CHAPTER VIII. THE HOLE IN THE WALL.

Your hero makes a confession.

I aim to please. You have met my circle, enjoyed the company. At least you should have. We have discussed literature, philosophy, science, touched on religious belief, and you expect the conversation to continue on that level. In which case, you deserve due warning. I have another acquaintance.

 “C’mon bub, I know what I’m doin.” He has no acquaintance with the truth. “Chrissakes!” And, unlike our savior, he has no mercy. “Gimme a break.”

“I gave you a break last year. Against my better judgment, I might add.”

“Last year is last year. I’m clean now.”

“My friend, look at the state of you. You’re a wreck. You’re shaking. You can’t look me in the eye. Can we get serious for one second? You’re as clean as explosive diarrhea.”

“Medical condition, bub. I was born shakin.”

Is there a doctor in the house? A tremulous emergence from the womb seems a stretch, although the dissolute creature can control neither limb nor tongue. So they find him irresistible. Or so he says. I shut up shop Mondays and we were fronting the bar at Dick’s, a nondescript tavern holing a wall on El Camino, my drinking companion overstaying his welcome at the city’s more particular watering holes. Eleven thirty in the morning, the establishment had yet to welcome other customers, of flesh and blood. Dick himself hung in a frame, at the wheel of a faded Coupe de Ville. An inflatable Elvis in full Vegas lorded over the desultory dance floor, and snowboarders hotdogged across a humongous screen, the hour offering little live sporting diversion. The Yankees had just won another World Series, but do they really need to rub it in?

“Trying to make ends meet.” Missy was mistrustful, likely taking me for an undercover cop. “A girl has to take what comes.” Our bartender was able to pour a pint, so I made no further inquiry into ownership. “I’ve seen some things, I tell you.” We could say the same. The worldly observer gave our empty glasses an extended rinse, her inclination and immodest top offering an eyeful.

 A man will get ideas. The philosopher duly studied the scene, in contemplative silence. My fellow thinker favored the dialogic mode. “Can’t win em all, babe.” The scholar is also a fount of wisdom.

Our joint enjoyed a jukebox. “I fought the law”—Missy’s belt was off-key and unabashed—“and the law won.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” My compromised acquaintance spoke from long experience. Squirt is the sobriquet. And he needs no further encouragement. A pair of diseased lungs added to the cacophony, and I took the law into my own hands by ordering replenishment.

A man has his needs. Sharing the tribulations of single motherhood, the raconteuse bent close and blessed the needy, to the good fortune of one and forlorn hopes of the other. A physical impediment abets his wandering gaze, the cross of tangled eyes. The runt boasts of manly success, but they just pity the sorrow. At least they should.

A man will take a shot. “Missy, I own a bookstore. We have an extensive women’s section.” For the record, the bookstore owner is tall, has dark hair and blue eyes. “You should come over and see us sometime.” And as you see for yourselves, he has a silver tongue.

The echo had less eloquence. “Gals come over to my house”—he has a house now?—“they also finds something extensive. In my pants, heh heh!”

“Sir, this is a respectable establishment!”

The establishment righted her position. And her departure was abrupt, though our eyes met at the parting. A look of long-suffering, contempt, shame . . .? Or warning, she was about to call 911?

 Talking of shame! The theft was brazen, the thief returning to brag. I have put his offense behind me, really bear no grudge. Yes, I was wronged, but heedful of eudaimonia, no true Aristotelian obsesses over sin. I rarely think about the crime, to set the record straight. And justice has been served. Just look at the wretch! A scrawny frame twitched on the stool, thin hair hung in a ponytail, hollowed chest expelled a horrible hack, and an unkempt mustache glistened with my subsidy. Damaged goods find female forgiveness, to believe the blowhard. But he can’t even buy a beer.

The widescreen went to wrestling. And the narrow saloon saw more business, an elderly patron with a stick and baseball cap shuffling through the door. “Mornin, Frank.” Our comely concierge acknowledged the old-timer without a glance, preoccupied with a fresh tale of woe. Frank’s impatience grew and grew until the cane rapped on the counter. After an interval adequate to her displeasure, Missy upended a bottle of well whiskey over a shot glass in his vicinity.

“Do a bang up job for ya, bub. I need me some cash, serious.”

“I’m not an ATM.” I rarely reveal the full truth.

“Just wanna make an honest livin. No work in this town. Frickin economy, what can ya do?”

“The economy, my grandmother’s bunions! I’m not a complete fool.”

I am a complete fool. Once a Catholic, always a confession: My resolve would suffer the fate of an iceberg in the tropics. Practically pleading for punishment, I would give him the project and plunge into an inextricable vortex of melodrama, incompetence, and need.

 Noblesse oblige? Steady there, Freddy! I may enjoy a higher elevation on the social ladder, but my sideboard boasts no silver spoon. Great Uncle Horace did sit in the House of Lords before the foxhunter fatally lost his saddle, but no snobbery runs in the family, trust me. I may have bristled when the lowlife chatted up my wife, but the bum would make Karl Marx reconsider. We formed the band in my first years at law school. Squirt was born Edward, and a card, pinned to the board of a Boston music store, made a call. Eddie is back from Vietnam and looking to sing the blues. My other life dispensed some cool in the regard of fellow law students, my Fender making regular inroads into the female cohort, trust me on that. We were the 69th Airborne, other personnel drifting in and out. I wrote the songs and Squirt fronted the outfit with a shirtless abandon that compensated for our inability to provide fans a stable lineup. We enjoyed a local following, free beer, and a write-up in the alternative weekly. Screeching Squirt was banking on a future as the next Robert Plant.

The Airborne flew a regular circuit. We knew the drill, drank with the bouncers, and found familiar faces on smoke-filled floors. And we could hope for wider renown, our self-proclaimed manager—Squirt’s equally wastrel brother— scoring us a spot opening for Creedence at a cavernous club on the shore. The Airborne overshot the runway. But the story gets it all wrong. I really heard no jeers, although the misfortune did close that chapter. I was well-enough attuned, the band a diversion, and I put the debacle behind. But the other founding member never escaped a rut of fantasy and substance abuse. Squirt attempted to keep the Airborne aloft, but encountered crippling turbulence, my guitar-playing replacement stealing the equipment. The stymied vocalist parlayed his local notoriety into a gig as a late-night deejay, but any broadcasting career was cut short by a penchant for inviting listeners—underage daughters of Boston bluebloods—back to the studio for a full board of debauchery. He followed me out West, where he formed a one-man band of petty criminal, incompetent handyman, and skilled welfare recipient. The hound dog casts a doleful eye—I could have been somebody!

You let him down? Joe, just let it go! Guilt, too, fails as an explanation—I have already suffered a surfeit; my conscience is clear. That failure is just fate; the acquaintance brings no profit, you might scratch your head. But an analyst has nothing more to go on, as you can take on another authority: The Last Refuge offers a haven for my fellow philosophers, and for a reasonable $17.50 you could benefit from A Treatise on Human Nature—the real cause is fool’s gold, a tale told by a third party. But suppose the party is closer to home, a man doesn’t know his own mind? He just has more stake in the story.

—Fair enough, Holmes, you did deduce who done it, but what about the why? That question is another story. The corpse is cold, to the confirmation of your touch; the murderer left a footprint, for the inspection of your glass; the weapon is lodged in the back of the victim, for the gawk of any witness. But what about the motive? That curiosity lies in the eye of the beholder.—

I compromise myself? Get with the program, Sam! Let’s stick to the subject at hand. In any case, can the anthropologist not live with a cannibal tribe without developing the taste? The student of primitive behavior has no need to voyage to New Guinea, the dive bar has its natives. Like a cheap horror movie, the freak had found a fan club, the buxom barkeep following his volley of expletives as if a metamathematical proof. The hearer was in hysterics, but a shameless server stops at nothing for a tip. And though my senses were sullied, my soul saw no stain, trust me—his deviant barrage had no conceivable interest, the nonsense falling on deaf ears. Like the city on the hill, my character needs no defense. I might be laughing too, but the funny was all peculiar.

  “Too late, my friend. I’ve already talked to a moving company.” I had talked, but balked at the quote. Have no fear, I could afford the service, would not suffer the gouge. Christine and I bought, before the present boom in real estate, a modest two-story next door to a kindergarten that offered safe parking, but little peace. I leveraged the equity to pay off the divorce settlement and rented the top floor to her distant cousin, a reserved teacher fleeing the war zone of inner-city high school for the quiet of seminary. The sale spared me some reminders, but not all debt, and I duly joined my housemate in an inhospitable rental market. Chancing on a small apartment in need of repair, I haggled the slumlord into waiving three months for the work, but had little time for manual labor, still less the inclination. Kowalski keeps it close, but he was honored to acquire a distinguished tenant. At least he should have been.

The giggling was grating. But Missy was pleasantly plump, the years little wearing out the cushion. Her big auburn hair agreed with lipstick of reddish-brown hue, and her perfume offset the vinegar we had liberally sprinkled on fish and chips, risked from the adjacent takeout. Diligently wiping my counter, she appreciated the visit of respectability to her poor premises. At least she should have. The hard luck story she was spinning both lowered her in my estimation and raised my worldly hopes. Opportunity came knocking. Old Frank downed his whisky and took his leave of her lounge, and the compulsive fidget who had lowered the tone disappeared into the bathroom, an underworld phone call the more likely necessity.

I could give her undivided attention. Taller than the bum, she found me more pleasing to the eye and rewarding of conversation. At least she should have. The cool customer apologized for some unfortunate language—Missy, I won’t be hanging out with him again, believe me—complimented  her fine establishment and extended the comedy to his own flourishing concern. The Last Refuge still has a few vintage business cards, one of which happened to find its way onto the counter. I alluded to the radio show, brought up the success of my book, gave her to believe that I owned a house on a desirable street—a claim not literally false, the sale yet to close.

The table was set. The counter was mine. A barkeep has a reputation. Wishful thinking, you say? Maybe I will silence your skepticism, before the night is through! My conversation partner was a well-constructed and fine-looking woman, whom I engaged with admirable aplomb, given a lower back distraction. Curtail your conjecture, the bar stool has no mercy! The bar steward was more forgiving, greeting my literary license with no discernible distress. And she inspected my card with some interest, refilled my glass with a knowing smile. Missy gave a generous pour.

 “Quality residence, bub.” We were inspecting the damp rooms and discolored walls of the suite on the third floor of the Dolorosa Apartments. “As soon as I work my magic.” The forensic team was now drawing up the report, over a  wobbly kitchen table. The supposed contractor had been scribbling a series of vital repairs on a legal pad that I had just purchased at the corner store. A fresh coat of paint and working sockets were all I wanted, but my grill lacked the chops.

“Pass me a brew, bub.” The poet laid the pen on the parquet, his well of invention dry. King Edward was enthroned at the head of a banquet, where he popped the can of Bud Lite. “Home Desperation, I’m there, first thing tomorrow. I’ll give ya a special deal, we go back.”

“The last time you gave me a deal, I ended up in court.”

“There was excrementing circumstances, bub.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. In any case, I’m not bankrolling any more drug abuse.”

“I gotta eat.”

“Even if I were completely soft in the head, I can think of far more deserving recipients of my charity.”

“You’re cold!”

“Freezing, in here. So you won’t need a fridge. We’ll take a trip to the corner market. But forget about booze.”

“You got it, bub. A professional never parties on the job.”

“I ain’t no millionaire’s son.” The acceptance letter from Harvard Law, opened in a suburban kitchen, occasioned both joy and calculation. The parents could help, but Uncle Sam must also lend a hand. Pursuing the career of preparation, the law school graduate returned to his summer internment camp. Fanshawe, Fanshawe, Elliot, and Cooper occupied the top three floors of a high-rise overlooking Boston Harbor, though my modest office was untroubled by the light of day. But a regular disturbance made up for lack of visual stimulation. A law firm cannot discriminate, and so the whole floor heard Fosburgh berating secretaries, paralegals, clerks, and junior associates alike. One of the oldest firms in the country, the institution is prestigious, the work of handsome pay, and minimal fulfillment. I had breezed through the previous summer on their books, but was now staring at life as a corporate lawyer. Fanshawe was representing an international pharmaceutical company, their malaria pill implicated in third world birth defects, whereupon my inflexible sister launched a blistering attack on my very being. The case dragged on, met with complication, and a favorable outcome would establish my reputation. Despite the recency of my recruitment, I had full rein and a recurring migraine. Gordon had been my doctor since law school. He played guitar; our bands had regularly shared a bill. I just dropped in to see what condition my condition was in! Confound the condition. We talked music; the rotund reveler knew my combo rocked the harder. At least he should have.

 A magazine needs a winning cover. The handsome tennis champion flashes a boyish grin and lofts the gleaming trophy, champagne wetting the broad chest of his sponsor’s T-shirt. The newsstand features the iconic photo, to the swoon of female fans. But what does the picture say?

He is the Man! Spare a thought then for his opponent, alone in an anonymous hotel room. The ball took an unfavorable bounce, he was battling the flu, he tripped at match point. The misfortune warrants no mocking nickname. The word is unworthy, the sentiment unjust. Prize tulips bloom late; hasty judgment speaks ill only of the judge. Let us stop the nonsense. We really should know better. No man is a loser.

 I never call in sick. I allude to a doctor only to forestall sorry speculation. The maligned cannot control all rumor, but can return a vicious volley with a shot of honest accounting. Gordon wrote his note. However, the case was coming to a close, the firm could ill afford delay, and the music club debacle still festered. Plane Crash—a local rag sparking the wildfire—I would add no further fuel. I could pay off my loans in less than two years and dragged my reservations back to work. So there!

Wanton tongues will wag. Bill never lets me forget, my sister has little more sympathy, my wife got wind. The world insists on Annie, but call me what they will, I face adversity like a man. The fall proves no exception. I was under inhuman strain. Whatever the idle gossip, I had no nervous breakdown. Absurd! The custodian did find me on the floor, but he just panicked. I was drained, not overwhelmed. All right, I was hardly able to move, temporarily, but had gone months with little sleep and no proper nourishment. I did briefly collapse, in a manner of speaking, but would have recovered just fine. I didn’t need the ambulance. A chance mishap fells the sturdiest of men. And it never happened again, I can assure you.

Let’s put things in perspective. I spent just two nights in the hospital. Will a mason not disappear from sight to work steadily on the foundations? And after a week at home, I had completely recovered. The firm found me other work, to which I was able to give my full attention. Only Fosburgh cast aspersions. Working all night was not enough, my briefs were subjected to minute and terrifying scrutiny, but the despot rages over a split infinitive, to properly assign the blame.

The decision was all mine, trust me. Most partners were understanding, sorry to see me go. One of them offered to use his connections, put in a good word. What more proof do you want? Corporate law is a trap. But a wily fox sees the glint. And he found employment on more forgiving slopes of the income-distribution curve.

 “When ya movin, bub?” One eye pursued the interrogation. The other wandered off on a mission of its own.

“I’m at your mercy, unfortunately. How long will your exquisite craftsmanship take?”

“Honestly? Won’t tell ya no lie, shitload of work here. I’m a professional, gonna bust my balls. Have the place ready in a week. Gua.ran.tee.”

You see the problem. Fluffing the figure by a factor of fifty would likely still lowball the longevity of distress. I had to be out of the house by the end of the month. The budding tenant would be bunking in a building site.

 The great outdoors! I joined the National Park Service. My migraines disappeared, along with the smoking habit. I even moderated my alcohol consumption, though soon came back to my senses. Family and friends discovered that the proud holder of a U.S. passport had willingly traded the tailored suits of a promising legal career for park-ranger green. They saluted my spirit, envied my freedom, respected my integrity. At least they should have. At the beginning of the adventure, I phoned home regularly, telling the mother how the magnificent scenery and wide-open spaces had expanded my own horizons. She kept coming back to Disneyland. I opened the address book, mailed postcards of invitation from Joshua Tree, Yellowstone, Mt. Rainier. I received no reply. Annie had taken a back road to nowhere. The hippie would come to his senses, the insurrection run its course.

 “Let’s wrap it up. I’m tired of this dump already.” A bulb hung from the ceiling, and its harsh light made the bare, cramped kitchen even less welcoming. I was squatting on the worn linoleum, my back to the yellowing varnish of an ill-fitting cabinet door. We had finished off another six-pack.

“Okay to drive, bub?” The derelict has some presence. I occupy a pedestal, testament to the world of legitimate income.

“I’ll get a cab. Need a ride?”

“I like to walk. Good for the noggin.” Squirt jealously guards the location of his living quarters. The lodger pays no rent, mining an inexhaustible resource, the forgiveness of a lonely woman. I’m the gangster of love. Oh please, they only see you as the tapeworm!

“I’ll need a key, bub.” Our roost had been interrupted only by trips to the market for chips and alcoholic refreshment. A churlish Mr. Choi dragged his eyes from a tiny television to view us with suspicion, likely attributing the repeated visits to preparation for a heist. Squirt updated me on his conquests and elaborated, as usual, on his tours of duty in ’Nam. And, as usual, the shoe and sock were shed to showcase the missing toes. His yarns wander haphazardly and contradict each other to the extent that I have long ceased to believe in any vicinity to a military base. Vietnam, the excuse that keeps on giving.

Does the toeless wonder toot?! Some of you know another tale, a senatorial candidate and future president claiming combat experience. Lyndon memorably married a Lady Bird, but did he ever come under hostile fire? The Texan did once fly over enemy lines, on an information-gathering mission, which trip he spun out into a whole wartime of heroism and courage. What are we ever to believe? In any case, I’m not at all jealous of Squirt’s way with women. Like the concoctions of a certain literary character—and I think you know who I mean—why suppose his reports have the remotest resemblance to reality? And I have worked my own way, trust me. Who is better off, really? Will you look at the state of the man?!

The pot was a-boil. The stew was rank. I suffered in silence, a stir only releasing further effluvium. But we had indulged, and libation loosens more than the tongue.

“Tearin up, bub?” Alas, he does not rest content with autobiography.

“A man can’t wipe his eyes without spurious accusation?”

“Still keepin the flame!” As usual, his barge has lost its moorings. The bookseller might be burdened with some feelings, but boys don’t cry. Please!

“I’m just fine. Although your nonsense would make a stone statue weep.”

“I met yer wife once. Ya done well.”

“She has some good qualities, so I’m told. Although that’s neither here nor there.”

“Cutie pie. I’d give her one.”

He wants to be a paperback writer? Since you ask, I wanted gold records on the wall, more than anything else. But a published novel would spell redemption. The park ranger looked beyond the boundary. A wagon train was crossing the high desert, carrying a rough load, painted in bright colors, as you have come to expect. The adventure would resonate with telling detail, the womenfolk valiantly attempting to keep up appearances in dust and drought, their men hunting for food in the dry scrub, but returning empty-handed after draining a whisky bottle. The pioneers schooled their children, prayed to their God, and worried over unsettled debts. The reader would be privy to jealousy and petty squabble, an intimate domestic round set off against a bleak landscape. Youngsters would grow up fast, fall in love, snatch any moment of privacy that the wagons permitted. High drama would punctuate days of boredom, a son’s challenge to his father’s leadership, resolved in the elder’s favor by a brutal fistfight. Facing daily adversity, we would salute their survival, indulge their weakness, and ache for their loss. I would wait until the very last page to drop the bomb, stranding the party I had brought to life in a blizzard on Donner Pass.

 A telling story demands authentic set. The family station wagon once plied the entire Eastern Seaboard on vacation, but my worldly knowledge never made it through the Cumberland Gap. I now pored over a National Park map and bought a one-way bus ticket to Zion Canyon. The uproot spent his first week working a concession stand, my only memory an awkward encounter with a law school classmate who felt morally diminished in my presence. At least she should have. I acquired a ranger’s hat, rose before dawn to find the folding table that did duty as a writer’s desk. The endeavor proceeded apace, slowed down, and gave out altogether. I had no trouble painting a landscape, conveying a sense of place. But my rugged individuals were sketched with a generic pencil; the wagon train connected formulaic dots. I lugged a suitcase and guitar to the Greyhound station in St. George. The pattern repeated itself in Death Valley and the Grand Canyon. I migrated from Utah to California, Arizona high desert to Wyoming geyser, running into the same youthful German tourists and RV-driving retirees. The intended quarry remained elusive. My suitcase held one change of clothing, a few toiletries, packages of writing paper, and a portable typewriter over which I spent my free time, holed up in the spartan accommodation of the seasonal employee. The sheaves I carried over state lines recrossed largely untouched.

The ranger was a quick study. My visitor center lectures were attentively received, the same audience taking up their seat day after day, little motivated to abandon the cool theater for scorching heat outside. I led nature walks and entertained campers around the fire circle, my rendition of park fable accompanied by the crackling of burning logs and nocturnal forest music, the smell of lighter fluid wafting through the campground over pine needles and lichen-covered rock.

 “Give ya a buzz mañana!” Weeks would pass before he made any attempt to reestablish contact. We were parting company on the corner outside the apartment building. The degenerate would win no Boy Scout badge, but can hold his liquor. A more upright citizen was steadying himself against a telephone pole.

“Well, look who’s here. Good evening, Anselm. How lovely to see you.” The woman was approaching on the sidewalk. A silver swirl framed her features, a couple of handsome boxers followed on a leash, a long skirt and sensible shoes furthering the distinction.

I have already prepared you. The person never made that party, and my previous memorandum left out a statistic of vital impression, the information having little bearing at the time. And in truth, I am poorly fitted for assessment. Have you remarked the conundrum? You notice a thing at some remove from normal expectation. Should you care? You are bothered by the mother berating her child on the sidewalk, the couple smooching at a fine-dining table, the teenagers gossiping in a quiet library room, though the public makes no protest. Are you making a big deal out of nothing? Like the opinion that others hold of you, you can never know. Grace is the person, of most appropriate appellation. Although she does walk the earth on legs of mismatched length, with no enhancement of heel. I admire the stance, the indifference to cosmetic expectation, and have no idea how to hold her handicap. I share the observation in the interests of full disclosure. No one else makes remark. Is it just me?

“Hello Grace, nice to see you too.” Suffering my own impediment, I enunciated with care.

“Sorry I missed you at the party. Gloria told me about your move.”

“Indeed, I now rent an apartment. She had to quarantine me.”

“I’m actually quite envious. Owning a house is a burden when you’re out of town. Tanzania is a little far away, haha. I’m working on a story, African women running their own business.”

“Not easy for them, I’m thinking? I hope we’re giving good support.”

“We would best get out the way—I’m walking a fine line. The New York Times seems interested, cross fingers. I’m sure you’ll like the neighborhood. We should have coffee sometime.”

“Um, this is Edward. He was just leaving. Eddie’s a contractor, going to do some work for me. The apartment could use a little touch-up.”

“Delighted to meet you, Eddie. I’m Grace.” She risked a hand.

“Fine looking dogs, ma’am. You take good care, I see.”

“I’d like to take the credit, Eddie. They’re not mine. I belong to the local Presbyterian Church.”

“I hear good things, ma’am. Soup kitchen?”

“We’d love to see you sometime, for the service, of course. The minister is in the hospital, and I volunteered to walk the boys.”

“I used to have boxers myself.”

Claptrap! The only animal he ever owned was a pit bull that had to be put down after relieving a concubine’s corgi of an ear. I only heard the story after he begged me to cover a five-hundred-dollar fine. One soulmate had caught him with another and reported his beast to animal control. Gullible Grace beamed at the bricolage. Merrywood has his morals and the righteous will take umbrage, trumpet truth to lie. But the bottle betrays the bugle boy. Her fuss had always prompted flight. I now had to share the attention, and she represented all that was good in the world.

“I enjoy a good walk, now that I’m on my own. Dogs are such good company, don’t you think, Anselm?” My imbalance needed the lamppost, but she had no idea. The animals sat patiently, fixing me with an alert stare. Why can’t Rudyard do me proud? “Well, gentlemen, I’d love to chat, but I’ve got work to do. Here’s my card, Anselm.” She reached into a canvas shoulder bag. “Do give me a call.” The churchgoer smiled warmly and allowed the young men to lead her away. I waited for Squirt’s heartless joke as we followed her limp of departure.

“Classy broad. And she likes you, bub.”

“That comes as a surprise?”

“Nice looking, too.” He would follow with some vile suggestion. “Don’t let this one git away. Lady save yer sorry ass from the frickin books. Ain’t natural, bub.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

“I’m outta here.” He saluted. The derelict took one direction, Grace the other, while I shivered in place. Underdressed, overwrought, decision-impaired, I was cemented to the sidewalk, following a gradual reduction the length of Dolorosa. A new bow pulled my strings as the dusk disclosed the undulation. She must live in that direction. The card remained in my clasp as the form dissolved from view.