OLIVER STARED AT THE TELEPHONE until it rang again, then placed the soap-stained pan in the sink and wiped his hands on his jeans. Somewhere between the third and fourth ring he lifted the olive drab receiver and listened.
“Oliver?”
He slid the die revealing one dot directly in front of him.
“You know,” the caller continued, “you’re supposed to say something when you answer the phone. Like ‘hello’ or ‘greetings’ or ‘Yo, whaddup dawg?’”
“Hi, Rodney.”
Rodney called a minimum of once per week in a fruitless attempt at selling insurance. When Oliver actually answered the phone, their conversations rarely lasted more than a few minutes. Rodney was a terrible salesman, timid and apologetic and overly sincere. Oliver blamed this abject lack of confidence on Rodney’s parents for having saddled their daughter with such a regrettably masculine name. (With a middle name like Rene, Oliver could relate.) Rodney, the youngest of seven girls, was apparently her parents’ last shot at perpetuating the traditional family name that had survived for nearly a dozen generations.
“Good news, Oliver. We’ve expanded our family of products to include homeowner’s insurance.”
“Are you reading from a script, Rodney?”
“Not reading, I memorized it. Am I that obvious?”
“Sorry.”
“So tell me, are you happy with your current homeowner’s policy, Oliver?”
“Well I’m definitely not unhappy with it.”
“Wonderful. Would you like me to run a comparison for you? Generate a quote?”
“It’s up to you,” he said. “I’m not really sure what you’d compare it to though.”
“Oh, um.” Oliver heard the sound of frantic tapping on a keyboard followed by a mechanical-sounding voice. “So, you’re saying you don’t currently have a homeowner’s policy?”
“What I’m saying,” he said, “is that I really don’t know.”
“Are you being obtuse?”
“Actually, I’m trying to be honest. It’s not really my house.”
“Your rejection would be a little easier to swallow if you put some thought into it. Take your time. Be creative. I’ll wait.”
The story of who actually owned the house Oliver lived in really was a long one. In fact, it shared the same punch line as the classic joke about the family who moved out of their home as soon as the kid went away to college.
They had moved so often that he was neither surprised nor offended to learn that his mother had migrated yet again without a forwarding address. He’d confronted her about her new living conditions, demanding to know how she could afford the rent on an actual house with an actual driveway and garage and working appliances or why they kept getting calls from bill collectors looking for a deadbeat locksmith company. There was no rent, she’d said; the house was paid for. When he’d asked for proof, all she could offer was more indignant staring.
Her failing memory had become a source of embarrassment for her and a source of friction for the two of them. She wouldn’t be officially diagnosed for another month or two. Her vocabulary was dwindling, her eyes turning spastic, and somehow she was still losing weight. So her forgetfulness on top of all that just made her angry, confused, and afraid. By the time Oliver quit school and moved home, he’d already learned the hard way to tread lightly.
“Okay,” Rodney said. “That’s enough time. What’s it going to be?”
“You always say that,” she said. “But at least you sound sincere this time.”
When the phone rang again minutes later Oliver had every intention of ignoring it. But not answering reeked of deceit, an off-white lie with darkening shades of gray.
He lifted the receiver and said, “Hello?” All he heard in reply was the bustling chatter of office workers. “Is that you, Rodney?”
He was about to hang up when he heard, “Nope, not Rodney.” The voice was familiar, female, but he couldn’t place it. “Just a pesky reporter.”
“Is this Lindsey? From The Rhythm?”
“Guess you got my message then. So, you mind answering a few questions?”
“Absolutely.”
“Absolutely you mind? Or absolutely you’ll talk to me?”
“The second one.”
“Really?” she said, sounding genuinely relieved. “And you’re willing to go on the record?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Cool. My last appointment stood me up and I just happen to be riding by your neighborhood. Mind if I drop in?”
“Oh, um …” Oliver considered his house again, trying to view it with a reporter’s eye. He’d never been all that concerned with image before. But there was nothing about this place that suggested “hip young artist,” nothing that hinted at “bohemian chic” or even a starving wannabe comedian. What it looked like was what it was—an overly domestic, half-furnished house with all the good parts missing—and by good parts, he meant the intangible things that made a house into a home. “You think we could meet someplace else?”
“You know Flannery’s?”
“Sure, I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
• • •
Actually, Oliver knew Flannery’s all too well. A month before his high school graduation, he’d insisted his mother put on her only dress and accompany him to their favorite neighborhood eatery. These ceremonial meals at Flannery’s were typically reserved for big family announcements. Whenever his mother found a new job or new boyfriend or new apartment, Oliver learned the details over leafy greens, charred protein in puddles of A.1., and baked potatoes gaping with steam, butter, bacon, and chives. (When she lost jobs or boyfriends or apartments, they “celebrated” with Ben & Jerry’s. Sadly, the porthole into Oliver’s childhood memories was smeared with more Chunky Monkey than steak sauce.) This particular trip to Flannery’s, however, had been Oliver’s idea, his occasion, his treat. He’d finally figured out what he was going to be when he grew up. And he couldn’t wait to see his mother’s reaction.
He worked up his nerve during appetizers and lost it again when the waiter arrived with salads. His courage ebbed and flowed as he watched his mother expertly rearrange her food on the plate without actually eating much of it. When it came to not eating, Delores Miles combined the tactical precision of a master chess player and the grace of a con artist, a tutorial in misdirection and deceit.
At least she wasn’t drinking. Not yet anyway.
Finally, with the first forkful of tiramisu poised inches from his mouth, Delores said, “Okay, Oliver. Out with it.”
“Out with what?”
“Whatever’s eating at you.” Oliver could feel his face clenching into mock disbelief. “You scarfed your meal, keep wetting your lips for no good reason, and practically worried the stitching out of that fancy napkin.”
He put his fork down, started to speak, then opted for a courage-inducing sip of coffee. “Well, I suppose I do have some news. And a big thank you.”
Now it was her turn to look nervous. Any display of apology or appreciation made Delores Miles skittish. By her own sad admission, she preferred her intimacy after dark and under the influence.
“Is this about college?” she said.
“Sort of. I mean, I know you were worried about how we were going to pay for it.”
“Hah! What worried me was how you were going to pay for it.”
“Problem solved, then. I’ve finally decided what I’m going to do for a living.”
“Pharmacist?” This was his mother’s idea of a dream job—well-lit, smoke-free, steady paycheck, boring beyond belief, and a full arsenal of free narcotics should the need arise. To her mind, it was the exact opposite of her life’s vocation as a waitress in a comedy club.
“Nope, something I think I’d actually enjoy. And I have you to thank for it.”
“Honey, there’s no future in security work. Besides, all I did was call in a favor to Glen. He was desperate enough that he would have hired you without any help from me.”
“No, Mom. I’m not talking about the security job. What I’m talking about is …” Oliver paused, trying to remember how he’d rehearsed it. It wasn’t just finding the right words; he had to get them in the right order, with just the right inflection. Just like stand-up, delivery was everything. “You said once that I was born funny. Do you remember that?”
“Sure, yeah. How could I forget that?”
“I’ve thought about that a lot. And, well, I’m going to become a comedian.”
The words felt funny coming out of his mouth. They must have sounded funny too, because his mother suddenly gripped the table with both hands and laughed like it was the most hysterical thing she’d ever heard.
But there was something else to her laughing conniptions, something cruel. Or was it crazy? When she finally gathered enough breath to form a sentence, she looked at her son and said, “I said you were born funny, not born to be funny.”
“What’s the difference?”
“You were born breech, Oliver.” Her impish grin splintered into full-out laughter as she mimed tipping back a flask and said, “Bottoms up!”
Then she laughed again. It was a good sound, even if it was at his expense. He only wished he’d savored it more, because it was the last time he ever heard it.
• • •
After a quick four-point hygiene inspection of tooth brushing, whisker massaging (but no shaving), cologne spritzing, and deodorant slathering, Oliver changed into fresh jeans and a thin, hooded sweatshirt. He checked his reflection, then changed his shirt again.
He couldn’t help feeling a bit like Sherman, longing for his own “feature” in a local rag. He spent the ten minutes it took to get to Flannery’s strategizing. The last time he’d done an interview—the only time, really—Oliver had gotten so nervous and tongue-tied that he ended up coming off as uptight, panicky, and severely unfunny.
Lindsey was not hard to find. She was sitting in the foyer, biting her lip and feeding fresh batteries into a small tape recorder. She stood when she saw him, but it seemed to take forever. Despite Oliver’s five-foot eleven-inch frame, he still had to look up to meet Lindsey’s eyes. Her gaze was direct yet inviting. Oliver had to wonder how much of it was natural and how much was practiced. Then he decided to just focus on the inviting part.
“Thanks for meeting me on such short notice,” she said. Despite her imposing presence, her handshake was surprisingly delicate.
“My pleasure,” Oliver said with far too much enthusiasm.
They followed a grandmotherly waitress to a cozy leatherette booth where she then recited the daily specials in a strained monotone. Oliver was still scanning the menu when Lindsey ordered an Italian salad with house dressing on the side. When Oliver realized the ladies were looking at him, he blurted, “Just make it two.”
“Hope you don’t mind talking while we eat,” Lindsey said. She placed her freshly batteried tape recorder on the table between them and foraged through her enormous leather purse for a notebook and pencil. “I have a hard deadline on another story I’m following.”
“No problem,” he said.
Lindsey pressed a button and the tiny machine whirred to life. The red Record light made Oliver’s palms moisten, his mouth go dry, and his bladder tremble. They eventually fumbled their way through some patchy small talk—Oliver was born and raised in Nashville, Lindsey a transplant from Chicago; he was still working his way through school, she graduated with honors from Vanderbilt. It didn’t take long to establish that they didn’t move in the same circles, had vastly different tastes in music and movies and books (she used words like art and literature and film), and shared no friends or acquaintances. The only thing they had in common were the matching Italian salads that had mercifully arrived.
Lindsey finished a last unintelligible note on her pad, then had to clear a spot for the giant bowl of greens. Finally, she said, “So tell me about your work.”
“What do you want to know exactly?”
“Whatever comes to mind, just your general impressions. Details are always good for adding credibility to the story. But mainly what I’m interested in is the fear factor.”
Oliver wiped a greasy splotch of dressing off his chin and said, “You mean like stage fright?”
“Is that what it feels like?”
Oliver swallowed hard, chased the salad with a sip of water, then dabbed at his chin again. “Not so much anymore. I mean, I still get nervous sometimes. But I think that can be a good thing. It helps keep me on edge.”
“Interesting,” Lindsey said, but she was clearly distracted. She frowned at a spot on the table, then began working her tongue behind closed lips to dislodge a piece of something stuck between her teeth. It didn’t appear to be working. Her voice still had the faraway quality when she said, “So you feel like you’re on edge the entire time you’re on the clock?”
“Well, I’m usually only up there like ten minutes or so.” Lindsey raised her eyebrows, nodded absently, chewed, and scribbled another note. “But you don’t want to lose your edge. Once you lose concentration, things can go south in a hurry.”
“You said ‘up there.’ So I’m guessing most of the activity still takes place upstairs? On, what is it, the sixth floor?”
Oliver faked a cough, refolded his napkin, and tried to decipher whatever kind of journalistic shorthand Lindsey was using. She was hip, educated, and hard to follow, which when taken together, made her intimidating.
“I’ll bet it can be so spooky sometimes,” she continued. “I know it would scare the molasses out of me, but I would so love for you to take me up there some night.”
“Molasses?” Oliver said, grinning to himself. Obviously she’d heard about his experimental gig with Wendy. Or maybe she’d been there and seen it firsthand. Either way, it had apparently left some kind of impression on this smart, forward-thinking reporter lady. He could almost feel the bubble of anxiety pop inside him. His food suddenly tasted better. The red light on the recorder seemed benign now, friendly even. If she wanted to assist him on stage, he’d be more than happy to oblige. Who knows? It might be funnier with a willing participant.
“I’m sure I can arrange that,” Oilver said. “And it may not be as scary as you think.”
“Really?” Lindsey dropped her pencil and gaped at Oliver. “You can get me into Room 623?”
“I don’t think I know that club.” Although he did have to ignore a twinge of something familiar ballooning up inside him. “I’d say our best bet is to start with an open mic or two.”
“Open mic?”
“You want to go onstage with me, right?”
“No, I want you to escort me to Old Man Harrington’s bedroom.” “Oh.”
It was all he could think to say.
Lindsey tilted her head and said, “Something wrong, Oliver?”
“You’re not doing a follow-up story on local comedians, are you?”
She shook her head, clearly confused by his question. “Didn’t you get my messages? I told the girl at the hotel I was doing a story on the Harrington.”
“Oh,” he said again, trying not to let his disappointment show.
“You still work there, right?”
“As far as I know, yeah.” He wanted to choose his next words carefully. “Can you tell me the, um, angle of your story?”
“Sure thing. I’m doing a feature on some of the area’s best ghost stories. Kind of a haunted tour of Nashville.”
“Why me? I mean, I’m just the security guard.”
“I would think that would be obvious.”
“Humor me. I’m still a little sleepy.”
“You do work the overnight shift, right?”
“I hate to break it to you. I’ve seen plenty of freaky things, but no ghosts.”
“That’s okay, I’m sure you’ve seen something. Or at least heard a few juicy rumors.”
“Um, maybe you should talk to my boss, Mr. Sherman.”
“He won’t return my calls.”
“I’m not surprised,” Oliver said.
“Look,” she said, “I can tell you’re disappointed—I am too, probably more so. And maybe we can work something out on the comedy front. But you have to know, we just ran a story like that.”
“Not very well.” Oliver heard himself mumbling. He was pouty and disappointed and suddenly wanted to sleep.
“What are you talking about? It was a cover story, eleven pages long. We interviewed every area comic we could find. We even tracked down a few in LA and New York.”
Oliver heard himself listing all the things wrong and offensive about the Rhythm’s coverage. He’d meant to defend the honor of his fellow amateur comics. But all he had were secondhand complaints, hearsay, and rumor. And even as the words tumbled out of his mouth he could hear how petty they sounded, how defensive and whiny and ridiculous. When his voice finally tapered off he realized he’d been talking into his salad bowl, scraping glistening pieces of lettuce into a little mound.
“So,” she said, “you’re not going to talk to me about the hotel, are you?”
Oliver shook his head. “I can’t.”
“I don’t get it. Why won’t anybody from that place talk to me?”
“Job security.”
“It’s not like I’m asking for you guys to air all your dirty laundry or tell embarrassing secrets about your guests. I just need a few people to corroborate the rumors and a few off-the-record quotes.”
“Maybe there’s nothing to tell,” he said.
“Will you at least give me your honest opinion on one thing?”
“Off the record?”
She made that tortured sighing sound again. “Yes, Oliver. This is just between us girls.”
“How credible is Barry Sherman?”
Oliver tried not to laugh but couldn’t help himself. “I have no earthly idea. But when you find out, I hope you’ll tell me.”
Lindsey looked like she wanted to hit him. “Why is that, Oliver?”
“He thinks he’s my manager.”
“Okay, what about Gretchen Pendley, a former night auditor?”
“Have you already talked to her?”
Lindsey nodded.
“And did you think she sounded credible?”
“She sounded psychotic, like she was nursing a hardcore grudge.”
Oliver shrugged his corroboration.
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Lindsey said. “Okay, last one. What about Matilda Holmgren?”
Oliver found himself staring into his bowl again. “What about her?”
“Am I wasting my time or is she worth talking to?”
“I really don’t know her very well.”
“Well what do you think about her?”
That was a good question, but Oliver didn’t get to ponder it long because the waitress arrived and deposited the check, tucked neatly inside a fake-leather wallet. Oliver and Lindsey took turns assuring her that they didn’t need any coffee or dessert. He was still thinking about her last question when Lindsey reached all the way across to Oliver’s side of the table and snatched the check. She glanced at it and slipped her American Express inside.
“You don’t have to do that.” Oliver reached for his wallet and said, “At least let me get the tip.”
She waved him off and said, “For what it’s worth, I’m really sorry you didn’t like the article, Oliver.”
“Which article?”
“The cover story on the local comedy scene.”
“Oh, it’s fine. I was just blowing off steam. I’m sure you didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Actually, I wrote it.”