“I guess we could look at structuring a deal. How would you want this, Frank?”
“In American money.”
Fred leaned on his fist for a moment and then said, “What about five hundred thou?”
Frank said nothing. It was an insulting offer. This guy was primitive. Frank’s hand was rested on the table. He raised it slightly and pointed upward.
Fred smiled and said, “A little dish of spumoni?”
“No thanks. Fred, who told you I might need to sell the clinic?”
“Talk of the town.”
Frank immediately related this to Gracie. That must be an interesting development to her, an antidote to the wearying predictability of the once brilliant businessman. El Floppo. For an instant, Frank saw failure as a way of dancing out ahead. Any creature that goes in a straight line is an invitation to predators. Except that old Fred here was sort of the predator.
“Did you see in the paper where Pepsi is coming out with a see-through cola?” Fred asked.
“They’re gonna fall on their ass,” said Frank.
“I agree,” said Fred, “but you know, colas are naturally clear.”
“Huh.”
“Little known fact. They add the coloring. I saw this VIP from Coke, cornered by reporters. He was yelling, ‘We have no plans to market a clear Tab!’ He looked like the wolves had him. He was shakin’ in his boots. I kinda felt sorry for him.”
“How’s anybody going to know this stuff’s clear?” Frank asked. “They going to pour it out on the ground?”
“The product’s gonna be in bottles, not cans.”
“Oh.”
Fred eased his checkbook out of his inside coat pocket. Frank smiled amiably, but it was camouflage. Fred had no way of knowing that this sale wouldn’t even meet the mortgage. Frank was trying to remember how these things were cross-collateralized — the hotel, the mini-storage, the office equipment and so on. He remembered reading that the boa constrictor doesn’t actually squeeze you to death but simply takes up the slack when you exhale or relax and never lets you get it back. Result? Mort. At the same time, contemplating the loss, Frank had the thought, This isn’t quite registering. He tried to picture a soup kitchen. It was like dabbling in failure.
Fred said, “You want my guy to prepare the closing?”
“There isn’t going to be a closing.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Frank. There’s gonna be a closing.”
It was happening. The snake was taking up slack. You could have whatever you wanted, but you couldn’t take a breath.
42
As Frank walked up Main Street, he reflected that recent history had shown that business failure and political disgrace were reliable preludes to spiritual awakening. Maybe I have that to look forward to, thought Frank. He was standing in front of a shop that sold stereo systems. They had Vivaldi and Tina Turner in the window and a display showing a man slumped in a large armchair, holding on for dear life, his hair blown back, all by the power of his sound system. He wondered why everything was crazy juxtapositions, cartoons or exaggerations these days. He wondered why his career was up in the blue and he was running around trying to field it like a pop fly.
There before him was Karl Hammersgard, the baseball coach, who had a cigarette centered in his teeth. He was shorter than Frank, but he bent back from the waist to talk rather than bend his head at the neck. This was one way short people looked up to taller people without appearing like they were looking up a stovepipe. A car pulled alongside them and parked. Frank caught the blue oval and the word “Ford” in the corner of his eye.
“Where’ve you been, anyway?” said Karl Hammersgard.
“I’ve been around.”
“You have? Maybe I just haven’t been paying attention. I saw Gracie. Is there … what.”
“Is there what?”
“Anything cooking?”
“Not with me, Karl. Alas.”
“Alas, huh?”
“Well, semi-alas.”
“I think it’s alas, old pal.”
“Maybe it is, Karl. I’m one of those guys you read about who’s not really in touch with his feelings.”
“Hey, me either. I don’t want to be in touch with my feelings. What a can of worms!”
“You said it. Say, what about Dick Hoiness? You see Dick Hoiness?”
“Frank, I seen Dick Hoiness about four days ago. Dick has really took off, got his own office, got a new car. I’m proud of him. Isn’t it something? He was the worst of all you hippies.”
After Frank continued down the sidewalk, he thought about Fred. It was Fred’s turn to hoard. And Dick Hoiness’s. I’m not going to hoard anymore, he told himself, no matter what.
He used the side door of his office to avoid any awkwardness with Lucy at the travel agency. There was a note from Eileen saying that she had quit and asking him to call. He called and got a recitation of events in which Eileen tried to be fair-minded, but she spoke in a sardonic tone about her need for a predictable atmosphere, a world that was not changing daily. She said that she would be willing to work on a contract basis, some bookkeeping and some typing, if that was needed. Frank thought that it might well be. He thanked her for many years of service, and when he got off the phone, he felt immediate relief to have the office to himself. He began to work at his desk. The bills and letters were hopelessly mixed up; so were the incomprehensible wads from the tax assessor, who was just now coming into season. He found himself reading the unsolicited mail; not just Victoria’s Secret but also ham catalogues, tool catalogues, garden catalogues, sporting equipment catalogues, video catalogues, salmon products catalogues, fun things for kids catalogues, self-help catalogues. There were many things to buy. It was desolating.
He was surprised that, in view of his personal problems, he was so interested in the slowed sales growth of diet colas. He remembered 1982 as the year Diet Coke came on line, and 1984 as the year Diet Coke went to NutraSweet. His life must not have been perfect then, but now it was seriously imperfect and he focused on Clearly Canadian as the first beverage to identify some of the new energies out there, with mountain blackberry and orchard peach sodas sold in blue glass bottles that were heavy in the hand. A Pepsi spokesman stated in the Wall Street Journal that his company was not going to sit on the sidelines and watch the New Age go by without their participation. Besides, Pepsi was trying to find the right spin for their spokesperson Michael Jackson’s relentlessly grabbing his dick in his latest video. In a surprise move, Kraft, a division of Philip Morris, was testing canned cappuccino in Arizona. Frank sighed at these national battles, thinking of his reduction to hotel keeper for chickens. He didn’t feel that visiting these chickens with dick in hand would produce a national news conference and exploding chicken sales or he would have headed on over there and gotten down to business.
Someone was stirring around in the front office. Frank folded his paper and called out, “Yes? Can I help you?”
“Dad?”
“Holly? Hol, is that you?”
Frank went into the front office, once occupied by the hugely appreciated Eileen. Holly was standing there with her old high school girl grin. She was wearing a snap-button shirt and jeans with a scarf through the belt loops. The effect of the costume was a bit more “western” than Frank was accustomed to. He gave her a hug. Then she followed him into his office and allowed him to pull up a chair for her.
Holly had moved back into town. She was taking a semester off to be with Lane Lawlor. This was better for Lane’s contacts in the range livestock industry, and Lane felt he had timber products well covered. He was working as a lobbyist for “some people.” Frank tried to ask mildly, “Which people?” but it came out a little strong. They settled for “people.” Frank was seething.