Another Broken Wizard Page 12

  “I have good news for you and for your father. The mass the surgeons removed was completely benign.”

  “Really, what was it then?” I asked.

  “I was surprised. It was actually a non-toxic goiter—a swelling of the thyroid gland. It will usually swell up in the throat. But this one went south. So that’s good news. It’s completely benign and your father won’t need any more surgery.”

  I nodded and swallowed. The fear that entered the room with the word oncologist had passed.

  “So is he the first one to ever have this condition?” I asked.

  “No. But it is uncommon.”

  The hair on top of my head prickled with rage.

  “Could a more qualified doctor have seen this for what it was, I mean, instead of going through the … ordeal … of open heart surgery?”

  Dad beeped and breathed behind us. The nurse waited outside to monitor and adjust the machines.

  “I understand how you must feel. But the condition is so rare that it’s not even something we test for when we find a mass like your father had,” the doctor said, looking up at me with big wounded eyes. He was in earnest. I felt like an asshole.

  “Okay. I was just curious why we were here.”

  The doctor said some more things about how anomalous the mass was, about how dangerous its position was and something more about tests, but I had withdrawn. We shook hands and he left.

  “Well, that’s good news,” I said to Dad.

  The TV said that somewhere in the Middle East, a group of grown men were burning the American flag and jumping around with automatic weapons. It said that someone from Washington would fly over and talk to them about that.

  “I’m going to get some lunch, you want anything?” I said to Dad, whose eyelids twitched. I took that as a good sign.

  I skipped the cafeteria and went out to the parking lot. The sky was clear and pale, the sun was bright, if not warm. The trees and buildings were brown and gray, the snow banks white and brown, the ground just gray. It wasn’t much for the eyes, but warm and vivid after the fluorescent lights of the hospital. Instead of Whiskeynose, a surprisingly friendly guy from Africa took my ticket and my money with a please, a thank you and glad tidings for the rest of my day. I drove through Wellesley and got back onto Route 9, where I found a D’Angelo’s sub shop. A young kid with sloppily dyed hair coming out of his D’Angelo’s baseball hat took my order and struggled with the cash register. The manager came over. He was a pale guy, so skinny that his eyes seemed like they were on opposite sides of his head, like a fish.

  “I got this, Sean, you go to the chopping station,” the fish-eyed manager said. “And remember what I said: It’s like a zone defense. So if Tanya needs help at the grill, give her an assist.”

  The manager looked past me as he finished the transaction with perfunctory courtesy. Then he was back on the long-haired kid, who apparently wasn’t cutting the peppers right. The long-haired kid let his reluctance be his protest and watched the manager cut the peppers correctly. The kid was learning what can only be learned the hard way—that you have to work. It made me glad not to be young anymore.

  Back at the hospital, Gerry and another guy, around the same age with a combed shelf of dyed brown hair, were sitting with Dad.

  “Hey, did you go out to lunch?” Gerry asked, as if he was building a case.

  “Yeah. There’s only so much cafeteria food I can take.”

  I introduced myself to the new guy, who said his name was Robert and said we’d spoken on the phone. We sat and made small talk.

  “IBM finally caught on that these guys were basically just buying the hardware from them, installing their own software and reselling them for twice the price. So IBM decides that it can just do the same thing, so it doubles the price of the hardware and starts going after their clients,” Gerry said. Hahdwaya. He was wearing a suit with a shiny gray tie and big cufflinks, obviously on a break from work.

  “And so, another one is going to bite the dust,” Robert volunteered, pressing his lips together.

  “So, how do you know my dad?” I asked Robert.

  “We worked together at Rebus Tech when it was a billion-dollar company.”

  “They were all billion-dollar companies in 1999,” Gerry added.

  “Don’t remind me. That was four jobs and two houses ago. How about you? Your dad says you’re in finance,” Robert said.

  “I was an equities analyst. I’m between things now,” I said, surprised to be fitting in at the grown-up table.

  “I’ve been between things for three years now,” Robert said.

  He nodded and his shelf of dyed hair shook slightly. Gerry shifted in his seat and looked at a blank portion of the hospital wall.

  “I’ve never seen it so tough out there. Your dad got lucky when he got his job at Aerovan. But Robert, Dan Wong, Fred Landon, all these guys who were on top of the world just can’t get a second interview ever since the bubble burst,” Gerry said.

  “I heard from Freddie. I think he’s going to take that job down in Atlanta,” Robert said.

  “What’s his wife have to say about that?” Gerry said.

  “Plenty, I’m sure. But someone has to pay the mortgage.”

  “How long was Freddie out of work?” Gerry asked, chasing away the fundamental concerns Dad presented with powerful trivia.

  Robert and Gerry took turns recounting the reasons for their personal woes. When the tech bubble burst in 2000, half the businesses in the Route 128 and I-495 corridors were suddenly driven to their knees. And no one wants to hire a sixty-year-old salesman with three decades of experience, not when they can hire some thirty-year-old guy for half the money. Gerry and Dad had taken pay cuts to land on their feet. But Robert was looking at a forced early retirement, doing twenty hours a week at Barnes & Noble, mostly to keep from going crazy.

  Then Gerry said he had to get back to the office, holding eye contact with each of us for a long second, which was his version of warmth and sincerity for the unemployed and sick he was leaving behind him. Then Robert and I struggled sporadically to fill the air for a half hour, while the nurse checked in and out. The hospital room began to feel like the inside of a submarine, with every beep and intercom quip only deepening the sense of dread and bad luck.

  “So, this is a nice hospital. How much is it?”

  “Uh, I have no idea. His insurance covers it.”

  “Yeah. I’m surprised to see so much of Gerry. He said he was coming by tomorrow, too. I wouldn’t have guessed. You can never really tell who’s going to step up with things like this,” Robert said.

  Before long, Robert found a reason to leave. On the news, some actor angry about the environment was holding a fashion show where the models all wore gorilla masks. A middle-aged man said he was not impressed. I went around the channels a few times and then left.

  29.

  It was already dark when I pulled out of the parking lot, trying to return the honest good will that the African guy at the toll booth seemed to radiate. At a stoplight over Route 128, I saw I had missed a call from Serena, and called her back. She was taking the bus home from work when she answered. The conversation started nice enough, with her saying she missed me and me trying to cover my guilt with affection.

  “When do you think you can come back, maybe just for a weekend?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the week after next. I have to see how much help Dad needs after he gets out of the hospital. He’s got the rehab facility after this. Then there’s a nurse. But I think he’s going to have a hard time with really basic stuff at first.”

  “It’s really good that you’re doing this,” she said, because that was what you were supposed to say, especially when you’re about to start complaining.

  “Yeah.”

  “I miss you,” Serena said in a voice full of childish, pouty emotion. It pissed me off.

  “I miss you too.”

  “I wish you were here.”

  “Well. Me too
.”

  Then there was a long pause, which was her gathering the courage to say something unpleasant, or just withholding speech in the hopes that I’d make some kind of gesture. It pissed me off.

  “Listen, if I could be down there with you, I would, believe me. I don’t like being up here, if that means anything. It just sucks, going to and from the hospital every day. I don’t know. Some of Dad’s friends were there today. Maybe they can look in for a day or two and I can come down next week. But I don’t really know right now. My dad is still fucking unconscious.”

  The outburst pacified her enough that we could get back to mundane chatter—her hangover from New Years, her friend Davida who was cheating on her boyfriend, drama at her office and some guy in the office I’d never heard of, who she went out of her way to say was annoying her. I said the yeahs and the ohs.

  “You going out tonight?”

  “I’m still hungover, but I think Davida wants to get a drink. She’s trying to figure out what to do.”

  “If it helps, I vote that she go to a convent.”

  “She can’t do that, she’s Jewish.”

  “That’s even better. They’re always looking for converts, especially from the Chosen People.”

  “I’ll tell her. How about you? It’s a Friday night after all—even in Massachusetts.”

  “I don’t know. I think I might just work out and watch some TV.”

  “Well, don’t get into a serious depression up there.”

  “Okay.”

  On Route 9, a cluster of apartment buildings gave way to a terraced hill full of Toyotas, which gave way to an empty showroom. The faded rags of a Halloween Outlet banner flapped by its big windows. By the Sheraton castle, Route 9 filled with traffic from the Mass Pike. We all drove west together, a headless snake of red taillights. I was two red lights from the Fountainhead when Joe called.

  “Jim, hey man, what are you up to?”

  “Just driving back from the hospital. What’s up?”

  “Do you want to hang out tonight?”

  “I don’t know. I’m pretty beat.”

  “Tell me about it. I kept going after you left. I woke up in the back of Irish Times yesterday. Then I started all over again. I was all kinds of fucked up when I rolled into work today. But I figure a little hair of the dog should fix me up. You down?”

  “I don’t know. What’s going on tonight?”

  “There’s a party up on Burncoat. I was just going to have some beers and then head over there. It’s a small party, but I’m sure I can bring a few people. You down?”

  “I guess so,” I said, imagining the darkened apartment ahead.

  “Oh, and Jim, do you think I could re-borrow that three hundred? It’ll just be like I took longer than planned to pay it back. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Let’s get some dinner first though.”

  “How about Coney Island Hot Dogs?”

  30.

  A glowing pink fist clutches a ten-foot hot dog tight enough that yellow neon mustard drips in steady, sequential drops down one whole story of the building. In the winter night, the sixty-foot neon sign shone like a revelation. The sign flashed old America—the burst of money and optimism grimed by decades of disregard—elevator buttons burned by cigarettes, the steel bar and padlock improvised across a vending machine, futuristic cars from ten years ago with their paint jobs faded, curse words etched into the plastic of a pay-TV in a bus station, grandiose pride losing out to weariness.

  Coney Island Hot Dogs was just past downtown, by a railroad bridge and a car rental place that used to be the Greyhound station. The place was dark and spacious inside. Joe waved from a wooden booth in the back. I ordered a few hotdogs and a soda. The dogs came on steamed soft buns, with onions, mustard, relish and chili.

  “Jim, what’s up?” Joe said, enthused in a way that seemed plain impossible after eight hours hungover in the security office of a state college.

  “Just hospitals and helplessness—not a ton to report, really.”

  “I don’t envy you one bit. Should I come by the hospital and say hi?”

  “I don’t think so. He’ll be out of it for a while longer.”

  “Well, he never liked me.”

  “I think he blamed you for me fucking up in high school. And then there was that fight with your mother, when she called him a fascist.”

  “To be fair, I think she called his opinions fascistic. It was the first Gulf War—they were times that tried men’s souls.”

  We laughed into our hotdogs. The seat in the booth was hard and smooth as a pew. The table had been haphazardly carved with initials joined by plus signs, old rock bands and stray obscenities.

  “I still get chills thinking of it, the green skies on CNN, and the baggy pants,” Joe blurted between guffaws.

  “It truly was Hammer Time for a whole generation.”

  The vein bulged in Joe’s forehead as he struggled to laugh around the bite of hot dog. He swallowed it peaceably and then broke into his machine-gun laugh, drawing a look from the old men at the counter.

  “What was it that started the fight?” I asked, once the laughter had subsided.

  “My mom drove me down town to break the window on the army recruiting center after the war started. But it was already broken when we got there.”

  “My dad wouldn’t just overhear that without saying something.”

  Then we talked about Dad, how he was doing, how he was misdiagnosed and how the incredibly invasive and destructive surgery had proven unnecessary, how the recovery would likely progress, what Joe hoped the visiting nurse would look like (Spanish with big cans). I told him about Olive.

  “No fucking way. Well, I’m going to buy candles and watch the skies. Because if you’re cheating on your girlfriend, then forty days of darkness and a rain of frogs can’t be far behind.”

  “It just happened, well, I mean, that’s not it. It’s like each thing that’s happened in the last few months took one more option off the table. I saw an option, an opportunity, a choice and I took it.”

  “Man, I’m the last person in the known world who’s going to give you a hard time about cheating. I’m just surprised.”

  “Me too. I’m trying not to think too much about it. It doesn’t have to be anything other than what it was, a blip on the radar, an anomaly. I’m surprised I did it. It’s just that everything seemed to be going so well. That’s what I kept telling myself. But …”

  Joe opened his mouth as if to say more, then looked down at his empty paper plate, then at me. He nodded and we got up for another round of dogs. The Greek guy at the counter was talking to the oldsters there about the virtues of salt versus sand for snow removal. On the other side of the wall was a darker room, housing the Coney Island Hot Dogs bar in which rustled the even older men, sipping away the long night.

  “So, before I forget, here’s the three hundred,” I said back at the booth. I took the money out of my wallet, holding it close. “But, what happened to the money you were supposed to make?”

  “So New Year’s Eve, I covered most of my costs in like the first two hours. I made your part of the money back before you even got there. And I’m doing like I planned, only selling to good friends. The whole thing is going like gangbusters. And I’m hardly even touching the stuff myself.”

  “So far so good.”

  “I actually blame you a little.”

  “Oh yeah, of course. After that shit I pulled, any self-respecting, small-time drug-dealing operation would have to go right off the rails.”

  “Yeah, be a smartass. I mean that you left that bottle of whiskey at my house. So there I am, the party is still going on in Marissa’s room. I’m still jacked up from Smitty and the thing with Ki, and then the cops, so I have a few drinks to mellow out. Perfectly reasonable plan, time-tested and everything. But the other half of the bottle later, I’m Santa Claus on shore leave and I start cutting people deals on the coke I have. Then I start letting people have it on credit. And
I’m like, ‘don’t worry, I’ll remember,’ so I don’t write down who I’m giving it to or how much they owe me. So instead of making a profit, I actually lost fifty bucks on the package that I bought.”

  “You remember any of it?”

  “I mostly kind of remember who was there. So I called around and asked for the money they owed me. Only Gino even admitted to owing the money, and he said he’d get it to me next week. I know I sold some to Kyle on credit. But he says it was a trade, and he probably paid for whatever he did, in spades, actually.”

  “Kyle?”

  “Yeah, Kyle McGinn.”

  “Oh quiet Kyle, from way back.”

  “Yeah, him. Anyway, he’s a great guy. I think he’s coming by in a bit. He seems mild mannered, but he’s an utter madman. He snuck us into the back of Irish Times at like five in the morning. All I remember is what he told me later. He said we drank until about seven. Then I just said ‘that’s it,’ and curled up under the bar. He’s a part owner, so he told the morning crew just to clean around me.”

  “Sounds like a good guy.”

  “It gets even better. The note he leaves for the bartender says I can drink free all day. So they wake me up at noon, and the bartender has two shots waiting for me. What the fuck—it’s a day off, so I drink them and start flirting with the bartender who is hot with a capital ot and she finds me a toothbrush and some toothpaste, so I don’t have to go home.”

  “Or because of your breath.”

  “True. True. So the place is quiet until about seven. By that time, Joe Rousseau International Man of Barbarism is in full effect. And I’m talking to everyone, drinking and playing pool. I win a few games and I’m feeling pretty invincible. It must have been around nine and I get into a discussion about the Olympics with these total losers who go to WPI. And they say I can’t jump over the pool table. Now, you have to realize that at this point in the evening, I am God’s own action figure. We decide to bet ten dollars on it.”

  “Sounds reasonable enough, for you, for that blood-alcohol level.”