I walk out of the conference room as Janice says something about L-Doc enrichment.
* * *
I race back to my cube and see that the bag of cash is gone.
Ernie is at my desk enjoying a YouTube video of Big Bird, my white earbuds burrowed deep into his head—his eyes huge and moist, a tiny grin dimpled into his face. He has the sound so loud, I can hear Big Bird—his back hunched, his yellow feathers radiant—as he talks to Elmo.
I scan my cube; the Nike bag is nowhere. “Ernie,” I rasp, breathless.
From inside Ernie’s head, Big Bird says, “A break is fun, too.”
“Ernie, where’s the bag?”
Music starts, and Big Bird begins to sing to Elmo.
I’m taking a break, I’m taking a rest.
I grab his shoulder. “Ernie.”
I’m taking some time . . . to be at my best.
Ernie glows, hums along.
“Ernie.” I pull out an earbud and speak into his hole. “Ernie, where’s the cash?”
Oh, won’t you take a break . . .
Won’t you take a break . . .
With me?
I pull out the other earbud and yell, “Ernie.”
Finally, Ernie looks up as the earbuds broadcast Big Bird’s happy plea.
We can dream a dream
We can wonder why?
We can take the time to let the world . . . go . . . by.
Oh, won’t you take a break . . .
Won’t you take a break . . .
With me?
I see my hands take him by the jumpsuit lapels and shake him. “Where’s the goddamn money?” He hardens, offers a growl, and I release him. “Dude,” I whisper. “I asked you to sit here and watch the bag. I come back and the money’s gone and you’re watching Sesame Street.”
Another growl, and Ernie swivels and opens my overhead cabinet, revealing the Nike bag.
“Boy,” Elmo says. “Taking a break is fun, Big Bird.”
* * *
Ernie and I pause outside the conference room.
“Okay, dude.” We fist bump. “Let’s do this.”
I rest my hand on the doorknob, imagining that I can feel Janice’s vibrations through the cold steel, like I’m some kind of Bob Watson maestro clairvoyant—extrasensory, open to the universe and all the information it’s sending me, absorbing it all, sending it through my eardrums and optical nerves and dozens of other glands and organs, all of it funneling into my cerebral cortex as I prepare to execute yet another beautiful, luscious, perfectly formed Bob Watson.
I caress the knob, feeling cocky, like a Bob Watson badass, as I watch Janice through the porthole, reading her movements, measuring the tautness of her face, gauging her intensity, hoping for a high point that will render her—once again—oblivious to the world around her. She seems to strain her neck as she barks into the air, and she turns her back to the others as she uncaps the marker in her hand. I open the door, and my senses are assaulted once again—thick air, a ripened odor, the heat hitting my cheeks as I march into the screaming wind of Janice’s acronyms.
“And we’ll leverage the SysCON for a new level of P-FID rationalization.”
Everyone in the room is looking at their phone, except Blake the intern, who is nodding off. And then there is Bobby Flanduzi, the only one who’s noticed me as I cut through the room like I’m invisible, like I own the place. He looks up at me, his eyes hopeful, his hands clasped in his lap, his knees and feet together. His face sags a little when he realizes I couldn’t possibly be carrying $45,000. He opens his mouth. “You said—”
I reach him and press a forefinger to his mustache. “Shhhhhhh.”
Janice begins to turn and face the group, so I drop to a squat behind Flanduzi.
“Of course, the P-FIDs can be reverse engineered using the 459 process.”
I whisper into his left ear. “You ever want to see your money?”
Shaky, he nods yes.
“Then you will need to answer some questions.”
Slowly, he cocks his head, like he’s thinking about it, saying, I’ll see what I can do.
I lean in, whisper, “Starting with the monkey drool.” He jerks at the words. “C’mon, bub. What are you doing with a cooler of something like that?”
“Of course, we need to think about the Bonzo tables.”
Flanduzi stares ahead, watching Janice, then turns his head back my way. He opens his mouth, thinks better of it, and folds his arms.
I lean in again. “I was in your house this morning.”
He straightens, scratches the back of his neck.
“What kind of guy keeps a cooler of monkey drool—infected monkey drool, is my guess—in the family fridge?”
His chest rises, and he reddens. “Someone who loves his daughter . . .” His whisper cracks with emotion “. . . more than anything in the world.”
This softens me. “Dude,” I say. “What are you doing selling animal saliva on the black market?”
He’s nearly panting, looking straight ahead. “My daughter.”
“The money? The cash is for your daughter?”
He bites his lip, fighting off a full cry. “Mmmm-hmm.”
“Your kids look young. Why does she need forty-five thousand dollars?”
Flanduzi takes a breath, composes himself, shakes his head. “I need it. For my daughter. So she can see the right doctors.” He huffs and puffs, and yells out, “The goddamn paperwork.”
Paperwork? Isn’t Mama always calling me Mr. Paperwork?
Janice is frozen. Staring at Bobby Flanduzi, then at me.
Oh shit.
“Yes,” she pants, nearly breathing fire. “That’s right. The paperwork. The J-Configs are too much. Just way too much paperwork.” She pivots and turns to the whiteboard, uncaps her marker. “Which is why the K-KARs are so critical.”
Flanduzi whispers, “It’s all the paperwork they make you do, just so you get your kid in to the right doctor—you know, for a treatment that could change her whole life.”
I look at him, trying to follow.
“Ever heard of Kawasaki disease?” he asks. “The inflammation of arteries. Treatable, as long as you can see the right doctors. As long as the medical insurance people don’t run you through a bunch of hoops—a bunch of paperwork—and slow you down.”
“Insurance slowed you down?”
He nods. “More and more paperwork. More calls, more paperwork.”
I feel my throat tighten.
“And finally, the wife and I decide we can’t wait another day. The paperwork keeps coming, delaying coverage. They keep running us in circles—and, of course, the real reason is that the treatment’s not cheap. So finally the wife and I, we say . . .” His voice cracks again. “. . . we just gotta do this right now. So we pay out of pocket, which is what insurance wanted all along—it’s what keeps the Robards premium costs down, of course, and that’s what it’s all about.” He lets out a dry chuckle. “Keep the premium costs down for Robards.”
“So what you do is, you essentially milk the Bonzo tables.”
“The good news is, Emma’s safe and well. We’re just broke.”
“So the monkey drool?”
“You’re right—baboon saliva.” He looks around; everyone’s come alive and is babbling about Bonzo tables, oblivious. “Long story, but someone’s looking at some new genetic research and—”
“Huloojasper?”
“Yeah, what a name. Probably fake. Someone that a friend of a friend knows. Biomed. All I knew was, they needed someone to pick up a cooler of samples—vials of saliva from a grasslands baboon. Some type of research. They didn’t want the vials to go through customs, for whatever reason, so they needed someone to retrieve the samples in Jalisco, bring them across the border, get them to this Huloojasper guy, the lead scientist at this start-up. He pays me forty-five thousand for moving some baboon saliva. Pretty tidy sum, right? But then I freaked out, worried about getting arrested or something, decided I needed intermediaries, and I had the bright idea . . .” Another dry laugh. “. . . of hiring some conployees to complete the transaction—figured an ex-con would know how to do a discrete drop-and-pay. I didn’t want anyone seeing me reaching out to conployees—just in case this whole thing blows up—so I put out a Craigslist ad seeking Robards International conployees who want extra work, and I get two responses—one from the Robards Clown Posse, and one from this old lady who was Googling ‘conployees’ for her research.”
“Mama?”
He nods. “She insists on getting involved, comes over and meets the family—says she wants to help. Before I know it, we’re telling her everything. First she gets all pissed, cussing out Dick Rayborne. And then she says she has a couple of ‘boys’ who can do the job for us. But I already have the Robards Clown Posse set up. But I guess Mama didn’t understand.”
My chest hardens, and I feel my jaw muscle twitching. “All of this because of the medical coverage bullshit?”
He nods. “They have a term for it—paperwork blitz. Whole idea is to overwhelm a claimant with so many requirements, so much paperwork, and then countless runarounds and rejections and technicalities, that you just throw your hands up and surrender.” He pauses, swallows hard. “Problem is, after four weeks, we just couldn’t wait any longer.” Another big swallow. “So, I guess you could say they won—we paid out of pocket. Maxed out the cards. Drained the savings.”
I blink hard, try to take in deep breaths. I place a hand on his shoulder. “So basically, you’re trying to save your daughter’s life. How old is she?”
“Seven.”
“Seven.” I steady myself. “And you’re trying to claim your coverage. And you get the Dick Rayborne Special?”
“Mama says Rayborne has been praised for being a trailblazer with the practice of paperwork blitzes. In some journal—”
“Headcount.”
“Yeah, that’s it. She shared a clipping.” He bristles, looks away. “It’s disgusting.”
Rayborne. What a complete prick. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. Steady, big boy. Steady. Time to calm down. I take another breath and let it out slowly as Janice barks something, the syllables distant echoes in my head.
What kind of person does something like that?
“Now,” Janice says. “Let’s talk about Phase 21.”
I lean into Flanduzi. “Okay, so I met the Robards Clown Posse, and they’re taking the vials to Huloojasper, or whatever his name is.” I look around again, get even closer to Flanduzi. “And they gave Mama the cash, which I’m gonna bring to you in a second.”
He lets out a sigh of relief, looks away. “We’re days from foreclosure. We need that money.”
“Anyone asks? We never spoke, okay?”
He nods.
“And I’ve been in this meeting the entire day. Right?”
“Actually . . .” He’s squinting, thinking about it. “. . . you have been.” Cocks his head, squint turning to frown as he challenges his memory one last time. “Haven’t you? But you said you met the Clown Posse and went to my hou——”
I stop him. “Of course I’ve been here the whole time. I’ve been sitting in here with you since this dreaded thing started.” I look away, and I’m hit with the visual memory of a naked, pissed-off Angel chasing Ernie through this guy’s house. “All those comments I had about the J-23 and the right ROI analysis of the FODs?”
“That’s right, that’s right.” He stiffens, screws his eyes shut in shame. “I’m losing it. Sorry.”
“Of course, I had to step out for a few bio breaks and calls.”
He frowns to himself again. “How’d you get the vials?”
I think about something. “You may want to change the sheets on your kids’ beds. Just to be safe.”
“Huh?
“Time to give you your money,” I say, grabbing his shoulder. “Okay.” I look for spies one last time. “I’m gonna create a distraction. You understand?”
He looks like a timid boy. “What do I do?”
“Nothing. You just sit here.” I look around. “Someone’s gonna hand you a bag containing the money. I want you to accept the bag, take a peek inside, confirm the money is there. Okay?”
Troubled eyes. “Won’t everyone see?”
“Believe me.” I prepare myself. “They won’t see a thing.” He bristles, and I head for the front of the room. “Janice,” I say, “we can talk about the K-KAR and the SysCON till we’re blue in the face. But the fact of the matter is, it’s up to each of us . . .” I spin and look at the room, give them the eye. “. . . to do the right thing day in and day out. We must commit.” I notice a few eyes rolling, some long sighs. “So I am going to be the first one here today. To stand here and make a pledge. The bottom-tier data transformation pledge.”
Someone moans in agony. Janice stares at me, her face nearly shaking.
I raise my hand like I’m taking an oath. “I promise to embrace . . .” I produce a dramatic swallow and gaze up the ceiling. “. . . the SysCON . . . the K-KAR . . . and the— DAP.” I weaken my voice with emotion. “I will be open to process husbandry. If I ever live to see the day where a K-CONKAR graces our spreadsheets, I will embrace it as if it were the fruit of my very own loins.”
Janice’s chest rises and falls, her nostrils flaring.
“That is my pledge.”
“Yes,” Janice rasps, breathless. “Yes. Thank you, Rick. Yes, we should all take the pledge.”
“Right here,” I say and back away. “Right now.”
“Yes,” Janice rasps. “That’s right. We’re going to do this right now.”
I back away, bowing, hands clasped at my chest.
Janice faces the attendees and closes her eyes. “If there is ever a day in which this company produces a K-CONKAR process, I pledge to let it suckle from my bosom.” Her voice cracks and lower lip trembles. “To bounce it on my knee. To change its poopy diapers. To be the most tenacious helicopter parent anyone has ever seen.”
I backpedal to the conference room door and tap three times. I step aside, and Ernie walks in, nearly strutting, his shoulders proud, his head bobbing, the Nike bag under an arm. He stops, scans the room, and Bobby Flanduzi lifts his chin to him, fingers him over. Ernie releases a crooked grin, checks with me, and I nod an affirmative. He turns and struts over to Bobby Flanduzi, and—I swear this is the truth—not one attendee of the J-23 Incubation meeting gives him a mere glance. Not with the spectacle unfolding at the front of the room.
Ernie squats beside Bobby Flanduzi, looks to me. I fold my arms, lean against the wall, and nod to proceed. The young, hairless man seated beside Bobby Flanduzi stands up and eases toward the front of the room, ready to make his ass-kissing homage to bottom-tier data transformation at Robards International. Ernie lowers his lids in a way I’ve never seen—feeling cool?—and lifts the flap of the Nike bag, tilting it toward Bobby Flanduzi so he can get a private view of the bundles of cash. Bobby’s eyes bulge, and he nods as Ernie places the bag on his lap.
Janice sobs, “I pledge to terminate the HyperPHY process if that’s what this team decides.”
Ernie gets up and heads toward me. Bobby looks over and gives me the eye—I don’t know who you are, dude, but thanks. And like that, I’m struck by a strong emotion. Hell, I’m actually making a difference in someone’s life. I’m helping a family avoid foreclosure. I feel my chest rise in pride. I meet his moist gaze and hold it, nodding, wishing I were wearing a hat that I could tip to him. Bobby turns and pretends to listen to Janice, but succumbs quickly and stares long and hard into the bag.
More ass-kissers meander toward Janice, ready to make their pledges.
I open the door, and Ernie struts out of the conference room.
Janice releases a post-sobbing sigh. “Sometimes I feel so empty.”
* * *
“Beeline to the escape hatch, Ernie.”
Ernie giggles and nods.
“We did it, Ernie.”
His eyes gleam.
“We helped a family today.”
He makes his jowls crinkle. Smiles.
“That guy in there needed that money. For his daughter. I mean, they really needed that money.”
Ernie nods.
“I mean it. You really made a difference today, dude.”
His face flushes, and he stops to give me a little hug. I find myself hugging him back.
We reach the “escape hatch” in a matter of minutes, breathing heavy, limbs and faces tingling—alive. Ernie holds the barbecue prongs in his mouth as he slides the manhole cover back over the escape hatch, closing our portal to the Robards International universe. We scamper back to the Playroom on all fours, and I swear it feels so natural, like I’m a kid all over again, the magic of discovery coursing through me, a small smile spreading across my face, barely able to contain myself, reveling in that rare feeling of actually pulling it off—whatever it is, wanting so badly to tell my big sister that, indeed, I did it right, I didn’t screw things up. Scampering down the pipe, I nearly squeal at the bliss of it all. I just successfully dropped off $45,000 to a fellow working stiff, right in the middle of a J-23 Incubation marathon meeting, helping him avoid foreclosure.
I did it. I really did it.
Just wait till Ana hears—
But then the reality returns. Because Ana knows the real me. She knows what happened. What I did. She knows there’s no going back. Ever.
* * *
“Mama?”
“Ricky? Where are you?”
“It didn’t go too well.”
“Where are you, mijo?”
“I guess she was just being—”
“Ricky.”
“—nice. Okay?”
“What do you mean nice? Where are you?”
“She wasn’t really interested in me that way.”
“What? Wait, baby. What happened?”
“It didn’t work out.”
There’s a long silence. “Oh, mijo.” She sighs that sweet way.
I’d been doing okay until I heard the sympathy in her voice. Now a ball in my throat is enlarging and dipping into my chest, and I swallow hard.
“Ricky?”
“I’m fine. Seriously, I’m fine.”
“Where are you?”
“At the movie theater.”
“You went anyway?”
What happened was, I was supposed to meet Danielle Meza at the theater. I took my bike, and she was going to have her older sister drop her off. I had been thrilled. I had summoned a lot of courage last week when I caught up to her as she walked alone to History and I asked her out. It was the first time I’d ever done anything like that.
I called her from the theater, and she apologized. “I think I just want to be friends.”
I watched people meander into the theater, oblivious.
“Rick?”
“Yeah.”
“Rick, I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to say. You’re such a nice guy, and you’re superfunny. It’s just that . . . I mean, I just didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“Okay, well, I’m at the theater.”
“I’m sorry,” she squeaked.
“It woulda been cool if you’d called me last night or something, but it’s no big deal. But anyways . . .”
“I know, and I feel like a total jerk. I’m sorry. I’m not good at this.”
“It’s okay. I just have this extra ticket.” I took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “I’d call Mr. Tetherman to come join me, but I’ve been reading that psychopath principals don’t really enjoy movies.”
She let out a huge laugh. “Okay, well. I better go. Christina and Jennifer are waiting for me.”
I sat in the theater lobby for a long time, thinking. Eventually, I got up and went into the theater—Jerry Maguire was supposed to be pretty funny, and the thing had already started, so no one would see me come in alone.
“So where are you now, mijo?”
“The theater.”
“Just come on home, and you can get dinner with me and Dad.”
I feel my throat tighten. “That’s just the thing.”
“What do you mean?”
I screw my eyes shut and grimace. “I came out, and my bike is gone.”
“What do you mean? Someone stole it?”
The lump grows, and my voice fails. “I guess.”
“You locked it?”
“I don’t know. I was so nervous—I think I did, but maybe not?”
“Ricky.” She sighs, the sympathetic annoyance heavy in her voice, and all I want to do is hug her. “This is the second bike in six months.”
She’s right, and I can’t say anything unless I want to start bawling.
Long sigh. “Ana’s at Julie’s house. Do you want to come get dinner with us? You, me, and Papa?”
I’m embarrassed to say yes, but sometimes you just need your mom and dad.
* * *
From the blackness I emerge back into the Playroom, where Mama has given me back my phone and now is teaching Collin how to use the dog clicker. Collin looks like he’s having a blast, so I decide to take a seat. Soon, I find myself stretching out on the mattress, slipping my hands under my head, and staring up at the leaves shimmering in the sun. For a moment, it bothers me that I’ve gotten so comfortable in such filth, but then my mind settles on Audrey. I imagine her with me tonight at the Greek—in front of me, in my arms, as we move together to the Beat. That would be nice.
My cell rings. It’s her.
“I was just thinking of you.”
She offers a you’re-hopeless laugh. “Dude, you’re supposed to be bonding with your nephew.”
Collin produces a click and tosses Cujo a mini.
“I am. We’re having a Neanderthal adventure.”
“Yeah?”
I holler and thrust the phone into the air. “We’re in the wild right now, aren’t we, kiddo?”
Collin hollers, “Yeah, and it’s awesome.”
I bring the phone back to my ear, and Audrey says, “Wow. Nice.”
“And my friend got ahold of the Stanford Neanderthal expert.”
“Who?”
“Sabine Rorgstardt. One of the country’s leading experts on Neanderthals. I think we’re going to do a few more things, then go see her on campus.”
Audrey seems amused. “What are you doing, errands?”
I think of the $45,000 in cash I just dropped off. “Basically, yes.”
“Well, Collin sounds happy.”
“He is,” I say. “Compared to this morning, it’s like night and day.”
“This is what I wanted, so thank you.”
I think about the bus. “I didn’t realize he’s been so consumed with this school crap.”
“But it’s more than that.” She pauses. “Right, Rick?”
I think of Collin trying to break a leg so he can spend time with my sister. “Yeah, I guess.”
“I’m sure you can see that your nephew needs you, right?”
“Needs me?”
“To balance things out for him,” she says.
“You mean with the Overachiever Fever?”
“I was thinking, maybe you could intervene a little,” she says. “You know, knock some sense into his parents’ heads.”
Suddenly, the Greek Theatre fantasy seems a million miles away.
“My sister’s changed,” I say. “We speak different languages, practically.”
“And maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea if she let Collin come back to the States and hang out with you this summer.”
I think of the house-sitting gig, the chance to quit Robards International—I can’t blow that opportunity. “Yeah, maybe Collin needs more sanity time. More normal-kid time.”
“You could provide that for him.” After a long pause, she adds, “I’m not sure Ana and Samson can.”
I freeze with a familiar fear—I really don’t want to destroy any more lives.
Her voice is so sweet. “Rick?”
That’s what I promised myself.
“Rick?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m here.”
“Well, I’m excited about tonight.”
I shake myself out of it, like I’ve done for decades. “Tonight?”
She laughs. “Yeah, I’m in. You kept your side of the bargain. You guys are still gonna see that Stanford expert, right?”
“The Sabine lady? Of course.” Thinking about the Greek, I feel a grin spreading. “So how should we do this tonight?”
“I’ll buy the tickets online,” she says. “We can drive up together once you drop off Collin at the house.”
The skin on my face charges.
Finally.
Tonight.
Audrey and me.
“I’m so glad this is happening,” I say.
“Yeah,” she says, stretching it out. Energetic, but measured. “I am, too.”
I hear myself say, “I guess you know how I’ve always felt about you.”
Her voice lightens. “Maybe.”
“I think you’re very special.”
“Thanks.” She sounds like I just complimented her choice in rain gutters. “I consider you a friend.”
The music in my head stops.
“Rick?”
I swallow and taker a deep breath. “Do you mind if I ask you a possibly uncomfortable question?”
There’s a long pause. “I guess not.”
“Well, I guess—I mean, we’ve known each other awhile. And you’ve always known I’ve kind of always had this crush on you.”
“I don’t know.” She laughs. “Maybe, I guess.”
“And you’ve always been very nice about it.”
“Well. You’re a nice guy. And I can see you in Collin.”
“But you’ve always kinda deflected the attention.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“And then today, out of nowhere, you finally say yes.”
“Is tonight a date?” She laughs at herself. “I mean, I don’t know what tonight is.”
We both laugh.
“What I mean is, why tonight? After all these years, why’d you finally agree to go out with me tonight?”
“Well . . .” Silence. “Hmmm.”
“Is it because you’re no longer going to be Collin’s nanny, so dating his uncle would be okay?”
Another long silence. Finally, Audrey says, “I don’t know. I guess I just really wanted you to see what I see—with Collin. You know, with this being my last day—You know, I’ve been with the little guy since he was four weeks old.” She clears her throat. “I just want the best for him. And I just really think he’s gonna need you once in a while. Because, you know, I’m moving on. I need to. I can’t be his nanny—his de facto mommy—anymore.” Her voice cracks. “So I guess today was just a—you know—last-ditch effort.”
I hear myself saying, “You love him, don’t you? I guess that’s obvious.”
“Love him? Of course I love him. I’ve practically raised him. I mean . . .” She thinks about it. “. . . he’ll always be a part of me.”
“I think that’s beautiful,” I say. “This love you have for him. I mean, you’re willing to go out with me tonight so I might catch a clue.”
She forces a laugh.
“I mean, catch a clue about Collin.”
“I like you, Rick. I do. I think you’re a riot. I just . . .”
“Don’t feel that way?”
“Maybe not.” Long pause. “Sorry.” Another long pause. “I mean, not the way I think you want me to feel.”
My throat tightens. “It’s okay.” I take a deep breath, hoping to regulate myself a little. “Hey, it’s not your fault. You never asked for all this attention all these years.”
“Maybe not. But I’m flattered.”
Since we’re at this place, I decide to make sure I’m hearing her correctly. “So it’s cool if you don’t, but I think I’m hearing you’re never gonna feel that way?”
She’s squeaking now, embarrassed. “Sorry.” Empathy heavy in her voice. “I know you wouldn’t want me to lie to you. I just thought we could hang out like friends—in fact, I was thinking maybe we could bring my friend Sondra along.”
“The weight lifter with the boil?”
“Yeah, if you don’t mind. And my sister’s friend Ben. You’d love him.”
My vision blurs. “Yeah, sure.”
“Or, we could just go the two of us, like we discussed. I’m totally fine either way.”
For some reason, I see the bike rack at the cinema. My bike is gone.
“Rick? I’m totally fine to just—”
“No, no. I’m cool.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. I’m having a blast today with Collin. And I appreciate how much you care about him. He’s having a blast today. So it’s totally cool.”
“Oh . . .” She pauses, unsure of what to say next, maybe. “. . . good.”
“And so maybe we just take a rain check on the concert tonight.”
“Oh . . .”
“I just don’t want to be that charity case.”
“Rick . . .”
“Or that platonic friend.”
“No, I get it.”
“Or have tonight be weird.”
“I’m just—”
“Because I have so many fond memories involving you.”
“And me of you.”
“Maybe we just protect that and not screw with it by doing the Greek tonight.”
“Whatever you want to do. I really hope I didn’t give you the wrong impression over the years.”
I think about that. Maybe when you want someone so bad, you can convince yourself of anything.
“If I’ve given you the wrong impression, or if maybe I let this thing tonight feel like a date—and I guess that’s what it was, I suppose—I am really sorry, Rick. This thing with Collin has me all screwed up, and I thought maybe . . . I don’t know.”
“No, I understand. No worries.”
“Sorry.”
Protracted awkward silence.
“Okay, well . . . I think Collin just ran out of minis, so I better say goodbye for now.”
“Minis?”
Collin runs up and snatches the phone out of my hand. “Sorry, Audrey. But I’m training my Neanderthal in the wild right now, and we’re almost out of liquor. He might get feisty. We have to go.”
And he hangs up.
And I look at my phone, and see that bike rack again.
Mama shuffles up and hands me a mini, and I think, At this point, what the F? I twist off the cap and down it, shuddering.
“We’re going home,” Mama says.
I force myself out of it. “Home?” I sit up, shake my face. “What are you talking about? Your place?”
“Don’t play games with me, Dickie.”
My chest tightens. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“What I’m talking about, mister, is going to our home.” She looks away, the light reflecting off those thick glasses. “We’re bringing this family back together, and we’re doing it at the house—your place.” She turns and looks into me. “No more running, honey. No more running from your family, from your past. No more of that ditching you do—not with us. You hear me?”
I stare back at her, letting myself sway, my head light, my face tingling. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Her voice softens a little. “You know what I am talking about, Dick. You’ve been ditching and running from us since everything fell apart.”
A lump forms in my throat. . . . I swallow, take a breath. “And when was that?”
“Don’t waste my time playing dumb, sweetheart. You know when you started running and ditching. I know it was rough, what it did to you—hell, I was there. The point is, we’re going home and we are going to confront this business once and for all. The boys are just about grown up now. But the little one?” She looks down at Collin. “You still have a chance with him. Don’t blow it, Dick, you hear me? He still has a chance. You still have a chance with him, to be a part of his life.”
I feel my brows turn in. “Okay, listen. Where’s home?”
“Our old place. The place you ditched. The home you ditched.”
I need to stay calm, so I try some deep breathing. “Refresh my memory on exactly where ‘our old place’ is.”
Her voice shakes. “I can barely remember, it’s been so long.” Slowly, she digs into her fanny pack, fingering through items. “So I had to go to the library to use the computers, then the county recorder’s office to get the exact address.” She produces a small piece of folded-up paper, pulls it open. “Here we go,” she says, more to herself. “The place in Atherton.” She studies the notes. “Almendral Avenue.” Then her voice sharpens. “That HR palace of yours. The one they featured in Headcount.”
Oh. The Headcount magazine pic of Dick Rayborne at his home. “Mama, come on. You know I’m not Dick Rayborne.”
She weakens. “Don’t you dare try and screw with my head.”
“He’s probably got more security in that house than the U.S. Mint.”
“We are going to that house, Dickie. And you’re getting us in.”
Whatever. I give up.
Mama fingers through her fanny pack, pulls out a worn piece of paper with somethng scribbled on it. “Give me your phone,” she pants, breathing hard, and for some reason I do. Slowly and carefully, she taps the number into my phone. A male voice answers, and she says, “It’s me. . . . What? Yes. . . . We’re leaving now.”
“Who was that?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Then she mumbles. “Fucking deserter.” She slaps the phone back into my open hand and shuffles away. “Listen . . .” She takes a few breaths. “Talk with the kid, then meet me and the boys at the wagon in five minutes, okay?”
“Talk with Collin? About what?”
Mama stiffens, looks at me. “God, you men are clueless.”
* * *
The boys have turned off the Looney Tunes, packed away the TV into the escape hatch, and followed Mama to the wagon. Now it’s just me and my nephew sitting on the edge of the mattress, his body leaning into mine, and I wrap him up in my arms, give him a squeeze.
“You sure seem to be enjoying Cujo.”
“I wish I had my field journal with me.”
“Maybe it’s better this way. You can just enjoy the moment.”
We sit there awhile.
“It’s not right how they treat him, Uncle Rick.”
“It’s not right how they treat anybody here, kiddo.”
“Why do they do that?” His voice tightens. “Taking advantage of the Neanderthals.”
I think of Dick Rayborne and his paperwork scheme. “I’m afraid that’s what people do to each other.”
He stiffens. “Not everyone.”
I run my hand through his soft brown hair. “You’re right. Not everyone.”
“I mean, we should be setting an example.” He sits up, turns, and glances at me. “Leaders should think about more than themselves.”
After a moment, I ask, “Do you think maybe someday this could be something you change? You know, as a leader yourself?”
Collin looks at me like I’m crazy. “Someday? How about now?”
“Collin, you’re eight years old. Your job is to be a boy and have fun and play and obey your parents. That’s it.”
He turns in, his forehead resting on my arm, and melts into me.
“Hey, kiddo. You okay?”
He sinks deeper into me.
“Have you been feeling bad?”
Slowly, he shakes his head, scoots closer.
“You wanna tell me what’s going on?”
He looks up, tears in his eyes. “It’s just that . . .”
“It’s just . . . what?”
He takes my hand, runs a finger around my knuckles. “It’s just that . . .” Sniffle. “Well, I really really really really do appreciate the fact that you got me a Neanderthal on my last day.” He looks up at me, his watery brown eyes so serious. “And I will help his kind. I swear I will. It’s just that . . .” He looks down, picks at my knuckle, sniffles. “I guess I still . . . feel sad inside.”
“You feel sad?”
He drops his head even more, grips my finger. “And scared.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m really scared.” He breaks into sobs. “I’m scared about not having you and Audrey.” He squeezes me so hard. “You’re my very best-ever friends. Audrey’s my . . .” Big breath. “. . . everything . . .” Big breath. “. . . and I love her so much.” He falls over into my lap, crying so hard it’s silent. “I don’t want . . .” He strains. “. . . anything to change.”
“I know, sweetheart.” My eyes water, and my breathing gets shallow. “I don’t want anything to change, either. But sometimes—” I catch myself, take a deep breath. “Sometimes we don’t have a—” And I can’t finish.
“I want you and Audrey forever and ever.”
I’m quaking. “I love you, kiddo. I’m always gonna be your uncle.”
“Audrey is like my real mommy.”
“Oh, don’t say that.”
“And you’re the daddy I wish I had.”
“Kiddo.”
“And I pretend you’re my mommy and daddy.”
I try to shush him. “Collin.”
“But it doesn’t work, the pretend.”
“I’m sorry, kiddo.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“You can come hang out with me.”
“Can you work in Argentina?”
“I don’t think so. But there’s the phone. And Skype.”
He shakes his head, looks down. “I’m scared.”
“I’m scared, too.”
He looks up, surprised. “You’re scared?”
I sniffle. “Sure.”
“What are you scared about?”
“Well . . .” I pause, consider my words. “Maybe I have a hard time when things change, and I know I might not get to see people I really really care about.”
He’s looking at me, thinking. “I wish we could do adventures every day of the week.”
“Me, too.”
“And talk about things from—you know—the middle of my heart.”
“Yeah.”
“Uncle Rick.” He looks up at me, fights back a grin. “I like it when we go to that donut place and talk.”
I have to search my memory. I think maybe we did that only once—two years ago. “The donut place is awesome.”
He picks at my knuckle again. “Do you think we’ll ever do that again?”
The lump in my throat rises. “I’m not sure, Collin.”
He looks up at me. “Maybe we could go today. You know, one last time.”
Everything comes to an end, no matter how much you fight it.
“I don’t know about donuts. But how about another adventure? I mean, what if I told you we’re going to a mansion?”
Collin smiles at the idea, then softens when he settles on my eyes. “Uncle Rick?” He studies me a bit more. “You look sad.”
I feel a little dizzy for a second. “Oh, I’m just . . .” I shake my face for clarity. “I don’t know, kiddo.”
He dips his head, takes a breath. “My mom says . . . A long time ago? Something sad happened.” He looks at me some more. “And that it changed you forever and ever.”
I force a chuckle. “Your mom told you that, huh?”
Collin looks up at me, his little mouth puckering. “Uncle Rick?” Eyes pensive, softening. “What happened?”
What happened was, I did change forever and ever.
Collin nestles closer. “Uncle Rick?”
I blink to snap out of it. “Time to go?”
Collin smiles. “I love you, Uncle Rick.”
“I love you, too, kid.”
“Will you come see me in Buenos Aires?”
“Will you promise to be a kid?”
Slowly, he nods.
“Then it’s a deal.”
* * *
The full brunt of the liquor is finally starting to hit me.
My head is spinning a bit, but I’m keeping it together.
The wagon is so loaded down with people, we nearly scrape the bottom coming out of the Robards International parking lot. As far as Mama sees it, “we’ve got the whole family together for a change”—Ernie and Collin in the back, and Cujo riding in the bay like an overgrown dog. With Cujo’s help, Mama has once again confiscated my phone and is now driving. I’m sitting in shotgun begging for its return.
“Honey,” Mama warns. “I’m telling you—just shut up and tell me where I’m going.”
I wave the piece of scratch paper in front of her. “All I have here is an address. I need my phone, so I can get directions.”
“We’ve got about forty maps in the glove box.” She’s shouting now. “Where am I going?”
I shuffle through the glove box, cussing to myself. “I’m not going to find this place on a fifty-year-old map.”
She pauses for a moment. “How soon we forget,” she says. “Those maps got us to Yellowstone and back. Not that you’d ever remember that.”
“You made a promise.”
“And I kept it. I called Sabine at Stanford.” Mama eyes the rearview mirror. “Cujo? Don’t you dare touch Mama’s box back there, you hear?”
I steady myself, take a breath. “I need my phone.”
“And I need my husband to pay attention to his family. Meaning, no email. No calls with the home office. No flirting with the floozies. No con calls about the conployees. So, in other words . . .” She’s shouting again. “. . . no phone.”
“Listen,” I snap. “I’m not—”
“Hey,” she says, suddenly softening. “Not in front of the kids. Can we at least agree on that? Let’s both stop.”
* * *
In Atherton, Mama’s old wagon sticks out like a pair of ass chaps at the Vatican. We’re so out of place in this neighborhood of palatial, multimillion-dollar homes that it feels as if the Fleetwood is nearly vibrating, releasing volleys of offensive shock waves, alerting the occasional mom in black yoga pants and the countless crews of yard-service workers. After we roll up to an enormous wrought-iron gate, we sit there and gaze at the expansive, carefully manicured property on the other side. Set far back and shrouded by an assortment of majestic white oaks is a home that couldn’t look sweeter, cuter, or more wholesome. A six-thousand-square-foot, single-story cottage with gray shingle siding, white trim, and endless nooks and gables. I imagine a Disney princess dancing and twirling inside with a warm plate of fresh-baked cookies.
Mama breaks the silence. “Come on, open it up.”
I look over to her and slur, “This is Dick Rayborne’s house?”
“Get us in there.”
My head sways. “How am I supposed to do that?”
“Open the gate.”
I have to do something. “I see an armed guard,” I blurt. “With an assault gun.”
“It’s so obvious when you lie to me, Dickie. Plus, I’ve done my homework on this place.”
“Mama, please.”
She grips the wheel and revs the engine. “The next thing I will do is ram this gate.” The boys howl in excitement. “And you know I’m not bluffing.” Another rev.
Yes, I am superbuzzed, but I’m not so far gone that I can’t still imagine cops coming to arrest us, and maybe even uncovering our illegal transaction involving substances extracted from wild baboons in Uganda. “Okay,” I snap. “Give me a second.”
I step out of the Fleetwood and head for the aluminum intercom beside the gate. At this point, who gives a shit? I let out a little burp. Maybe we can straighten this out. I really shouldn’t have had those minis. And then an idea hits me—I should walk up to this intercom and tell them to keep the door closed. Mama won’t hear me, and we’ll avert disaster. I take another step, and the intercom buzzes. A voice says, “Sorry, Mr. Rayborne. I didn’t realize that was you.”
“No, you don’t have to—”
But the gate opens inward.
Mama revs the engine.