Two Much!

4

The next day was Wednesday and I was going to the city. Ralph decided to go in with me, so we took a morning ferry together, wearing shoes and carrying attaché cases. Ralph bought a Times at the Pioneer Market to read on the boat, and I spent the time trying to work up some fresh greetings. I didn’t have a really good Get Well Soon, and it was also time to start thinking about Christmas. While the ferry wallowed across the Great South Bay, I doodled on a sheet of paper resting on my attaché case. “Get well soon — get well soon — get well soon—”

The voyage from Fire Island to Manhattan employs most of the transportation methods known to man. First the ferry to Bay Shore, on the southern coast of Long Island; then a cab from the dock to the railroad station; then a train on in to the city. “Get well soon,” I wrote. “Get well soon.” I was getting nowhere.

Then all at once a Merry Christmas dropped into my head, and I laughed aloud. “Ralph,” I said.

He looked up from the bridal announcements; Ralph reads everything in the Times. “Mm?”

“On the front,” I said, “there’s a drawing of a cute priest. Barry Fitzgerald. He’s smiling directly at us, with the caption, ‘Merry Christmas.’ And inside it says, ‘you Jew bastard.’”

“Mmmmm,” he said. “Won’t that offend some people?”

“You really think so?”

“Not everybody is as sophisticated as you are,” he said.

“Oh, go long with you,” I said. I don’t know why I sounding-board Ralph; he has no more sense of humor than a yak.

We separated at Perm Station, Ralph to cab downtown to the law firm with his homework, me to walk up into the bowels of the garment district My office is on the fifth floor of a building so infested with third-rate garment manufacturers I think of the place as an outpatient clinic for bankruptcy court. The regular elevator ceased to function during the Harding Administration, and this time I shared the freight elevator with a rack of thin floral dresses accompanied by a pair of four-foot-tall PRs. Hispanics, they prefer to be called, but most people use the abbreviation: spic.

Gloria was at her desk, typing at her typewriter. “Look at the tan,” she said.

“It comes from the Tabasco in the bloody Marys.” I pulled the dress out from under my shirt and said, “Here’s a little something I bought you.”

“You bought me?” She held the dress away from herself with one hand, studying it without trust “If I wear it to work, will I get arrested?”

“Think of it as a weekend dress. What’s that you’re typing?”

“A letter to my mother.”

“Good. I was afraid it might have something to do with the firm.”

“What firm?”

“No double-entendres,” I warned her, and went back into my own room, which hadn’t changed much in my absence.

My firm is Those Wonderful Folks, Inc., and I do greeting cards. I create my own copy, farm out the illustrations, and am cheated by the printer and robbed by the distributor. My product, known as Folksy Cards, is distributed only in the Greater New York area, and pays just enough to make me ineligible for food stamps.

My favorite cards are framed and mounted on the walls in my office. It inspires me to be able to look up from the desk and see the earlier emanations of my genius. “Kiss me again — I’ll turn the other cheek.” “We’ll have to stop meeting like this — roll over.” “Love is — never having to say, ‘How much?’”

In fact, they inspired me again. I no sooner sat down at my desk than I grabbed pencil and paper and wrote. “Get well soon — my doctor says you have it, too.” That was two in one day, by God; taking a vacation really does help.

Whistling cheerfully, I turned to the stack of memos on which Gloria had listed the incoming phone calls of the last few days, and what an honor roll of complainers and spoilsports unfolded there before me. Even the landlord, for the love of Christ. Jack Mulligan, my sister, Ed Frazee,

Linda Ann Margolies...

Linda Ann Margolies? I buzzed Gloria. “Who is Linda Ann Margolies?”

“A sexy voice on the phone. Young and cuddly.”

“Get her.”

“Mm hm.”

“You’re too cynical, Gloria,” I said, hung up, and finished throwing away the rest of the phone memos. Three calls from my ex-wife alone. If these buffoons overworked Gloria, she’d up and quit. Then there were Dave Danforth, Abbie Lancaster, Charlie Hillerman...

Hmmm, Charlie Hillerman. An illustrator with a very lewd style, he’d be perfect for the Get Well Soon. Unfortunately, I still owed him one or two fees for previous work, which-was surely what he was calling about. Would he do just one more, prior to payment? It wouldn’t hurt to ask.

Buzz. Gloria said, “Linda Ann Margolies.”

“Fine. Get me Charlie Hillerman.”

“You must be crazy.”

“Just get him.” I switched to the outside line, and said, “Miss Margolies?”

“Yes, it is.” Gloria’s description had been absolutely on the money: sexy, cuddly and young. “Is that Arthur Dodge?”

“Depends,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m a graduate student at Columbia, Mr. Dodge,” she said. “My master’s thesis is on humor, and I’d like to interview you about Folksy Cards and your theory of comedy and, oh, all sorts of stuffy things like that.”

“Well, you can’t hope for too much from a first date,” I said. (She had a nicely throaty chuckle.) “When did you want to get together?” Not that I was set on fire by the thought of a master’s thesis on the theory of comedy — my own theory, which could quickly have been transmitted by telephone, is if they buy it it’s funny — but the voice was intriguing. And, as John Ray pointed out back in 1650, “A maid that laughs is half taken.”

“As soon as possible,” she said. “Could I come down there today?”

“Not today,” I said. “Umm, how about next Wednesday?”

“What time?”

“One o’clock.” Late enough for me to definitely be in town, early enough so I wouldn’t have to leave for a while.

“Fine,” she said. “See you then.”

“Try to stay cheerful,” I told her, hung up, and Gloria buzzed me. “Hah?”

“Hillerman.”

“Ah.” I pushed the button. “Hi, Charlie.”

“So you’re in town, are you?” He sounded dangerous, and I was recalling now that he’s a large fellow for an illustrator. He comes from Oregon, and he’s no stranger to woodchopping. “Just wait there,” he said, “I’ll be right over.”

“No need, Charlie,” I said. “I can describe the idea on the phone.”

That bewildered him. “What idea?”

“The idea I’m calling about. It’s a Get Well Soon, and what we want—”

“You want me to do another?” He became briefly falsetto. “You son of a bitch, you’ve been avoiding me with that out-of-town gag, all of a sudden—”

“Charlie, Charlie,” I said, “what makes you talk that way? I have been out of town. You can ask Gloria.”

“I was there yesterday,” he said. “And I went to your apartment, talked to that freak you’ve got in there.”

“You’ve got my home address, Charlie? That’s wonderful; now we can see each other after business hours, too.”

“You’re in town now, you bastard, and—”

“Charlie, what are you upset about?”

“You owe me three hundred and fifty dollars, you son of a bitch!”

“That much?” With my free hand I opened my checkbook, which I keep edged in black.

“I’ll take it out of your ass, Art, if I can’t get it any other way.”

“Charlie, you know how bad the greeting card business is in the summer. Don’t act as though I’m not your friend, buddy, you’ve cashed my checks before.”

“Some of them,” he said. “And some of them I used to fix bicycle tires.”

“That’s good, Charlie, that’s very funny. Listen, I’m looking at my checkbook right now, and—”

“The bank repossessed mine,” he said.

“Charlie, you’re really in top form today. You ought to write this stuff down.”

“I’ll tell you what I’m writing down. Never trust a dirty son of a bitch.”

“That’s a good rule, Charlie. Listen, to be serious for a minute, I can’t pay you the whole thing right now, but I can send you a check for, uh, fifty bucks.”

“A hundred,” he said. “And don’t send it, I’ll come down for it”

“Sixty is the absolute best I can do,” I said. “I have the landlord breathing down my neck.”

“Eighty.”

“Charlie, you can’t get blood from a stone.”

“I can get blood from you, Art Eighty.”

“Oh, very well. Seventy-five. But I don’t know what I’ll tell the landlord.”

“You’ll think of something. I’ll be there in an hour.”

“No violence, Charlie, okay? Fun’s fun, okay?”

“I’ll be as good as the check,” he said ominously.

“Listen,” I said, “on the trip down, be thinking about this one. ‘Get well soon — my doctor says you have it too.’”

“Have what?”

“Don’t worry about it Charlie. What we want is a girl, like a nice cross between a nurse and a hooker, okay?”

“You’re a complete birdbrain, Art, you know that?”

“I have faith in you, Charlie,” I said, and hung up, and went out to say to Gloria, “Now, how do you suppose Charlie got my home address?”

“Probably from your sister.”

“That’s a wonderful theory,” I said, “only slightly hampered by the fact they don’t know each other.”

“Charlie was here yesterday when she called,” Gloria said. “He’s paranoid, he thought it was you on the phone, he grabbed it out of my hand and they had a nice long chat.”

“Goody,” I said. “Get her on the phone, will you?”

“Sure.”

I went back to my office and made out Charlie’s check. Seventy? No, I’d better not fool around; he’d sounded truly annoyed. If only all these people would remain calm until Thanksgiving; but they never do.

Buzz. “Your sister.”

“Fine.” I pushed the button. “Doris?”

“My goodness, you returned a phone call. To what do I owe the honor?”

“I think of myself as an only child,” I said.

“That’s your trouble, Art; you think of yourself all the time. Think about somebody else once in a while and—”

“The reason I’m calling,” I said, “is to tell you I understand you had a nice chat with Charlie Hillerman yesterday.”

“Who? Oh, that artist man in your office.”

“That’s the one. And Doris, I just wanted to say, if you ever give anybody my home address again, I will come personally over there to Red Bank and cut your vocal cords.”

“Oh, that got to you, huh?”

“This is very serious, Doris. There are all kinds of wrong-headed people wandering loose in New York; you can’t be too careful.”

“If you’d behave decently to people, you wouldn’t have to be afraid of them.”

“What a wonderful concept. In the meantime, keep your mouth shut about my address.”

“I will, if you’ll answer my calls.”

“I’m answering. I suppose it’s Duane and the child support money again.”

“I just can’t talk to him, Art,” she said. “If I even call him on the phone, he rants and raves so much it terrifies me.”

A perfectly natural reaction, it seemed to me. “If you’d behave decently to people, Doris,” I said, “you wouldn’t have to be afraid of them.”

“Oh, you think you’re so smart. All I want you to do is call him and tell him this time I really will have him arrested and put away in prison for ever and ever. Really really really.”

“Uh huh. I’ll call him tonight”

“Don’t forget.”

“Of course not. I’m making a note of it now.”

“And I’m sorry I gave out your address.”

“Good. I hope I’m not. I have to hang up now, the other phone is ringing.”

I hung up, and shook my head. The idea of me phoning Duane Cludder and ordering him to pay my sister her back child-support money was absurd on the face of it. Casting it from my mind, I turned to the accumulated mail stacked on my desk by Gloria, and waded through another sea of pettiness and cheap threats. And also a statement from my distributor, full of numbers out of some sort of accountants’ fantasyland and accompanied by ah insultingly tiny check. I buzzed Gloria. “Get me All-Boro.”

“And two Excedrin?”

“Naturally.”

The rest of the mail slid smoothly across my desk and into the wastebasket, except my Master Charge statement, which went into the center drawer of the desk. As I put it in, my eyes lit on my former glasses, worn until three years ago, when I’d purchased my contact lenses I visualized myself putting them on, saying to Charlie Hillerman, “You wouldn’t hit a man with glasses, would you?”

Buzz. “All-Boro.”

“Right.” I pushed the button. “Hello?”

“All-Boro Distributing. Who’s calling, please?” It was the regular receptionist; I recognized her rotund voice.

“This is Those Wonderful Folks,” I said. “Put that cheap filthy kike bastard on the line.”

“One moment, please.”

While I waited, Gloria came in with the Excedrin and the paper cup of water. I downed them, she went away, and Gossmann came on the line, “Hello, Art? Anything wrong, boy?”

“Not a bit of it,” I said. “I was just noticing some pretty heavy returns on this statement you sent me.”

“It’s been a tough year, Art. Looks like people are moving away from obscenity.”

“According to this statement,” I said, “virtually my entire year’s output has been returned from the retailers.”

“We’ll send them out again in the fall” he said. “Maybe tastes will change again.”

“I sure hope so. In the meantime, I don’t know, call it nostalgia, I thought I’d come visit my stuff.”

“You what?”

“I thought I’d trot out to your warehouse this afternoon,” I said, “and look at all my cards sitting there.”

“Oh, you don’t want to do that,” he said.

“Just a little trip down Memory Lane,” I said.

“It’s a mess out there right now, Art. We’re doing inventory.”

“In August?”

“Sure, it’s a slow time of year.”

“Well, inventory’s just counting, isn’t it? I’ll come help count. I’ll count all my cards.”

“Art, you’ll just depress yourself. Besides, I think we’re gonna send some out again this afternoon. They’re probably loading on the trucks right now.”

“Fast action, Joe,” I said.

“Well, we got your best interests at heart.”

“I’m glad. And I’ve got some other fast action you can do for me.”

“Anything, Art.”

“A revised statement,” I said, “and another check, on my desk by next Wednesday. Or I go to the Queens D.A.” He and I both knew that, since All-Boro’s primary product was pornographic magazines and dirty books, the Queens D.A. would just love an excuse to subpoena the company’s records.

“Aw, now, Art,” he said. “We don’t have to get nasty with each other.”

“We don’t? Next Wednesday, you unutterable prick.”

I hung up, and looked around my desk. Time was fleeting. Not only would Charlie be here soon, a visitation I was looking forward to missing, but if I didn’t manage to get out of town and grab an earlier ferry than Ralph, Candy was likely to have a relapse.

The Christmas card. I needed a Christian; how about Cal Knox? I didn’t owe him any money at the moment. I called him, he loved the idea, and that was that. Anything to take to the island with me? I opened desk drawers, and once again noticed yesteryear’s spectacles. Another thought occurred to me, a different usage than protection from Charlie Hillerman. I chuckled at the silliness of the idea, and put the glasses in my attaché case.