Does this story have a happy ending? That depends on your definition of “ending.” But I won’t keep you in suspense—that’s Mickey Spillane’s job. Trowbridge was required by a judge to take a little “vacation” in the same sort of hermetically sealed glass ball where Norman Bates whiled away his life until the script for Psycho II was greenlighted. I’ll admit it. I’ve seen all IV of the Psycho movies. I’m easy. Anthony Perkins himself directed #III, for those of you looking for an excuse to wander down to the video store later. But as both an English major and a film buff, I caught myself comparing and contrasting the Hitchcock version with the sequels, and I came to the conclusion that it’s best to stick with a fraud who knows what he’s doing. By “fraud” I am referring to someone who has thoroughly mastered the illusion of motion—something I mastered in Phys-Ed, i.e., every time my gym coach looked at me, I appeared to be coming down from the climbing rope. Alfred Hitchcock was the best teacher I ever had.
I never saw Mr. Trowbridge again. When the police showed up at the YMCA, I explained the situation to them, and made a special point of name-dropping Duncan and Argyle, which cut through the red tape. The patrolmen whisked him away. Strangely, I didn’t recognize either of the officers who escorted him to DPD. Between my two-toned heap and the stolen car racket, I had assumed I had met every cop on the Denver police force. But I found out later that there are more than four thousand of our finest working the street beat, so it’ll take another year or two before I meet them all.
As I watched the patrol car pull away from the curb that night, I knew in my heart that I wasn’t going to try to keep track of the disposition of the Trowbridge Case. Did that make me a bad person? You be the judge. I was too busy feeling guilty. But I also knew I would find out sooner or later because there was still the matter of my suspension hearing. At some point the big boys at Rocky would learn the outcome of the suicide investigation and make a decision about me. Just for kicks though, I think I’ll keep you in suspense.
I drove back to my crow’s nest that night with the bitter taste of victory in my mouth. It’s a funny thing about victory—its effects never last as long as defeat. Back in the days when I suffered from the delusion that I knew how to bet on the dogs, a win was such an aberration that the joy lasted about as long as a photo-finish—one thousandth of a second. Then it was back to the tip-sheet and the ticket window and the delusion that I knew how to bet. My friend Big Al eventually held an intervention and cured me of going to the track. He also expressed an interest in curing me of mailing manuscripts to publishers, but I suggested he enter a rehab program for people addicted to playing God. Things are currently at a standoff.
I intended to go to work at The Flower Pot on Thursday morning. My innocence had already been established in the Trowbridge Case, as far as the police were concerned. They had him in custody. Yet there I was, still disseminating blossoms and waiting for The Word. I felt like a character in a Kafka novel waiting for the machineries of bureaucracy to get in synch with reality. Anthony Perkins starred in the movie version of Franz Kafka’s novel, The Trial. It was directed by Orson Welles. I personally find it unwatchable, but Leonard Maltin gives it three and a half stars. I sometimes think Orson Welles was too ambitious for his own good, not counting Casino Royale.
“The phone call” came when I wasn’t at home. I found it on my answering machine. Hogan told me to make it down to Rocky Cab on Friday if I was available, because we had something to talk about. This is another one of the many reasons I hate telephones: the partial newsflash. Hey, if you’ve got something to say, say it. I sometimes get messages from people who say, “It’s me, give me a call, it’s important.” Who the hell is me? I’ve asked myself that question a thousand times.
But I have a theory that people think the telephone gives their minds legitimacy. I’m talking the generic fallacy here—i.e., if it’s printed in the newspaper, it must be true. In Ma Bell’s case, if someone leaves you a phone message, it has to be as serious as a court order. I was at a Bronco pre-game party once in a friend’s backyard, and his phone started ringing. His wife nearly broke her ankles racing into the house. What the hell is it about a telephone that fills people with the fear of God? But I think I know the answer. When a phone rings, everybody in America thinks the lottery is calling. Me included. After all, I do listen closely to those messages.
On Friday morning I went to work at The Flower Pot with a sense of trepidation that I had not felt since the last time I’d walked off a job, which was Dyna-Plex. There’s something about quitting jobs that fills people with the fear of God, too, and I think I know what it is: you’re afraid your boss won’t like you anymore.
I told Mrs. Carlysle that this was my last day, then I waited for her to get annoyed with me. She was filling a wicker basket with bird of paradise blooms. But she just smiled and went on arranging the flowers. I knew then that she was a pro. You don’t make it in the blossom dissemination racket by having faith in truck drivers. She asked me what I was going to do now, and I said I was going back to cab driving. And why did I say that? I didn’t know the outcome of my meeting with Hogan yet. But I said it because in my mind’s eye I saw a long line of funeral homes smiling at me.
“I hope this won’t inconvenience you,” I told her. “I guess this must be some kind of record for short-term employment.”
She just laughed, and told me that the record had been set a long time ago by a kid who had driven for a total of one hour and then quit. He couldn’t find an address, so he just parked the van and walked away. I wracked my memory to make sure it wasn’t me. The jury is still out.
By the way, just for the record, there were only four deliveries to be made on my last day, so my paycheck for the week came to $192.00. I felt like a first-time novelist staring at his advance from a publisher.
I ceased to be a petal-pusher at high noon. It had been the first job I ever held where people actually broke into smiles when they opened their doors. It made me feel like a hippie. But whichever way the meeting with Hogan went, my trip into the Age of Aquarius was defunct. If the news turned out bad, I would be practicing CM again until I got it right.
I won’t insult your intelligence with my coyness anymore. Let’s get this over with.
After I arrived at Rocky Cab, I strode past the cage without looking at Rollo. I was officially a civilian right then and didn’t come under his somewhat dubious authority. A cage man wields quite a bit of authority in any cab company, but I don’t like to talk about that because I don’t like to say things about Rollo that make me mad.
“Have a seat, Murph.”
I was standing in Hogan’s office. I had a hard time interpreting his statement, but I decided that since I was currently enjoying civilian status, the offer did not possess any taint of trouble. After all, Hogan had offered me a seat fourteen years earlier when I had first applied for the job as a driver. Ergo, right at that moment we were equals. With any luck, it wouldn’t last.
“We have a few things to talk about here,” he said. “First off, I spoke with Detectives Duncan and Argyle, and they filled me in on the business about Mr. Trowbridge still being alive. Also, the insurance company reopened the investigation about your burning cab, and after talking to the firefighters who answered the call that afternoon, they came to the conclusion that the air conditioner motor on your cab was the source of the fire. It overheated and burned out the whole system. This has happened a couple times in the past with other vehicles in the fleet, so you’re cleared on that one.”
I started to tell Hogan that I hadn’t even been using the air conditioner that day, but a little voice inside my head told me to let sleeping dogs lie. I’ve been hearing that voice ever since I left Wichita. It sounds just like Joanne Woodward’s voice. So do the other two voices, but let’s move on.
“I had a meeting with the owners yesterday, Murph, and they’ve agreed to lift your suspension, but with one caveat.”
Damn. I knew what was coming next: any new murder charges, and me and Rocky Cab were quits forever.
“It has to do with the blank receipt you gave to Mr. Trowbridge. Like I said before, to me it was a fairly trivial thing, but it was also a technical violation of regulations.”
I started to sweat. I can’t stand any form of criticism, especially when it’s justified.
“I’m sorry to have to say this, Murph, but the violation is going on your permanent record.” Hogan pulled open a drawer and withdrew a sheet of paper. He dropped it onto his desk. “I’ve been ordered to place this written reprimand in your file.”
The blood drained from my face. “But … couldn’t you just let me off with a verbal reprimand?”
“I brought that up at the meeting with the top brass, Murph. Believe me, I fought hard for you, but they wouldn’t go for it.”
Fer the luvva Christ. Once again I found myself on the receiving end of The Written Word. How could things have come to such a pass? Why couldn’t they have opted for a verbal? The beauty of the verbal reprimand is that it has about as much significance as a Bronco defeat in a pre-season football game. But a written reprimand? In a world filled with Xerox machines, a guy like me could easily find himself caught up in a web of smirks.
But I kept a short leash on my urge to complain. The top brass had spoken. I knew a few things about brass. I had developed an intimate relationship with brass in the army. You can polish brass, kiss its ass, or hide from it in the latrine—but you can’t argue with it, or you might find yourself washing jeeps while your buddies are getting drunk in town. Call me a coward, but I had no desire to become acquainted with the civilian version of general-purpose vehicle maintenance.
“I understand,” I said.
“I’m glad you see it that way, Murph.”
I was back in. But I told Hogan I wouldn’t be driving until Monday, even though I could have gone downstairs and signed out a cab right then. It was Friday, the busiest day of the week. But I had some hard thinking to do. Plus, I’m lazy. It had been fourteen years since I had taken an authentic vacation, and I figured I deserved a three-day spring break, if for no other reason than I always think I deserve special treatment. My ego was somewhat mollified by this attitude—not that I gave a damn.
I drove back to my crow’s nest with a fresh coat of bitter victory on my tongue. I figured there was only one way to wash it off: boilermakers. But then, as I turned onto Colfax, I spotted a Starbucks. What the hell. I caved in and bought a mocha. I decided to save the bender until St. Patrick’s Day, or my next trip to Sweeney’s, whichever came first. I didn’t look forward to going to Sweeney’s. I figured I would have to bring a written note from Duncan and Argyle before Sweeney would rescind my eighty-six. But that’s not what bothered me. It was knowing that I would have to thank Harold for helping save my job that kept me away from the tavern for almost two days. By “almost” I mean Saturday night. It turned out Duncan and Argyle were more than happy to write me a note, especially when I gave them my word that they would never seen me again.
Is that ending happy enough for you?
Well, the story doesn’t end there. I returned to work on Monday. My driving schedule got back in synch with my reality. When the rent came due, I worked five days in a row. This meant I spent five mornings sitting outside the Brown Palace reading paperbacks and eating Twinkies. And whenever I happened to drive past a flower delivery truck I hollered “Sucker!” unless I had a fare in the backseat. Then I “thought” it.
The months passed. I checked my answering machine every evening, but it was no-go on the lottery. Things were back to normal. And then one evening the manager of my apartment building knocked on my door. You might think this would have rattled me sufficiently to make me jump out of my skin, but me and the kid who manages the joint have a secret code worked out, since my status as a tenant requires that he visit me every now and then to let the exterminator in. By “secret code” I mean “shave-and-a-haircut.”
When I answered the door he was grinning the way he always does. He’s in his twenties. His name is Keith. The actual owner of the building is an absentee landlord, thank God. The kid is just a student who goes to a free school, majoring in macramé.
“This has been in your mailbox for a week, Murph,” Keith said. “I thought I should let you know. The postman has been asking questions.” I thanked the kid and I meant it. I check my mail only when I’m expecting a refund from the IRS. You do the math.
After I shut the door I headed for the wastebasket. I assumed it was junk mail since the envelope was “funny looking.” But then something clicked inside my head: maybe the lottery people used funny-looking envelopes. I finally checked the return address. There wasn’t one, but the postmark read “Brazil.” I thumbed through my mental Rolodex and tried to recall if I had sent a manuscript to a publisher in Rio. No go.
I’ll admit it. I played the envelope game. I sniffed it. I held it up to the light. When I was a kid I used to rip open envelopes immediately, but that’s the impetuosity of youth. I once sent away for an instruction pamphlet that promised to teach me how to become a taxidermist in my spare time. I was ten years old. My Maw informed me that I had no spare time.
I finally opened the envelope. I withdrew a single sheet of paper. There was no date and no signature, but there was a message. It was handwritten. It looked like the kind of message that a desperate man might scribble in a lonely room at the end of a deserted hallway at the “Y.” I knew who had sent it. I have the unique ability to recognize my own handwriting. It closely resembles that of a man I once knew.
The message went as follows:
“If you are approached by another member of The Heart of Darkness Club who professes the slightest urge to give up smoking, drinking, TV, skipping classes, or admits a desire to hand in homework on time, to go to bed early, develop an exercise program, indulge in career planning, or commit any other act of treason or insanity, you are obligated under these rules to smother his hopes and dreams and ambitions through the utilization of caustic remarks, hooting, catcalls, bitter sarcasm, ridicule, alcohol, drugs, and any other means at hand, hounding him mercilessly until he is brought to his knees and forced to admit that fundamentally life is a joke.”
The End