A heavy man in a plumber’s shirt said, “What’s going on?”
The teller said, “Banking.”
A short while later, I was at the cage.
“You don’t have an account,” he said. “We’ve been through this before.”
Catherine said, “We’re together. I’d like a current balance on my checking account.”
The teller said, “Well, which one of you is it?”
“You’ve just explained that he has no account,” said Catherine. “You answered that question. Here is my number. Get the account balance now and don’t be a tired old bag for another minute.”
“Oh, Miss California, are we?”
“No, you are.”
“How would you like this in your face?” He picked up a calculator tentatively and Catherine started screaming that she was being attacked. The manager came to the door of his office and curtly summoned the teller.
Catherine checked her account with the next teller and withdrew some money. We went back out in the street. She was already thinking of other things. “I’d like you to meet your birthday present,” she said and led me back to the La Concha Hotel. We went to the fifth floor and knocked on an unnumbered door.
“Come in.”
“We can’t.”
“Why?”
“It’s locked.”
“That’s why you can’t come in!”
“Where are these people coming from?” I asked.
The door opened and a young man in a kind of shiny suit you scarcely see any more stood there and said, “Oh.” And then said, “Come in.” He reached out, his arm angled up and his hand angled down, and said, “How do you do. Don Hathaway.” I shook hands. I would describe the contents of Don’s room but none of it’s of any interest. I know many people who would describe it anyway.
Don said, “I’ve been following your career for years and now I’m following you.”
“What’s this mean, Catherine.”
“Don is a private detective,” said Catherine. “I’ve hired him to follow you.”
“To what end?”
“He is going to report to you every day everything you did the day before. As time goes by, he will report every two days and so on until you can remember on your own. Happy birthday.”
“Your birthday was on Wednesday,” said Don.
“How old am I?”
“I don’t know…”
“Well, find out.”
* * *
Because I hadn’t spoken to the interviewer, they wild-tracked a lot of stuff from my old performances and played it over my frozen countenance, all with a mind to making me seem in bigger trouble than I really am. This had the effect of bringing idlers to the front of my house in hopes of seeing what was being peddled as the most sleazed-out man in America.
There was a kind of concrete fountain in front of the place with an iron egret rusting on a length of welding rod. I hung a sign on it that said:
DEPRAVED PERVERT WISHING WELL
and the money began to come in. It was clear that before the kids got on to the coins, I’d have enough to put on my party at the Casa Marina. Late at night, while I slept, I could hear the change plopping in the fountain and I felt happy. Still, I suspected that the law of averages would soon bring a justice-hungry citizen, some shitsucker, creeping into my place to avenge decency. Here though, I was confident my silent-running dog would have such a one by the leg. So I slept.
The next day, Don stopped by to tell me about my wishing well. He also told me that I was cavorting in the sand at Rest Beach at three in the morning. I told him he’d made this up. He said, “You cut your foot on a Doctor Pepper bottle. You’d better put something on it.” I’d been limping all day. Don left. I got some mercurochrome.
* * *
Catherine and I lay in the sand. I was on my back feeling the sun form its evanescent oval on my belly, the hot retinal images that come through the lids. The sea was breathing at our feet and I considered how trying it can be to be crazy, with a Band-Aid on your arch, if you accept that you are that, crazy, which I had not, any more than I had dismissed it. I rolled over and rested my hand on Catherine.
“Cut.”
“What?”
“Cut it out.”
“Okay. What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s not wrong.”
“Then what’s this?”
“I just don’t want any.”
“God why are you shouting? It was recently my birthday.”
“I want some sun. And I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
“About simply making a living. The cans are nearly empty. It’s a photo finish every month, getting everything paid. And I have to admit, this private detective is just about all I can handle.”
“Catherine, I didn’t ask you to hire this private detective”.
“He’s the only legitimate expense I have. Don’t start diminishing that.”
“He’s useless.” I was shouting.
“I don’t believe that.”
“He’s absolutely useless.”
“I bet he’s already told you something you didn’t know.”
That kiboshed my replies good.
Catherine said, “Oh, please, I’m sorry. Why do I attack you? You haven’t got a chance.”
And then she slept dreamlessly while I watched her. I got up quietly and slipped into the house to dress. I walked down to Juan Maeg’s store and bought a handful of tin rings with plastic jewels; and I bought a few dozen washable tattoos. I went back to the house, fished almost three dollars out of the wishing well under the disapproving gaze of fat Mrs. Dean next door, and walked around to the beach. Catherine was sound asleep. I haven’t got a chance? I slipped the rings over each finger, licking them so they’d slide on without waking her. Then I got a dish of water and began tattooing her: Donald Duck, Spider Man, anchors, hearts, Dodge, Chevrolet, a nice Virgin of Guadalupe, the Fonz, an American eagle, the Silver Streak, Bruce Lee. I covered her and went inside.
When she came in a while later, I was conscious of what a spectacle she was; the tattoos were startling. I smiled a question and she said, “Let’s eat.” Then she started toward the door. The tide was turning.
“Don’t you want to scrub up?”
“No, I’m fine.”
She insisted on eating at the Pier House, which is a nice place, full at lunch, a professional clientele. We asked for a table, me in my huaraches and housepainter’s baggy pants, Catherine in a bathing suit, twelve paste rings, and twenty-five loud tattoos. It was the last month of hurricane season.
Catherine wanted to discuss local Cuban politics. She didn’t know anything about them and I couldn’t get past how peculiar she looked. I asked her, “How can you do this to me?” The whole god damned restaurant was gaping. I felt like a fool.
We went back to my place and Don the detective was waiting for me. I found this distressing, since I’d already picked some songs to play for her on the mandolin. But then, it seemed she was waiting for a reason to slip off; and suddenly she was gone. Don got out his notes. I said, “I don’t want to know.”
“Don’t waste her money. She works hard for it.”
“No she doesn’t. It’s all in a can. What does she pay you?”
“Classified.”
“You’re not supposed to be here now.”
“I won’t be regular. That would only start your memory loping. I’ll just pop up.”
“I hate popping up. That’s against everything I’ve ever fought for. Don’t you fucking pop up on me.”
Then he recited each thing I had done from bandaging my foot to tattooing Catherine. There were no surprises; but I didn’t like the feeling I was getting. I didn’t like it at all. I looked at Don. Today he was wearing mesh shoes and a banlon sport shirt. I could not fail to notice that he had moved his part from one side of his head to the other since the morning.