Easy to Like (8 page)

Elliot's circadian clock had not
adjusted, a condition aggravated by all the television he was watching. When he
should have been going to bed, it was dinnertime in Los Angeles, and with
nothing over the course of the weekend to change his rhythms, Elliot had been
keeping west-coast hours. He did not wake until ten a.m., seven in the morning
in California. So much for his plan to arrive at the passport office first thing
Monday.

There was not a spare chair in which to
wait. The standing crowd spilled into the hallway outside. There was a narrow,
elbow-riddled passage through the mob that provided access to a dispenser of
numbered tickets indicating one's place in line. Elliot drew 68.

Was there a mass exodus underway? Had
there been some dreadful news that was motivating Canadians in great numbers to
flee the county? They were serving number 29. He checked his ticket again: 68.
He looked around. The faces here were mostly brown, so maybe people were going
back to a home that wasn't Canada.

After ten minutes, they served number
30. From the spot to which he'd retreated in the hallway, Elliot craned his neck
to better scrutinize the system. There were six wickets, only two of which were
manned. Something wasn't right. Had not staunch conservative leadership of the
nation put years of deficit financing and accumulating debt behind it? Since the
banishment of the profligate tax-and-spenders, were not the newer governments in
the black? This level of public service was positively third world. Trouble was
said to be pending for Ontario; he remembered his Sikh chauffeur observing that
the manufacturing sector was going down the toilet, but this was a federal
service — shouldn't it have been handsomely financed and adequately staffed,
considering the cash on hand in Ottawa?

In the interior room a hefty West
Indian lady collapsed. People went to her assistance. One less person in line,
thought Elliot.

Thirty-four, and one of the clerks was
closing her wicket. A few sighs was the most protest the crowd could muster.
Canadians took it. In France there would have been a riot — to no avail, of
course, but it least it would show evidence of a pulse.

Paramedics arrived before the number
could change to 35. If their level of disinterest was any indication, all was
fine with the large woman.

Standing next to him, leaning against
the wall, was an attractive young woman — features and skin one found in the
French Caribbean. Her hair was in a funky, unravelling afro. She wore a
revealing T-shirt, loose silk pants, and flip-flops.

A full year without sex was a worrisome
milestone. Was there any possibility, however remote, that the delightful young
thing standing there might, under some, at this moment unforeseeable,
circumstance, take him to bed? No, there was none. Absolutely none. She'd have
to be mad to fuck a sunburned old bucket of issues like Elliot. He was so
seriously unfuckable right now that he would selflessly counsel any deluded
comers,“Spare yourself the ignominy!”

Two new clerks arrived at wickets.
Evidently their station was as complex as the cockpit of the space shuttle, so
long did they take arranging their pens and staplers and stamps.

His bitterness about his breakup with
Connie was far enough in recess now that he could look back with some fondness
on his time with her. They had split over what she perceived as Elliot's
inability to see things for what they really were. Despite its being none of her
business (though Elliot continually burdened Connie with his complaints), she'd
questioned the viability of the vineyard. She took it upon herself to download
an article from the Net about creeping sprawl in San Luis Obispo County and
asked if he'd considered selling his land to a developer. The nerve. Eventually
she brought that stuff to bed and that was that.

Connie missed a critical factor in her
analysis of his problem. Sure, Elliot wasn't being truthful with himself; sure,
he wasn't facing the facts. But he was also self-aware. His was self-conscious
self-deception. It was how one coped.

Now the line was moving more
efficiently: they were at number 60, the number of the beautiful girl next to
him. He watched her hard and high ass go and fancied what it might be like
governed, in furious up-and-down pumping, by his grip. He was as stirred as he'd
been by Robin Silverman. If it really was a year since he'd had sex, then maybe
his old reptile brain was taking charge, shouldering reason and doubt aside to
take the wheel, or, more properly, the stick. Fuck something, fast! it was
saying. He should not be listening.

Someone was screaming at one of the
clerks in his native Eastern European tongue. The audience of his tirade was
waving in a security guard. The uniform was already en route, obviously having
been summoned by some hidden button. Back to the shtetl, sucker. One less person
in line.

What if things went badly with the
Department of Agriculture back at the vineyard? If there was some criminal
proceeding, there could be problems with Elliot's treasured green card. Poor old
Lloyd Purcell's crime hadn't been egregious, nothing Fatty Arbuckle, an
indiscretion, really, and the heartless monsters at Naturalization had snatched
his documents. Jesus, Elliot realized, he hadn't heard anything of Lloyd,
nothing at all, since his old colleague had been forced back to Canada. Poor sod
might just as well be dead.

Sixty-five. He'd be up any moment. And
might not an American criminal record, especially one involving the prohibited
export/import of French root stock, cause him future difficulties crossing the
pond? Without the occasional trip to France or Italy, to lands dedicated to
living, he would wither and die.

His number, 68, flashed on the display.
He stepped up to the wicket at exactly the same moment as a stern-looking
Vietnamese chap.

“I 68,” said the Vietnamese.

“Sorry, Ho.” Elliot showed his tab.

“You go back, Blue Boy, you full of
shit, you blue 68.”

“What?”

The clerk piped up. “We are doing red
numbers now, sir.”

“What?”

“You have a blue 68. We have to get
through the reds first and then the greens.”

“But I . . .” Elliot
checked the paper in his hands: indeed, the 68 was in blue ink.

“We might get to you by this afternoon;
otherwise, we'll be taking today's blues tomorrow.”

“You have to be early bird,” said the
Vietnamese man, holding up his tab close to Elliot's face, as Elliot had to him.
The ink was red.

The concierge at the Four Seasons
had recommended a place on Wellington — Bymark. Elliot found it alongside and
partially under a lawn between commercial towers. Iron sculptures of lazing
bulls, perhaps eight of them, were placed throughout the parkette. They were no
doubt totems to beckon or celebrate positive movement in the financial markets.
After civilization collapsed (soon), Elliot reckoned the alien anthropologists
who found the statuary would reason that the doomed earth people venerated the
bovine creatures from within the steel-and-concrete towers surrounding them.

The restaurant turned out to be a smart
joint. The menu was simple but wisely chosen. Without a reservation, Elliot was
seated at the bar. There was an adequate selection of wines by the glass, though
Elliot could easily drink a bottle himself. He was not particularly hungry so
ordered only a roasted wild mushroom salad, having with it, instead of the
suggested Viognier, a glass of Rosso di Montalcino. Mushrooms were good friends
to wine.

Elliot resolved to have lunch, find a
bookstore, return to the hotel, and start the passport process anew the next
morning.

He watched two women in business
attire, jackets and rather short skirts, negotiate with the maitre d' and then
be escorted to low chairs at his back. They were waiting for a table but seemed
more interested in the martinis with which they were quickly fitted than in
grub. You didn't see as much of the heavy cocktails at lunch these days. Elliot
did not intend to eavesdrop but, with nothing to read, he made no effort not
to.

“What's replacing
Jeopardy
and
Wheel
?”

“Not game shows.”

“No?”

“They piloted one with George hosting,
but the prizes were so lame that it wasn't going to work.”

“How lame?”

“Year's supply of Vachon cakes and a
family pass to Canada's Wonderland.”

“How did George take it?”

“Badly.”

“Tears?”

“Wailing. Weeping. Keening.”

“He went into this with his eyes open.
It's the Darwinism of showtainment. Besides, he's starting to look his age.”

“Yeeeeew.”

They sounded to be lower-tier
television executives. It explained the early boozing. Elliot was intrigued.

“What are they going to schedule?”

“They want something ‘Oprah-esque' —
their word.”

“Self-help nostrums, latest diet,
getting over your mother?”

“You go, girl.”

“Keeps down the revolution,
anyway.”

“How do you mean?”

“Makes the need for change personal and
not political.”

“You can't have tax players subsidizing
a revolution.”

“You said ‘tax players.'”

“Did I? That's good.”

“What sort of Vachon cakes?”

“Jos. Louis, Mae
West . . . you want some?

“If they aren't picking up the show.
Wouldn't want to see them wasted. I'll bring them up to Belmont House. Mom and
the other girls at the home love their sweets.”

From whence had come showbiz folks'
elevated sense of importance, Elliot wondered. Giving notes on a moronic sitcom
was more important than family; the parking of trucks for a C movie was more
important than all other commerce. And how willingly people accepted it.
“I'm afraid you can't go home tonight, ma'am, your street is
a closed set. The production's Child Containment Unit have your son and
daughter under sedation. You will receive a DVD in the mail.”
What
were the gals saying now?

“Have you heard anything about the VP
job?”

“They're panicking,
totally . . . It's rudderless and — Oh, I did hear they've
hired an executive headhunter out of New York, Barnaby Vesco?”

“What is it with these people? They're
obsessed with the U.S.”

“Why did I ever leave CTV?”

“Will Vic the Dick be in on the
interviews?”

“Rainblatt? He can barely stand up. And
it comes with nausea, his condition. You don't want the president of the CBC
blowing chunks on potential candidates.”

“What is it he's got, exactly?”

“It's called labyrinthitis. It's a
virus, apparently.”

“Poor bastard. How long do the symptoms
last?”

“That's the worst part, could be a
week, could be a year . . . longer.”

“Is it contagious? I mean, if it's a
virus?”

“No idea. Gawd, why did I ever leave
CTV?”

“Why don't you get out of television
altogether?”

“And do what?”

Elliot finished his salad and his wine.
He placed his credit card on the bar and stood, as if stretching his back, to
better get a look at the two women to whom he was listening. They, too, were now
standing, their table ready. They were in their forties, Elliot supposed. Too
thin, too old for their outfits, with too much makeup needed to mask their
fatigue.

Elliot, for the first time in a while,
had a winning pitch for Mike.

After a single ring Elliot got
Mike's EA, Blair.

“I don't care who he's in a meeting
with. I need to speak with him, pronto.”

“I have strict instructions. Strict.”

“What has that got to do with me? Put
Mike on the phone or —”

“Oh, HUSH!” said Blair. Elliot was put
on hold.

Blair was back on the line with
surprising haste.

“I don't know what you've done to upset
Mike so. He was very flustered when I told him you were calling. He said he
would call you back after he goes to pick up some groceries on Santa Monica
Boulevard. I have no idea what he's talking abou — Oh my! Oh my!” Blair was
speaking with tremendous excitement. “There he goes. There goes Mr. Vargas. He
just left!”

“Thank you, Blair.”

It was not long before the phone in the
room rang.

“I told you about the phones in the
office.” Mike was breathless. “It's not safe.”

“How else am I going to contact you?
Leave a newspaper at a dead drop?”

“What?”

“Never mind,” said Elliot. “There's
been a new development.”