Call the Shots (19 page)

“Aaaa.” Uncle Doug releases a big plume of pot smoke and swats my comment away with the back of his hand. “Don’t be such a pussy. You’ll be fine once you’re out in the fresh air.” He starts walking toward the two-tone green Doug’s Rugs van parked by the garage doors. “Besides, what you really need to worry about are the wind currents.”

“The
what
?” I shuffle-turn my carpet-clad body to look at him. “What wind currents?”

“The wind currents. The gales out of the east.” He waves his joint in the air as he steps up to the driver’s-side door. “It gets pretty damn blustery up there on Newport Road. And that costume can act like a goddamn kite if it catches the breeze. That was the reason the guy
before
the last guy quit. A heavy gust blew him right into the street. Poor bastard was nearly plowed down by a semi. You think you can’t move so well in that thing, but you’d be surprised how agile you get when you have to play dodge the traffic.” Uncle Doug laughs as he scoots from left to right to left in a little sidestepping dance. “Come on,” he says, checking his watch. “Let’s get a move on. Time is money.” He opens the van door and climbs inside.

I start to waddle over to the passenger side as fast as I can, my steps seriously hindered by the constraints of this stupid outfit. It’s like I’ve been stuffed down a single pant leg of a fat man’s jeans. I pump my unitard-sheathed arms as hard as I can to try and propel myself forward, the gold tassels at the top of the carpet costume slapping away off rhythm.

I finally get to the van, yank the door open, and struggle to clamber into the seat. It’s a real battle against physics because as soon as I pull myself partially onto the seat I have to straighten out my legs, which then causes me to slide back down again.

By the time I manage to inchworm myself into the front seat I am completely exhausted.

“That was some show, Seanie boy.” Uncle Doug chuckles. “I feel like I’m really starting to get my money’s worth out of this investment.”

“If I’d known this is what you meant”— I wheeze —“by helping you out at the store . . . I wouldn’t have agreed to it.”

“Oh, sure you would, Seanie. It’s a means to an end. A means to an end.” He turns the key, and the van coughs to life. “Besides, you haven’t lived until you’ve dressed up like a carpet and waved signs at passing cars. It’s how I started out thirty years ago. Now look at me. I own the place.” One more puff on his joint, then he throws the car into reverse. “All right, here we go.”

We back out of the warehouse garage, the tires crunching through the hardened snow. A moment later, we’re driving along an industrial street headed toward the main road.

Uncle Doug’s got his left wrist draped over the steering wheel, his joint-holding hand stroking his giant gray-flecked beard. Little wisps of smoke fizzle into the air as the occasional whisker is singed. “Hey, so, I’ve been watching the audition tapes.”

“Oh, yeah?”

He nods. “You’ve got a few winners there, I think. The buzz-cut kid. Harper? Hummer? Hunter? And the girl with the blunt-cut hair.” He chops at his forehead with his hand. “Laney?”

“Leyna,” I say.

“Right. Those two are our stars. No doubt about it.”

“Hunter’s no problem, but we’ve already promised Evelyn the female lead, so —”

“Absolutely not.” Uncle Doug shakes his head. “I don’t care if she’s sleeping with the screenwriter. If she’s anywhere near as bad as her brother, this film’s dead in the water.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t have a choice. It’s her camera we’re using. So, it’s either her in the lead or we have nothing to film with.” I shrug. “Unless . . . you want to up your investment so we can rent something.”

Uncle Doug laughs. “Give ’em a grand and they want two. Sorry, but it’s not gonna happen, Seanie. You use what you’ve got and figure it out. That’s what all good businessmen do. I don’t care what you have to do, but Handler and Lorna are going to be in the film we show at the festival or Uncle Doug’s going to be plenty PO’d. Are we clear about this?”

It’s hard to argue when I actually agree with him. “Sure. Fine. Whatever. I’ll figure something out.”

“Good man. That’s what I like to hear.”

I turn and gaze out the window, watching the industrial landscape go by. I don’t know if it’s the sound of the tires going through puddles or the motion of the van, but suddenly I realize that I have to pee. Bad. “Hey, so, what do I do if I have to go the bathroom?” I ask as casually as I can. “You know, while I’m out here?”

Uncle Doug looks over at me, his eyebrows raised. “Oh. You should have taken care of that back at the store.”

“No, I mean, I’m okay now,” I lie, “but if I’m supposed to be out there for four hours, I might have to go at some point.” Like in the next few minutes. “Is there a Starbucks nearby?”

Uncle Doug snorts. “First of all, there’s no way for you to get out of that costume without help. Remember how I had to zip you up in the back? Secondly, we’re on a major commercial thoroughfare here lined with auto-body shops and self-storage facilities. The nearest public toilet is over a mile away. So, I suggest you just hold on tight and, uh . . . don’t think about waterfalls.”

My horror must be pretty apparent if Uncle Doug can see it through my spandex mask.

“Look, worse comes to worst,” he continues, “just pee in the suit. It sure as shit won’t make it smell any worse. Hell, it might even warm you up. For a little while.” He throws his head back and howls.

A couple of thigh-clenched minutes later, Uncle Doug pulls the van up to the curb at the corner of Newport and Millburn. Cars and trucks whoosh by at top speed on the six-lane road.

“Here we be,” Uncle Doug says as he gets out of the van.

I shove open my door, swing my legs to the side, and slowly slide out of the passenger seat to the curb below. A quick scan of the landscape reveals a whole lot of nothing. The large plot of snow-laden grass slopes pretty dramatically from the sidewalk where I’m standing to the parking lot of a busy lumberyard below. No big trees or bushes in sight. A great spot to do some sledding but certainly not an ideal place to take a whiz.

“All right, then.” Uncle Doug pulls several large signs from the back of his van and drags them over to me. “I’ve got three ads here. I want you to cycle through them periodically.”

He holds up the first board, which reads
BE AS SNUG AS A BUG IN DOUG’S RUGS! 30% OFF EVERY DAY!
He shifts the front sign to the back so I can read the next one:
DON’T BE A THUG: BUY YOUR GAL A NEW RUG AND GET 30% OFF!
He flips the signs once more and shows me the last one:
30% OFF EVERYTHING! DOUG’S GONE MAD! COME TAKE ADVANTAGE OF HIS INSANITY!

Uncle Doug hands me the signs and checks his watch again. “All right. I’ll leave you to it. Oh, and, uh, be sure to stay alert and keep your eyes peeled.”

“For what?”

Uncle Doug drags his hand down his face and beard. “I probably should have mentioned this before but . . . the Doug’s Rug mascot has a tendency to . . .” He swirls his hand in the air like he’s trying to grasp the words.

“To
what
? A tendency to
what
?”

“To get attacked. Jumped. Roughed up a little. Nothing serious. Just . . . knocked down occasionally. By hoodlums. And . . . sometimes egged. Or shaving creamed. You know. For fun.”

“Wait a second.” I take a wobbly step toward him. “Are you saying I’m going to be ambushed?” I look down at myself. “Dressed like this? With no chance for self-defense?”

“Look.” Uncle Doug starts to walk backward. “It’s probably not going to happen. I mean, they’ve done it already. These guys. Several times. I’m sure, whoever they are, they’ve moved on to something else. You know how it is.”

“No. I don’t.” I take another step forward. “Because I’ve never assaulted a store mascot before. You can’t leave me here.”

“It’s going to be fine.” Uncle Doug continues to back away. “I wouldn’t put you in any
actual
danger. I need you out here. This kind of thing pays real dividends in increased store traffic. Besides, the last attack made the evening news. You can’t buy that kind of publicity.” He chuckles nervously, then checks his watch again. “Oh, hey, listen, I’ve got to get back to the store. But don’t worry, I’ll be out here to pick you up around four o’clock.”

“Uncle Doug, please.” I reach toward him with my brown-stockinged arm.

“Don’t forget to move around. You know, writhe a bit, like you’re a wavy carpet.” He undulates his torso and arms. “You want to make sure you’re noticed.”

“I don’t think I do. Not if I’m going to be beaten up. I want to lie down and disappear.”

“Hey, I’m not paying you to lie there like a rug.” Uncle Doug laughs a great big belly laugh.

“You’re not paying me at all!” I remind him.

“Now, now. Did I or did I not advance you five hundred dollars against my one-thousand-dollar investment? The least you can do to repay your uncle Doug’s generosity is generate a bit of traffic for his store.” He winks at me. “You’re a good kid, Seanie. See you in a bit.”

I
’M DANCING AROUND
in the snow on the side of the road in my carpet costume. Not because I want to attract attention to myself — certainly not, after finding out about the mascot assailants — but because I still have three and a half hours before Uncle Doug is coming back to get me and I have to take the mother of all whizzes.

I spin around desperately, searching for somewhere I can pull off this stupid outfit and drain the dragon.

But there is not a single solitary tree, bush, or abandoned building to crouch behind.

Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow. Jesus.

A little pee devil on my shoulder is trying to convince me to “just let go.” To open the floodgates inside my costume like Uncle Doug said to.

Sure, it’s disgusting, but I am in some serious pain here. And I don’t want to die. Because it can totally happen. I know. I heard about this one dude who was “holding his water” to try and win a water scooter on some radio show and his bladder totally exploded.

Oh, God, it hurts so bad. From my belly all the way to the very tip of the tap.

All right. All right. Forget it. I’m done. If I don’t go right now I’m going to pass out. It’s fine. It’s no big deal. Astronauts pee in their space suits. Scuba divers pee in their wet suits.

And I can pee in my carpet costume.

I have my change of clothes back at the store. Everything’ll be mostly dry by the time I get picked up anyway. And this costume definitely can’t smell any worse than it already does. Nobody’ll know the difference.

I just have to relax and let nature take its course. I take a deep breath, exhale slowly, loosen my grip on things, roll my eyes back into my head, and . . .

and . . .

Nothing. Not even a pressure-relieving dribble. Not a single goddamn drop.

I can’t believe this. I actually get myself to the point where I’m ready to whiz all over myself and my stupid, pee-shy bladder won’t even let me go?

Okay. Okay. Calm down. Maybe it’s like in public bathrooms when people are waiting behind me and I can’t get things flowing. I’ll just make a deal. That’s it. I’ll make a deal with my dingle. It’s my go-to strategy in desperate times.

I close my eyes and tell myself,
If you pee right now, you will win the film festival and you will not have to share a room with your evil sister. But only if you pee right now. By the count of five.

One
. . . Mm-hmm. Okay. I can feel the tension starting to ease.
Two
. . . Oh, yes. That’s right. Here we go. All I needed was some incentive.
Three
. . . Almost there . . . Almost there . . .

“Incoming!” some guy shouts.

My eyes fly open, everything inside me clenching back up. A giant red truck is screeching to a halt right in front of me. Two ski-masked kids hang out the windows and start rifling eggs, tomatoes, and — zucchini? — at me.

“Go shag yourself!” one of them hollers.

I undulate like Uncle Doug showed me to try and ward off the onslaught, but it’s pointless. I am pelted from tassels to toes. Eggs exploding all over my costume. Zucchini battering me like dozens of tiny green baseball bats.

A giant juicy beefsteak tomato catches me in the face, erupting on impact and saturating my spandex mask with gloppy pulp.

I try to spin away from the assault, but my sneaker catches a patch of ice, sending my feet flying into the air. I flop onto the sidewalk with a muffled thud.

“Woo-hoo!” the guys whoop. “Fifty points! Did you get that on your phone?”

“Sure did.”

“Sweet. Let’s go YouTube it!”

The truck peels off and I lie there for a minute, stunned. A few self-pitying moments later, I realize that the trauma of the attack has totally scared away my pee urge. Well, thank Lord Vader for small favors.

Finally I roll over, hoist myself to my feet, and waddle back over to the signs. I might as well carry on until Uncle Doug comes back. What else am I going to do dressed as a giant rug and stranded in the middle of a suburban wasteland?

But as I bend over to retrieve the boards — which looks about as awkward as you can imagine — Uncle Doug’s two-tone green van coasts up to the curb. And just like that, my desperate need to whiz comes back with a vengeance. It’s like now that my bladder knows a toilet is only a quick van ride away, it can stop playing possum and start making noise again.
Major
noise.