Keepers (13 page)

Old Fart #1:
Here comes Captain Spalding!

Old Fart #2:
The African explorer?

Me:
Did someone call me “Shnorer?”

Them:
We weren’t talking to you!

Followed by uproarious laughter from Them.

(I never said it was a
clever
shtick.)

One night I had the mother of all sinus headaches and passed by their room without so much as a glance. I heard one of them start the shtick—“Here comes Captain Spalding!”—but was well past the room before his buddy could do his part. I stopped for a moment when a dribble of pain moved from between my eyes to the back of my throat, then turned back toward the water fountain a few feet away from their room. I downed a couple of decongestants then figured,
What the hell
,
I’m here
, and poked my head around into their room.

They weren’t looking at the door, nor were they looking at each other—in fact, they didn’t seem to be
looking
at anything at all. They just stared. At an empty space where their laughter should have been ringing. At a place where a visiting grandchild should have been sitting. At a lifetime of Maybe-Next-Year places they’d always meant to take the wife, but the old girl had gotten the cancer too young and left this world before they could get away together.

There is a thin scrim that keeps the ruined things behind the curtain of everyday life, and one of the weights that held that curtain in place had just been removed. With no Captain Spalding shtick, the edge of that curtain was fluttering, and something of infinite sadness and disappointment could be seen shifting: Here we are, pal, two old son-of-bitches at the end of our lives and no one else but each other to give a shit. It would’ve been nice to have our nightly laugh but that’s gone now, too; just like our families, our good women, our strong young-man notions. It was nice while it lasted, though. Maybe they’ll serve them buttermilk pancakes tomorrow, huh?

“Excuse me,” I said.

They started, blinked, turned in my direction. The look on their faces suggested that something with three heads and a dick growing from its left nostril had just entered the room.

“I, uh...I was passing by and could have
sworn
someone in this room called me ‘Shnorer.’ Was that one of you gentlemen?”

It took them a moment.

It is him
,
right
?

I believe so
,
yes
.

Hey
,
the curtain fell back into place
.

Damn good thing, too
;
I think tomorrow’s poached eggs
.

“‘Shnorer,’ did you say?” asked Old Fart #1.

“Yes, I believe that’s what I heard.”

They looked at each other, then: “
We weren’t talking to you
!”

Uproarious laughter. This time I actually joined in.

“Sound like you got yerself a mighty nasty cold there, Captain.”

“I do. I’m kinda dizzy and my ears are clogged.”

“Have trouble sleeping?”

I nodded.

“Neither one of us can sleep worth a tinker’s left nut, either.”

They smiled and told me I should take some tea with a little whiskey in it, and while I was at it could I sneak a little in for them? Maybe they could get one of them young nursing assistants a little tipsy and she’d give them an extra-long sponge-bath.

I grinned and mimed tapping the edge of a cigar. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever hoid.”

That got a big laugh out of them, though I’m damned if I know why. I waved at them, sang a quick “Hooray-hooray-
hooray
!” and headed back down the hall. I made it a point after that to stop by their room every night and do the shtick until the night that door was closed and the names which I had never bothered to read were removed from the outside slots. I knew neither one of them slept worth a tinker’s left nut, so that limited the options.

But, for that night, I felt better about myself and the world and my place in it. My sinuses, however, were having none of this fun and frolic and warm squishy happiness. I’d decided to give Mabel the keys and let her drive the car that night; the decongestants weren’t helping, my chest felt like it had been filled with rubber cement, and I couldn’t clearly see past five feet or so.

Which is why it took me a moment to locate the voice coming from another of the opened doors.

“You did the wrong routine,” it said.

Here I go, stumbling around, looking for the speaker, banging my hip against one of the wall rails used by the patients who didn’t get around so well on their own anymore.

“Hello?” I said.

“To your right, Baryshnikov.”

I blinked, wiped my eyes, and found him.

Seventy, seventy-five, but he wore it well. Think of Burt Lancaster in
Atlantic City
. Class and style; shopworn and a bit craggy around the edges, but still commanding. If it hadn’t been for the wheel-chair and the gnarled branches that had once been his legs, I would’ve expected him to grab my collar and warn: “
Don’t
.
Touch
.
The suit
!”

“Hello,” I said. “What did you mean, the wrong routine?”

“When you blew your cue back there and had to go back and cover your ass. Instead of trying to pick up the old routine where you’d left it writhing in a heap on the floor, you should’ve hit ‘em with Groucho’s ‘Hello, I must be going’ line.”

“Hello, I must be going?”

He nodded. The light danced across his startlingly white hair. “Right. ‘I cannot stay, I came to say, I must be going.’”

“Ah.”

“Not a Marx Brothers fan?”

“
Big
Marx Brothers fan,” I said, a bit defensively.

“That’s good. You’re young enough to be one of those Three Stooges people. That’d be a damn shame.”

“Why?”

“Because there are only two types of people in this world: those who like the Stooges, and those who like the Marx Brothers.”

“Buster Keaton was always my favorite, actually.”

“He’d’ve been embarrassed, the way you were stumbling around out there. No grace. No style. No art.”

I cleared my throat. “Well, thank you James Agee for that blistering review, but I came to say I must be going.”

He clapped his hands loudly. “
There
you go! Not the most clever or smoothest transition back to the opening gag, but a damn good outing your first time. No doubt about it.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“You’re welcome. Maybe. Hey, you got a minute?”

I checked my watch. “Actually, I’m here to pick up someone.”

“Who? If it’s your mom or grandpa or someone like that, they tend to discourage late-night roustabouting. Afraid if we actually have some fun it’ll improve our dispositions and make us a bit more clear-headed, and then they’ll be forced to deal with us like we possess honest-to-Pete personalities and feelings. Keepers gotta keep the kept kept, know what I’m saying? Ever had anyone talk to you like you don’t have the brains God gave an ice cube? After a while you start to wonder if maybe they aren’t right in addressing you like that because maybe,
maybe
you
have
taken up residence in Looney-Tunes Junction and spend all your time discussing Heraclites’s River with Elmer Fudd while out here in the happy world they’ve been changing your diapers and drawing lewd graffito on your butt with permanent-ink markers. By the way, in case you lost track of what I was talking about before I wandered off the highway subject-wise, I’d just asked you who you were here to pick up. If I’m not being what you’d call a buttinsky. Too inquisitive. Nibby. Et cetera.”

“Mabel,” I said.

“Ah, our Angel of the Cafeteria and Catheters. I know her well, Horatio. Your mother? Aunt? Mistress—or are you a heartless gigolo using her for your distasteful carnal pleasures while racking up charges on her credit card?”

“Your minute was up about thirty seconds ago.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had such a jam-packed social calendar. How thoughtless of me. No wonder the Kremlin will return none of my calls. Can you set the clock on this damn thing?” He pointed to a brand-new videotape unit on top of his television. “It works just fine, I can record and all that, but I can’t seem to set the clock.”

“No problem.” I’d been eyeing one of these for a while, but had held off buying because of the six-hundred-plus dollar price tag. But it would be nice to actually
record
movies and television shows to keep.

I set the clock for him.

“A wizard, that’s what you are.”

“I’ve been thinking about getting one of these.”

He snorted a derisive laugh. “A gift from my daughter. She’s in Los Angeles. She’s in the entertainment business. These things are supposedly going to be all the rage in a few years. Thing is, for as much as it costs, you can’t find all that many movies to play in it. There’s a place over on Church Street that just opened, claims they have the biggest selection in the city—which amounts to being the most gifted ballerina in Hoboken, if you ask me, which I realize you didn’t, but I’m old and lonely and like the sound of my voice and, besides, you haven’t exactly been taken hostage here, have you?”

“You in show business too?”

“Used to be.” He extended his hand. “Name’s Weis. Marty Weis. Friends call my ‘Whitey’ because of my hair. You can call me ‘Mr. Weis.’”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Weis. I think.”

“Pleasure to meet you, too. Maybe. Hey—did you know that back in the heyday of Vaudeville, Cedar Hill used to be one the biggest tour stops?”

I leaned against the door. ‘Whitey’ needed to talk to someone, I suddenly felt so sick I wasn’t sure I’d be able to walk another ten feet, and after the near-miss with Old Farts #1 and #2 my guilt tank was already on ‘F.’ I wasn’t going to take any chances.

“No,” I said. “I didn’t know that. I know it was once the boxing capital of the country.”

“Back in the late Thirties, early Forties, you bet it was. It was the same thing with Vaudeville. You know the Old Soldiers and Sailors Building?”

I shook my head.

“‘Course not—you’d know it as the Auditorium Theatre.”

“The one across from the Midland?”

“The very one. You ever get the chance, you ought to go in there and head into the basement. There’s a wall directly underneath the front of the stage that’s covered in autographs from all the acts who played there. Houdini’s autograph is there, so are the Three Keatons’. I’ve been there, I’ve seen it. There must be a thousand autographs on that wall. Now that the place doesn’t show movies or book acts anymore—”

“—not in about twenty years,” I said.

“Thanks, I wasn’t feeling enough like a fossil tonight.” He shook his head. “It’s a damn shame, all that history down there, all those names—some of
famous
people, too—just stuck down there in the dark where no one can see them.”

“I never knew that.”

“Not too many folks do, and the ones who are old enough
to
remember, can’t anymore.”

“Except you.”

“Except me. I used to be a talent agent. The Double-Dubya. Whitey Weis. Midwest Talent and Entertainment. Handled Gypsy Rose Lee for about a month toward the end of her career. Lot of other acts, too, but I doubt you’d know the names.”

“Names that are on the wall under the stage at the Auditorium?”

“That’s right. Thank you for setting my clock.”

“What’re you going to watch?”

“Watch? Hell, I’m not going to watch anything. You see what’s on these days? There’s a cop show,
Blue Hills
or
Blue Street
or—”

“
Hill Street Blues
?”

“That’s the one. It might turn into something if they can ever hold the goddamn camera still, but otherwise—” He waved it away with a wince and a snort. “The blinking light was getting on my nerves. Thanks for setting the clock and listening to me prattle on. Now go. Away with you. Fair Mabel awaits. Just make sure you check the apple juice before drinking.”

“Did I hear my name?”

We both turned and saw Mabel standing in the hallway. She smiled at me. “Is Whitey here giving you a hard time?”

“I was only extolling your innumerable virtues to this no-good hoodlum. What you see in the likes of him is beyond me. Why waste your feminine charms on hamburger when you’ve got all of this—” He gestured down at himself. “—prime-cut beef right under your nose?”

“This is Beth’s guy,” she said.

“
This
is him?” He rolled his chair closer, narrowing his eyes as he gave me the Double-Dubya once-over. “No accounting for taste. Well,” he said, rolling his chair away, “as long as he’s good to her.”

“He is. He treats me well, too.”

“He’d better. Make sure you have him set your clocks. Seems to be his most valuable asset.”

I laughed. “I’ve enjoyed our time together, as well.”

“That makes one of us.” He winked at me. “Never mind me, son. I’m colorful. That’s what happens when you live long enough. You get colorful.”

“Strother Martin in
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
.”

“Oh, good, he can quote throwaway lines from movie dialogue. Thank God I lived long enough to witness such a wonder. You realize, don’t you, that the area in your brain you just pulled that little tidbit from used to hold your parents’ anniversary date, right? ‘Sorry, Mom and Dad, forgot today was your thirtieth but, hey, I can quote lines from William Goldman scripts! That makes up for a lifetime of my disappointing you at every turn, doesn’t it?’ For the love of all that’s true and pure, Mabel, take him away before he launches into a recitation of the Steiger and Brando ‘I -Coulda-Been-A-Contender’ scene from
On the Waterfront
. I might weep openly.”

Mabel slipped her arm through mine. “Good-night, Whitey.”

“Did you hear that?”

“What?” I said, enjoying the hell out of him.

“That was the sound of my death getting ten seconds closer because I’m
not
getting the sleep I need. An old man needs his sleep and I’m not getting mine. Now, let’s see,
hmmmmm
—why might that be?”