I looked up the number for the local authorized Kotekna service center and dialed it. After two rings a friendly voice picked up.
“Service,” he said.
“Hi,” I said. “I’ve got a problem with my VCR.”
“Is it in warranty, sir?”
“Yes, but it’s been serviced twice already. I’m not interested in having anothe harranty, sir serviceman look at it. What I need from you, is there some sort of eight-hundred number, a customer service line or anything like that?”
“Hold on,” he said, a little less friendly. He got back on the line and gave me the number. I thanked him, hung up, and dialed the number he had given me. A recorded voice instructed me to wait for the next available operator. Before the message ended a live voice broke in on the line.
“Kotekna Video. Customer service.”
“Customer service?” I said lamely. “I’m sorry. I’m a retailer, not a customer. I was trying to get the sales manager for the mid-Atlantic region. What’s his name again?”
“Bruce Baum,” she said.
“Yes, of course. Could you connect me please?” There was a click, then a couple of rings.
“Mr. Baum’s office,” a sweet voice said.
“This is Gary Fisher,” I said, “with Nutty Nathan’s in Washington. Can I speak to Bruce, please?”
“Let me see if he’s in. Hold, please.” A click, more waiting, then, “I’ll connect you.”
“Bruce Baum,” a smooth voice said.
“Bruce,” I said, “Gary Fisher, the merch manager with Nutty Nathan’s.”
“Gary,” he said with false warmth. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m really calling for some advice on one of your products.”
“Go ahead, Gary.”
“My company purchased a hundred sticks from your people at the CES show in Vegas, a closeout I think.”
“That’s right. The KV100, wasn’t it? Your GM, Jerry Rosen, cut the deal himself.”
“Yes. Anyway, to be honest with you, I’m having some trouble moving them. I don’t know if it’s a problem with price point, or if I’m not promoting them correctly, or what?” I heard the slur of my words and let him talk.
“Well,” he said, “I hope you’re not trying to make the full mark on them. After all, even considering they were defects, I practically gave them away.”
“Defects?”
“Yes. Didn’t you know?”
“No.”
“Well, then,” he said with a chuckle, “there’s your problem right there. Miscommunication in your office. I had this load of KV100’s with defective boards. Jerry Rosen came out to the show and decided to take them off my hands for practically nothing. He said he was going to have your service department order the new parts, fix the units themselves, then blow them out at a strong retail to make an impression in your market. He probably hasn’t gotten the parts yet. That’s why they="3" whvesre still sitting in your barn.”
“The units are shells right now, is that what you’re saying?”
“That’s right.”
“Thanks, Bruce.”
“ Thank you. Let me know how you do with them. We’ve been trying to get our foot in your door for years. Frankly, I cut this deal with Rosen as an entree.”
“I’ll let you know, Bruce. Thanks again.” I hung up.
I put fire to a Camel and leaned back in my chair. A bird flew onto the window ledge, saw me, and flew off. I exhaled a line of smoke and watched it shatter as it hit the glass. I heard cynical laughter and realized it was mine.
There was one more call to make, a detail done so that I could put it all away and return to my cleansing binge. I got South Carolina information on the line.
I contacted the personnel director for Ned’s World. I identified myself as a the personnel manager of a large retail chain in the Baltimore-Washington corridor. After a couple of questions my suspicions were confirmed.
Then I was downstairs and spilling money on the bar. Steve Maroulis yelled something to my back as I walked out. The temperature had dropped and the sun was buried in a thick cover of clouds. Still, the light burned my eyes. I put on shades and got behind the wheel of my car.
I cut down Thirty-Eighth to Nebraska, across Connecticut and right on Military to Missouri, then left on Georgia. I pulled over and parked across the street from the Good Times Lunch.
Kim shot me a look when I walked in. Some heads turned in the gray-haired group seated near the upright fan and the malt liquor poster featuring Fred “The Hammer” Williamson. I sat on the stool nearest the front door. Kim walked over with a pad in his hand.
“No food today, Kim. Just give me a can of beer.”
He brought one, set it down, and walked away. I drank half of it in one swallow and lit a cigarette. The fan blew my smoke in the direction of the front door. I killed my beer and shouted for Kim to bring me another.
I dozed off or blacked out for a minute or so. When I opened my eyes, Kim was setting a fresh beer in front of me. I popped the top and drank deeply. Some of the beer ran down my chin.
“Last one,” Kim said.
“Sure, Kim.”
“Go home, Nick.” There was something approaching sadness on his face.
I left the remainder of the beer and a pile of ones on the counter. I stumbled out and stepped off the curb. A group of kids yelled something from a car that nearly grazed me. The kid riding shotgun flipped me off.
My Dodge came to life. I swung a “U” on Georgia and headed back downtown. I undid the top of the pint with thheight one hand and took a burning slug. I cracked another beer and wedged it between my thighs.
The car next to me honked and someone yelled. I turned the radio louder. I passed what was once a movie theater and was now a Peoples Drug Store. My thoughts moved back twenty years.
I am ten years old in this summer of 1968. I’m on the bus, the J-2, on my daily trip down Georgia Avenue to F Street, where I’ll transfer to another bus that will take me crosstown to papou’s carryout. I bag lunches there behind the counter.
The D.C. Transit bus, with its turquoise vinyl seats and orange striping, is not air-conditioned. The ones they commission to this part of town never are. By ten in the morning, when I ride, the bus already reeks with the sweat of working Washington.
This summer things feel different. Georgia Avenue is not the worst of spots, but the fires of April have lapped at this street. Every week I notice more businesses have closed. There seems to be a tension on the bus between blacks and whites, though I’m not afraid. Something is happening and I’m there to see it. Women wear large, plastic florescent earrings that read, “Black Is Beautiful” over the silhouettes of Afro’ed couples. Lawyers have long hair and wear wide, flowery ties. The ultrasquare DJ, Fred Fiske on 1260 AM, is playing the Youngblood’s “Get Together” in heavy rotation.
I read the changing marquees of the neighborhood movie theaters that line Georgia Avenue: Eleanor Parker and Michael Sarrazin in Eye of the Cat; George Peppard and Orson Welles in House of Cards; Alex Cord in Harold Robbins’ Stiletto. Downtown, at the Trans-Lux, The Great Bank Robbery, with Clint Walker and Kim Novak, has just opened.
At three in the afternoon, after the lunch rush is over at papou’s store, a man drops a stack of Daily News on top of the cigarette machine. I take one to a booth and read the reviews of the films whose titles I have seen splashed across the marquees earlier in the day.
I look behind the counter at my grandfather. He is slicing a tomato that he holds in his hand. The juice of the tomato stains the yellowish apron he wears around his ample middle. There is a Band-Aid on his thumb from his accident on the meat slicer earlier in the day. He sees the tabloid open in front of me and knows my daily ritual.
“Anything good today at the movies, Niko?” he shouts across the store.