The gas tank is nearly empty as I pull into a station-We Never Close-just over the Gastonia city limits. I pump while Robert, always hungry, goes in search of a bean burrito and a microwave oven. As I wait to pay, I realize I’m going empty-handed. I grab a pale, wilted poinsettia on the counter and ask the Pakistani behind the register to add it to the bill. Take it, take it, no charge, free, Merry Christmas, mister, he says, bobbing his head and smiling like a lunatic.
The cemetery isn’t far, another mile or two. We pass the crumbling headstones and the granite pylon dedicated by the Daughters of the Confederacy and drive up the hill where the grave markers are flat and the lawn kept neat and trim with riding mowers. I set the flowerpot on a small pink slab that marks the final resting spot of Anthony (Nunzio) and Ruth Calhoun Nocera. Later that night, the weather will turn more seasonable and a strong wind will tip the pot, mercifully finishing off the already half-dead flower. Robert takes pity on me and stares at his feet when I start to cry.
The temperature plummets as soon as the sun goes down. Robert and I, neither of us wearing coats, make a quick dash through the truck stop parking lot. The waitress is in a good mood, dropping quarters in the jukebox, playing Elvis’s “Blue Christmas” six times in a row. Robert, a smudge of yellow omelet on his chin, calls out the chord progression. Wrong, I say, correcting a major to a minor chord. Right, perfect, we really need to play together, as soon as these are off, he says, waving his bandaged wrists. The waitress brings refills, wincing and trying not to stare. Sure, I say, we’ll play some day.
Eleven O’clock Number
What goes around comes around?
Things have come full circle?
There must be a one-size-fits-all cliché for this final chapter of my belated bildungsroman.
A leopard doesn’t change its spots?
When all is said and done, it’s been easier to embrace my new “lifestyle” than to accept the fact that I’m a natural born salesman. After all, my style of life seems remarkably unchanged. I live in a brand-spanking-new town house that, except for a difference of, say, a thousand square feet, could be mistaken for 12 Virginia Dare Court-not surprising since the elves in the Toll Brothers workshop are more renowned for their productivity than their originality. The Toyota’s been upgraded to an SUV, same make, later model year, same color as the vehicle I’d signed over to Alice. Maybe I dress a little better. No, not really, but my clothes fit better because I hit the pool five mornings a week, determined not to concede to the full-frontal assault of early middle age. Then I guzzle a cup of coffee, premium blend of course, and resist (usually) the Krispy Kremes, fortifying myself for another day on the front lines. You could say I’m an evangelist of sorts, spreading the Gospel of Nocera/Olsson Climate Control Systems, formerly known by the more quotidian moniker Nocera Heat and Air. What could have persuaded me to walk away from the promising career opportunities at Barnes and Noble? Randy T had been running the business since the old man died. My mother had been generous, paying him a substantial salary and a hefty percentage of the ever-increasing construction boomtown revenues. He’d lost his hair, but still had his athlete’s body and charm and animal magnetism, expanding Nocera Heat and Air into commercial construction and exclusive distribution rights. After years of being unfettered by our mother and anticipating a future under the scrutiny of the ungrateful heirs, he was about to accept an offer to jump to a competitor. Regina and I engaged a broker to value the business and summoned Randy T to Boca Raton. He left Florida an equal partner, owner of one-third equity interest with the title of President and CEO.
Randy T has a vision for the company’s future. The old man installed and serviced HVAC units; Randy T toils in “thermal control design and construction.” He didn’t need a Wharton MBA to know that Nocera/Olsson needed a Director of Sales and Marketing to take it to the next level. The title was a compromise because family pride, which I graciously allowed my sister to defend, would not permit the son and heir of the Founding Father to agree to be called a “Vice” anything. It wasn’t a hard decision to make. Lying awake in my bed at Magnolia Towne Courte, full of midnight courage, I’d plotted my escape to Atlanta or south Florida. But when I gazed into the crystal ball in the harsh light of day, the future was daunting: the anxious interview, the entry-level sales position, the young and hungry competition, difficulties closing the deal, the sweet temptation of bourbon as an antidote for loneliness. Fearlessness isn’t one of my virtues. I’m still the boy who opted for the comfort and safety of Sweet Home Carolina when I hit a speed bump on the yellow brick road to Chicago.
A leopard doesn’t change its spots.
The time had arrived to step forward and embrace my legacy. I’d been preparing for this since I withdrew from Duke. Selling thermal control systems is a step up from persuading gullible retailers that Shelton/Murray design solutions will turn their pumpkins into Cinderella’s coach and it’s a whole other league from hawking cheap pieces of glued fiberboard for the King of Unpainted Furniture. I could even say it’s a noble endeavor, preserving the Nocera in Nocera/Olsson, carrying on the family name.
Besides, supporting Robert has turned out to be an expensive proposition. There’s tuition, room and board, spending money. Robert couldn’t sleep on the sofa forever; a boy needs the privacy of his own room. He knows there is a place he can call home during school breaks or the occasional weekend when Chapel Hill doesn’t feel so friendly. He’s taken up residence for the summer and tries to act enthusiastic about spending ten weeks on the Nocera/Olsson payroll, spending eight hours a day trying not to look totally useless. Randy T’s son has taken him under his wing.
Things have come full circle.
“Andy, uh, there’s someone here to see you,” Randy T says, standing awkwardly at my office door, looking a little flustered.
Goddamn it. It’s Friday afternoon and if there’s any chance of making Durham by the first pitch we need to be on the road in an hour. The Charlotte Knights are playing the Bulls tonight and rumor has it that Josh Strickland, the ace of the Triple-A pitching staff, is going to be called up to the majors after the game. Harold says he’s a highly prized prospect, the jewel of the White Sox farm system. Every general manager in the majors would like to hold his rights, and the Sox, desperate to trade one of their aging superstars to strengthen their bull pen, can’t close a deal because all of the potential trade partners insist that Josh be part of the package. Harold is a repository of useless sports trivia. Not trivial, not useless, he protests, since this is knowledge he needs to defend his championship of his fantasy baseball league.
Somewhere up there my father is smiling.
Harold’s a sweet kid, although Robert is quick to remind me he’s barely ten years younger than I am. It’s just that he seems like a kid with his floppy hair and his aversion to any Gillette products and his wardrobe that consists almost entirely of Official NCAA and MLB Sanctioned UNC and White Sox gear. He manages a Charlotte branch of an office supply chain but he’s only twenty-six credits away from his bachelor’s degree in secondary education. He wants to teach American history and coach high school hoops, an ambition I caution him he’s not likely to achieve if he keeps on spending happy hour at the Carousel and insists on broadcasting his lifestyle with that ridiculous rainbow bumper sticker. He says he’s not worried about stuff like that, that people don’t care who you sleep with so long as you don’t rub it in their face. Maybe he knows something I don’t, but I doubt it.