Manhattan Loverboy (5 page)

“I’m very delicate, I have a weak heart.”

“Yes.”

“And…and you’re very mighty and will live long, and I might have subconsciously resented that.”

“Perhaps.” He thought a moment before speaking. “Well, maybe I was a bit too harsh in condemning you. But I can’t simply reinstate you. You did do an injustice to me and you do deserve punishment.” He paused again and finally issued, “No, I can’t let you back into my college.”

“But what will I do, sir?”

“You have a part-time job at the Strand Bookstore, don’t you?”

“Yes, but it’s only for added indulgences. It’s not enough to live on. My existence was founded on your stipend.”

“Is that your girlfriend?” Whitlock pointed into the distance, referring to Veronica.

“No, I just bumped into her.” I didn’t want to expose Veronica to anyone other than myself.

“She certainly knows how to manipulate information.”

“Pardon?”

“Relatives?”

“No, I’m adopted.”

“Well,” he paused and looked silently, directly into my eyes for so long I thought he was going to kiss me. “Who said that the cruelest punishment is actually the finest rehabilitation?” Not the same person who said that to err is human and to forgive is divine, I thought.

“It’s time you worked in the real world. Ever read Thoreau? Self-reliance—that’s the key.”

It was funny he should use that phrase; Mr. Ngm via Mrs. Ngm had been throwing that phrase in my face for a long time. “What’s it the key to?”

“We have to consider your aptitudes and altitudes.”

Although I had never given him my number, he called me at home later that night.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” he said without introduction.

“The usual. Who is this please?”

“I want you to call in sick, and come by my little shop tomorrow. Don’t come later than, oh, say nine hundred hours. I want to hire your services, my boy.” And he hung up without saying goodbye.

The next day, I somehow succeeded in waking before noon and grabbed a train downtown. It was back to the rhombus building.

I sped up to the horse-eyed secretary and gave my name. By the jaundiced expression, it was safe to assume that she recognized me. Before letting me enter Whitlock’s office, she pointed me to an empty conference room. “In the closet of that conference room are three suits. Mr. Whitlock wants you to put on the one that fits best. Then report to him. And you better hurry up, he’s going to be taking off in twenty-five minutes.”

Although I tried on all three garments, they didn’t vary much in tightness-of-torso or floppiness-of-extremities. I put on the one that best complimented my butt, but had to leave my waist unbuttoned and roll up the sleeves and cuffs.

The horse-eyed secretary pulled out a Polaroid camera and inexplicably took a flash photo of me. Then she shoved me toward his office door. “Quickly, he’s waiting for you.”

I entered a room with a dozen men and women seated at a conference table. A magic marker board was vibrating with multi-colored arrows and notes. Prospectuses and presentations were spiral-bound before everyone.

Whitlock was sitting at the helm of the table, facing away from all, staring out on that fabulous view of the East River bracketed by the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges. The FDR vanished at his feet. I noticed a refreshment table, complete with coffee, a plate of bagels, bialys, lox, cream cheese, donuts, and so forth. I quickly went over, poured myself a coffee, and started stuffing donuts and other delectables into my pockets.

“Can we help you?” one of the execs asked me in a ‘What-the-fuck?’ tone.

“Is that you, Joey?” Whitlock asked before I could answer. He was still staring in the direction where great destroyers were once assembled, the Brooklyn Navy Yard, away from all.

“Yes sir,” I sputtered through a mouthful of donut.

“Everyone, this is Joey,” he introduced, “the efficiency man I warned you all about.”

“Efficiency man?” I repeated.

“What department do you plan to look at first?” one of them inquired nervously.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, chewing down some herring in cream sauce.

“Joey’s not doing a systematic; he does sporadics. Here and there. He’ll pop in, peruse, and vanish like sand, only reporting to me,” Whitlock said. Then, turning around dramatically, he added, “Joey might look like an odd combination of grunge and suit, but that’s because he’s an unincrementalized genius.”

“Well…” I sputtered modestly as stuff fell out of my mouth.

“Right now, though, me and Jojo have a plane to catch,” Whitlock said, and bouncing up, he trotted out the door. I moved quickly on his heels.

Out the corridor to an awaiting elevator, the horse-eyed wonder accompanied us. In the elevator, without even asking me, she clipped a laminated ID to my suit pocket. On the ID was the face photo she had taken of me with her Polaroid.

“Where are we going?”

“Several stops,” he said. With that he took a tiny cellular phone out of his pocket and talked in whispers as we moved through that hi-tech cavern of a lobby, out the automated door, and into an awaiting limo. Still on the phone, we zoomed up the FDR to a heliport. Still on the phone, we hopped into an awaiting chopper. A little desk was set up. He was still absorbed in his hushed conversation. On the desk top: a
Wall Street Journal, New York Times
, a fax machine, a box of Havana cigars. In the cup that held sundry writing instruments, I spotted a platinum-topped, midnight blue, Montblanc pen that had to be worth at least twenty-five bucks. Up until then, I had devoted the time to wolfing down the food that I had stuffed in my pockets. But as the helicopter approached landing at JFK Airport, I polished off my snack and made my way to his end of that tight cabin, near the little efficiency desk.

“So what say you, Jojo?”

“Really something,” I said, awestruck. He gave me a powerful slap on the back and turned to his left just long enough for me to reach into that leather-wrapped pencil cup and snatch the Montblanc. Landing, we got out with the chopper blades still revolving and ran across a tarmac into a large, awaiting corporate jet. When we got into the plane, he turned to me and said, “So are we having fun yet?”

“Sure,” I replied. I got in my seat, over the wing, and tried on the headphones. Yes, I wanted breakfast. Yes, I wanted the steak lunch with the artificial grill marks. Yes, I wanted to see the film, though I already knew it was a dud, and I had probably seen it.

The plane soon took off. I looked down at that overpacked island, bordered between silver slivers of polluted rivers, a frail vein just waiting to burst like a cerebral hemorrhage, havoc in miniature. I had probably got out just in time. Several execs stood up at the tail of the plane and made presentations to Whitlock about various holdings and plans. He asked several questions; the secretary did several calculations. Once or twice, he got back on the cellular and confirmed some facts. Over the wing of the plane was a small bar, where I loaded up on a variety of courtesy drinks.

“Do you want to ask them anything about this deal?” Whitlock turned from the band of execs and asked me as I was pouring a small bottle of rum into my coke.

“I’m sorry, I really wasn’t listening. I better sit this one out.”

“These guys are proposing a two hundred million dollar investment in a string of manufacturing plants in Eastern Europe. We would be with a consortium of other American businesses.”

“I see.”

“Any questions for them, Jojo?”

“Well, if you buy all the cheap real estate in the area of the plants, you can open up diners and gas stations and stuff.”

“Good point,” Whitlock said without a hint of sarcasm. That was the last time he asked me if I had any questions. I was looking forward to all those plane frills. But soon after we were in the air, I drifted into a deep and productive sleep. When I awoke, I feared I’d missed the fun and quickly pushed the button for the stewardess. I was taken aback by her response time.

“Can I get my breakfast, lunch, and the film?”

“I’m sorry, but the pilot just turned on the no-smoking sign.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“We’re going to be in an angle of descent in a few minutes.”

“Okay, just bring me a drink and some honeyed nuts.”

“Sorry, sir, we’re in descent.” To avoid the issue, she then vanished down the aisle. With a bump and screech, we were in Washington.

Outside the terminal, a limo was waiting, identical to the one we’d left in New York. We drove past the Beltway, past the Vietnam Wall and a variety of other monuments. We finally arrived at an old office building and strode into another large office, to another meeting—a swirl of people who looked like those we’d just left in New York.

A series of presentations by counselors and consultants came and went, and soon, when my vanity—which compelled me to believe that I was all-knowing and all-powerful—finally faded, I wondered what the hell I was doing there. I ended up reading glossy, smelly women’s magazines filled with jackass articles about How to Land a Husband next to declarations on the New Breed of Feminism. Around sixteen hundred hours (4:00 p.m.), Whitlock raced out of his final office and called to me, “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“We’re returning to Gotham.” Limo to plane to New York to chopper to the city proper. During the entire journey, he divided his conversation between cellular phones, lackeys, and me, in that quantitative order. He let me loose at Times Square.

“Can I go back to school now?” I boldly asked him.

“Not quite, but here.” He handed me a five dollar bill and his business card, and said, “Come to my home tomorrow. We’ll have din-din.”

“Can I at least get my transcripts and papers?”

“What are you talking about?”

I explained that the school was holding my transcripts and other vital papers. I was unable to transfer to another graduate school, even if I could manage to finagle the money.

“Okay, just come on time tomorrow,” he replied. Then, turning to Horse-eyes, he said, “Secure the boy’s papers. In the event I’m late, my man Wylie will look after you until I get in.”

“Great.” I got out, looked at the tourists, and went home.

(I could wax rhapsodic about the shades of sunlight creeping across symbolic objects of the figurative. I could produce metaphors and similes for the minute-stirring hours and the dissipation of the human spirit through sterile or rococo exercises in postmodernist prose style, but suffice it to say—) Time passed.

The next day, I walked across town to his house. I was fairly tired and dizzy. As I approached, a beggar from a nearby street corner followed me like a hungry dog, telling me pathetic details of his fictitious life.

“Hold it, now,” I said, trying to locate the address. I should have given him the courtesy of a quick refusal, but he seemed to feel good telling about his ills, so I let him follow and talk. The address on Whitlock’s business card brought me to an upper East Side town house with a beautiful row of steps out front. The beggar followed me up to the top step. I rang the bell and waited.

“Hey,” my homeless companion said, “I have a life, too. You mind if I get on with it?” I gave the guy a dollar-fifty.

“Fuck you!” he yelled, just as some long white guy wearing a tarboosh opened the front door.

“Oh dear!”

“Fuck you!” I said to the homeless guy.

“Could you both please take your melee elsewhere,” the long, white tarboosh-wearer replied, slamming the door shut.

“No, wait,” I banged on the door. When he reopened it, the tarboosh was gone. I introduced myself to the doorman, shaking his hand, man-style.

“Who was that?”

“A crazy, I don’t know. He followed me here,” I replied. Delicately hinting that I wanted to be fed, I added, “Boy, am I hungry!”

“Oh, yes. I’m Wylie. Andrew informed me you’d be here around now. Come on upstairs, you chowhound, and let’s get you chowed down.”

It was apparent that not all was well in this man’s state of Denmark. Wylie led me through a glorious brownstone: cherry wood paneling, furniture pieces that had been stolen from different periods, a rolled-up carpet from the Orient. The moldings were sculptured with haloed cherubs and demons with tongues twisted out. Banisters were dragons’ heads. The fretwork of the baseboards and detail of the artwork seemed to improve with every upward landing. When we finally reached the top flight, he led me into a beautiful dining room, and said, “Take a seat. Whitlock and the meal will be here shortly.”

“Do we have to wait?” I asked.

“I suppose not. Master Whitlock has already eaten.”

I sat at the right side of a long dining table with two place settings. All I could think as he brought out a serving bowl was, I’ve spent twenty-four hours waiting for the feast in that bowl.

“Pass your…”—I did. As he started filling my plate, tears came to my eyes. When he slid the plate over in front of me, I stared down into a bowl of macaroni and cheese. I looked up at him, and watched as he spooned clumps of noodles onto his own plate. Then, placing the bowl in the center of the table, he proceeded to fork the noodles into his mouth. I smiled and did likewise. They tasted gooey and powdery.