Memorial

II.Ray

RAY lives in City of Industry with his roommate, Ghulpa, and fluffy terrier mix Friar. Friar’s full name is Friar Tuck. Ray sometimes calls him Nip/Tuck (after Ghulpa’s favorite show) or just the Friar.

Near midnight they came busting down the door, a whole crew of LAPD and sheriffs, to cuff the crusty 76 year old diabetic. They threw in a stun gun that started a small carpet fire. He had a heart attack. Ghulpa hollered and the Friar got shot in the hip when one of the officers’ pistols went off. All a mistake con brio, police had the wrong address, admitted as much, and there was Ray, Raymond Rausch with his yellow ribbons for the soldiers in the front window, on his stomach like a roped calf and shocked at how calm he’d remained through the home invasion calamity. Even the paramedics took note.

He befouled himself but limned the story sans trousershit for weeks to whoever would listen, how cool and collected he was, mostly he told the writer from the Times who was working up one of those nakedly Pulitzer-aspiring series about wrong-door break-ins, and recounted for the ACLU folks as well. Kept saying the whole time he was only worried for his doggie. All gave kindly props and thankfully never learned about the pants crapola, conversationally trying to relate Ray’s bravado to the vague idea formulated that he was some kind of war vet, but the amicable old Republican said no, never been in a war, though not for tryin, born a cool customer, not one to be ruffled by a well-intentioned batter-ram entry. He’d seen enough Dallas SWATs and Law & Orders to know that snitches weren’t the most reliable folks on the planet.

Ghulpa usually chimed in during interlocution, subtly sardonic, that Ray was too busy having “a hot attack” to get worked up, true enough, small infarct as it turned out, not much damage incurred. But that was Ghulpa. She liked taking the wind from his sails. She was from Calcutta and nothing rattled her, for real. Plus she was modest, happy her musty-smelling old man inexorably steered journalistic attentions to dear shot-up Nip/Tuck. It wouldn’t have been right for him to be mouthy about how he had been on the futon, spooning his Indian galfriend at commencement of the doorshatter, small fire, pistolshot, dog yelp, and pain-seizured beshitting. (To bed boast wasn’t Ray’s way.) They weren’t intimate like that but still she was grateful, and he was proud how wet-hen feisty she got at the cops for busting in. He wasn’t even sure she was legal but BG put herself out there, got in everyone’s face, Ray never saw that side of her before (not really), not in spades anyway as they say. They’d only been together 11 months, longest ride he’d hitched in 30 years, since Marjorie, never thought of her as wife material for chrissake done with all that. So proud of BG, cataract’d eye twinkled when she spoke with such righteousness to the Times or ACLU or whomever; Ghulpa’s accent danced, lit, and lilted around strings of rational invective, articulate as hell and logical in that adjunctive bobbleheaded Hindu way. Might have to make an honest woman of her yet.

Lawyers circled everywhere since what Ray called the Mishap. (BG called it the Tragedy. He called her BG for Big Gulp.) All manner of folk held forth about the city settling with Ray for unholy amounts; listening to them, pantshit was a good thing — the docs must have ratted — adding a few zeroes to the actuarial tally of infarct infractions. Plus the shot dog. Even the police chief was upset about that and rang to express himself personally. But Ray didn’t feel like suing, anyone, anyhow. He liked cops, always had, was a Cold Case File fanatic. Didn’t want to shake nobody down. Not his style. Shit happens, ain’t that right (pantshit anyway), and it was a shock more didn’t. Sure the money’d help, always did, but he wasn’t wild about the way that felt. In his taxonomized, infarcted heart. That’s just how he was built, even though Ray Rausch didn’t have a pension. Had about $22,000 socked away — what was left from the 60 he’d got when he sold his share in the shop — and Social Security after Medicare deductions was about 780 a month. Rent 565, without utilities, went up about $35 a year but he got by. The city gave seniors a break on gas and electric. Hell, breakfast at Denny’s was $3.40 and he couldn’t even finish what was on his plate, thank God the merry old Friar liked pancakes and wet toast. Paying for Rx was a little tough (Kaiser was $50 a month but seeing the medicos still cost money and there wasn’t any dental coverage). That’s why he never did anything about his dentures and skipped the blood pressure pills, the Zetia and Lipitor most of the time (the only med he can’t do without is his Lunesta), and even the one that made him pee less, until Big Gulp got on him about it. (She kept promising to “hook” him up with a Canadian pharmacy, and blushingly joked about “scoring” Viagra off the Internet. Like her cousins, she was computer savvy.) She was a good woman and seemed to have a little nest egg, those cousins in Artesia saw she never went begging. BG pitched in with the rent and the groceries; he didn’t like that too much, I’m old school, but she got mad if Ray didn’t let her contribute. Helluva gal. So: if the city or someone wanted to drop 20 or 30 thou on him, fine, wouldn’t turn it down. They’d play poker at Morongo, he’d show his old lady how the real Injuns do it, Native American style. He always had pretty good luck at the tables but it was a long time since he’d been. Oh it would be great fun to “pick the pockets” of those turquoise-jeweled reservation drunks, brown trash he called them, Geronimos with Jet Skis, ponytails, and Lexus SUVs. If the City of Industry wanted to give him a little stake to play 21, well, happy days.

The legal beagles (Ray’s quaint sobriquet) said he could get millions but it still didn’t set right, not his idea of the American Dream — that would be someone else’s. Why on Earth should he loot the City of Industry? (He always called it that, like the song: I’m the train they call the City of New Orleans.) The stalwartly named senior-friendly municipality had a program to replace old kitchen appliances and once even fixed a broken window in the rent-controlled dining room: why would he want to gouge them? As long as he had tight pussy, loose shoes, and a warm place to shit he’d be fine. At least I got the shoes and the shitter. Heh heh. Long as they paid Friar Tuck’s medical bills — which were gonna be hefty—and there was enough to buy the Gulper a dress or 2, long as he had his trusty Circuit City Trinitron to watch Cold Cases and old Twilight Zones, he’d be just fine. Hated the whole notion of needy sadsack dementia trainees. Like the woman downstairs who took the bus to the airport on Sundays, to watch the planes. Called it her “holiday.”

No, he didn’t need that. Raymond Rausch could look after himself and his own. Skip the fantasies.