The Pursuit of Other Interests: A Novel (18 page)

Matt stopped bopping. “Me? Absolutely.”

“Why can’t you give Kyle some lines for that play you wrote?”

“What play?”

“The play you wrote. The one with the dead people.”

“Oh, you mean
Mr. Vengeance
?”

“You’ve written other plays?”

“Yeah. I wrote forty-five different plays last year. I type really fast.”

Charlie studied Matt. This kid was very difficult to figure out. “Getting back to Kyle for a second. Why does he have to be the first guy killed?”

At this question, Matt sat up, attentive and thoughtful, like he was responding to a caller on
Larry King Live.
“First off, Mr. Baker, I’ve decided not to go ahead with the production for now.”

“Why not?”

“Because Principal Delleman won’t let me do it.”

“Oh. Well, it sounded pretty violent. I didn’t like all those kids getting killed.”

“Technically, Kyle was going to be the only person killed.”

“I thought other people were killed too.”

“No. Kyle’s the only one killed. He wanted the part. I wanted to give him the part of the nice gym teacher. He has a lot of lines. But Kyle wanted to play the dead guy.”

“Why?”

“I think you’d have to ask him that.”

“But what do you think? He’s your friend.”

Matt put his index finger up to his mouth and tapped his lips, thinking. “He’s a pretty laid-back dude. Stardom doesn’t appeal to him. You got to respect that.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Charlie crossed his legs and gazed up at the sky. He had spent most of his life seeking attention. How had he produced a son like this?

“I remember when he won the three-point contest,” Matt said. “He didn’t even want to go onstage and get the trophy. We had to make him do it.”

“Three-point contest? You mean for basketball? When did he win that?”

“Last year.”

“I didn’t know anything about that. He won the contest? I mean, the whole thing?” Charlie glanced back to the garage again. “Jesus, he doesn’t tell me anything. That’s great.”

“Yeah. He won that and the free-throw-shooting contest.”

“Both of them? Where was this contest? At school, before a game or something?”

“No, it was at the father-and-son tournament.”

Charlie swallowed. “Really. When was that? The father-and-son thing?”

“At school. They have it every year on Dad’s Day. You know, all the fathers and sons compete in a two-on-two thing.”

“I must have been out of town,” Charlie said. He pretended to brush something off of his shoe. Then he asked, “Who did Kyle play with? At that tournament?”

“Mrs. Baker.”

“His
mom
?”

“Yeah, they let her play. She was great. She can shoot. They lost early on, but she can shoot and so can Kyle.”

“He played with his mother?”

“Yeah, she’s good.”

Charlie sat there motionless and wondered what meeting, what trip had been so important that he couldn’t make that tournament. Then he wondered how embarrassed Kyle must have felt to have to play with his mother. He shook his head.

“That must have been strange. Him playing with his mom.”

Matt shrugged. “I don’t think so. She was good. A couple of other guys played with like their brothers and stuff because their parents are divorced. Um, Mr. Baker?”

“What?”

“Can I use the bathroom?”

“What? Yeah, sure. You know, it’s inside.” He pointed vaguely toward the house.

“Right.”

Charlie was still sitting there contemplating things when Kyle returned with two cans of Coke and two glasses filled to the top with ice. When he sat down, Charlie felt like he should say something to him, apologize for things, but he couldn’t and didn’t. Instead, he patted him once on the knee, stood up, and quietly began clearing the table.

Much later that night, after another bourbon and a listless mole check, Charlie wandered down to the office and searched for the family photo albums, big red books, that Donna used to meticulously maintain. He found them on a shelf in the closet packed away in a plastic bin.

He sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor, pried off the lid of the bin, and slowly flipped the plastic pages. There were five albums and he carefully studied each one.

Since he wanted his presentation to be honest and simple, he eventually decided on just four photos. One was of Donna and him slow-dancing at her father’s bar before they were married. Donna looked surprised and wildly happy, her mouth partially open, her eyes bright and intense as she peered over his shoulder.

The second photo was of Kyle tenuously riding a rocking horse in his white underpants. His posture was ramrod-straight as he sat on the horse, his red cowboy hat pushed high on his forehead to reveal an apprehensive, worried look.

The third was of Kyle and Charlie standing in front of the swing set in their old backyard. Charlie was holding Kyle and proudly grinning, his eyebrows arched in a very self-satisfied manner.

The final photo included all three of them. They were sitting at a round table in a restaurant in downtown Chicago. Kyle was wearing a blue-and-white-striped suit and bow tie. Donna was in a short dress he no longer recognized and Charlie was wearing a dark blazer. It was the Christmas season and they had spent the day shopping and looking at window displays. Kyle had seen Santa.

Charlie had chosen this picture, and had in fact been specifically searching for it, because he remembered it being a good day, the kind of day that does not leave you. Their expressions, their faces, radiated a shared happiness. If he ever needed proof that they had been a family, this photo, taken some twelve years ago at the Walnut Room in Marshall Field’s, was it.

He examined the pictures one last time, then took them out of their plastic coverings and placed them all into a Federal Express envelope along with a note:
This Was Our Life. This Can Still Be Our Life.
He then sealed the envelope up and addressed it to Donna Baker, c/o The Bailey Island Motel, Bailey Island, Maine.

The next morning, refreshed from two hours of teeth-grinding, jaw-clenching sleep, Charlie awoke before five and dropped off the FedEx package at a delivery box by the train station. Then he bought a dozen glazed doughnuts, which he left on the kitchen island, along with two twenty-dollar bills and a note:

Even though he got to the office very early, he already had three e-mails waiting for him. The first one was from the Wizard, a cryptic,
Call me.
The second was from Jason, the head partner at Rogers & Newman, reminding everyone to attend an exciting new seminar on the
importance of being bilingual in the global workplace.
The final one was from Ned asking him to call his mobile ASAP because he was quitting and joining the seminary.

He called Preston back first, but got his assistant’s voice mail. After leaving a message, he next called Ned, who immediately answered.

“I think I was meant to be a holy person,” he said.

“Where are you? What are you talking about?”

“I’ve had an epiphany,” Ned said. “Do you know what an epiphany is?”

Charlie was silent.

“I had it last night when Tamales was trying to force me to move his desk.”

“What?”

“He, Tamales, demanded that it face the window, so he tried to get me to move it.”

“Move his desk? What a shit.”

“I agree. That’s why I’m quitting. It’s too much. I can’t work with him. He’s an arrogant, terrible, just truly horrible person. He really is. I’m personally telling all of my clients that I’m leaving. You’re my first call.”

“You’re not quitting, so just relax.”

“That’s not possible if I’m working with Tamales. He is arguably the rudest person I have ever encountered in my years as a transition consultant. He uses very coarse language, vulgar. Then, if you can believe, around seven, as I was leaving—I had some comic-book buyers coming over to my apartment, some very big buyers—”

Charlie interrupted him. “Comic-book buyers?”

“Yes, I’m a collector, a very serious one. I have a significant collection and I’m selling off the
Spider-Man
series. The entire series, so it is very important to me. Anyway, as I was leaving, he asked me, Tamales did, commanded me, really, to move the desk. When I balked, explaining that it wasn’t allowed because it wasn’t really his office, he turned hostile. He called me an idiot, among other things, and threatened to tell Jason.”

“Unbelievable. Did you move the desk?”

“No. I refused. Actually, I couldn’t. That desk is very large. He wasn’t about to help me, I can assure you.”

“What a prick.” Charlie had to admit, despite his disgust with Tamales, he was fascinated by Ned’s tale. He had heard stories about Tamales for years, but this one was firsthand and came from a very credible source. He couldn’t wait to repeat it to the next person he ran into.

“Did he say anything else, do anything else?”

“That’s enough.”

“I told you, I told you.”

“Taking him on wasn’t my idea.”

“Can’t you ask to have him reassigned?”

“It would be too embarrassing. It would be easier if I just quit. I’ve about had it here anyway. I’m tired and need to do something else, I’m afraid. Go back to law, maybe. In the public defender’s office. They’re always looking.”

Charlie glanced up at an oversized poster on the office wall, this one depicting a gray-haired old man lifting an impossible-looking amount of weights over his head. His face was contorted in pain and determination, his back arched, his neck a web of thick blue and red veins:
FAILURE NEVER COMES TO ANY MAN UNLESS HE ADMITS IT.

“Unless you admit failure, it never comes,” Charlie heard himself say.

“What?”

Charlie began again. “Failure never…” He stopped. “Listen, just fuck him, fuck him, okay? You can’t just quit because you got roughed up by some asshole. That’s ridiculous. Listen, you’re good at what you do.”

“I am?”

“Yes, you are.”

“Are you being sarcastic? I can’t see your face. Are your eyes slinking sideways? They have a tendency to do that when you’re being facetious.”

“Everyone thinks you do a good job.”

“Everyone? Really? Who, specifically?”

“I don’t know, Bradley. Walter.”

“Ah, the two amigos. What about Karen? What does she think of me?”

“Karen? Karen Brisco?”

“Yes, her.”

“Well, she thinks you’re very good at what you do.” Charlie tried to sound sincere and convincing despite the fact that he was making all of this up.

“That’s very kind of her. Does she say anything else about me?”

“No. But I don’t talk to her that much.”

“What about you, Charlie? Do you think I’m good at what I do? Please be honest here. I sense, at times, that I irritate you. Do I irritate you?”

Charlie took his time before answering. “No.”

“So, overall, do you think I do a good job?”

“Yes, yes, I do. You’re professional and determined and involved. Very involved.”

“Then why did you ask to be reassigned? Apparently you talked to Jason.”

Charlie grimaced. Early on, he had briefly discussed switching consultants with Jason, but had never followed up.

“I made a casual comment. Listen, you’re my consultant, end of story.”

“Well, thank you. That means a lot, you saying these things. You’re a kind person, Charlie, you really are.”

It had been years since anyone had called Charlie kind. He was surprised by it. “Thanks,” he said. He was breathing hard and wasn’t sure why. “Just remember you’re good and you shouldn’t let some jerk who just got fired, some idiot who everyone hates, run you out of town. If you leave, leave on your own terms, okay?” He looked over at the wall again. “Remember, failure never comes to any man unless he admits it.”

“Well, you’ve given me something to think about, you really have. Thank you, Charlie. You’ve been inspiring.”

“Okay, then!” Charlie said loudly. He had gotten himself all pumped up.

Ned countered just as loudly. “Okay, then! I might come in today after all. We have a special bilingual seminar. Maybe I’ll see you there!”

“Maybe you will!”

“And maybe you’ll take that evaluation test again!”

“Maybe I won’t!”

“Ha, ha! Charlie, very good.”

Inspired by his own inspiring speech, Charlie left another message for the Wizard, then checked his e-mail again and received a jolt of hope. Susan Goldman, a key member of the Super Sixteen, had responded to
The Charlie Update!
He eagerly clicked open the note:

He read the note over several times, not sure that he understood. He had worked with Susan at the old agency. He had hired her straight out of Northwestern and although he had once denied her a promotion (she hadn’t been ready), he still regarded her as a friend. They had, he thought, an excellent working relationship. For a number of years they had performed a funny hand-puppet show at the agency’s annual breakfast, a show that mocked their clients as well as themselves. Her curt response forced him to question if their puppet show partnership had been a lie.

He spent the next few minutes staring at the e-mail, lost in thought, trying to remember the agency puppet shows, wondering if he had somehow upstaged or offended her. He considered calling her, then decided against it. Instead, he reluctantly called up the Super Sixteen list and deleted her name. Then he left the office for some coffee.

The hallways were, as always, quiet, deathlike. As he walked past the dying plants and upbeat posters, all he could hear was the soft hum of forced air coming from the overhead vents, a monotonous, suffocating sound. He glanced into a few offices, looking for Bradley or Karen, even Walter, but saw no one he recognized. Just strangers, all staring blankly at the computers, their faces tired and grim.

On his way back from the coffee room, he noticed that the door to Office A was open and impulsively popped his head in, hoping, once again, to get a mere glimpse of the Hot Tamales. He was surprised to find him sitting behind the huge desk, still facing the wall, absorbed in
The Wall Street Journal
. He turned and watched as Charlie approached.

“Welcome,” Charlie said, probably too cheerfully.

“Do you work here?” Tamales asked.

“No one works here.” Charlie took a sip of his coffee.

Tamales didn’t smile, but chose that moment instead to sneeze violently into a handkerchief. “Are you here to move my desk?” he asked.

Charlie chuckled at the mere notion of this. “No. I don’t move desks.” He extended his hand. “I’m Charlie Baker. I’m sure our paths have crossed over the years.”

Tamales folded the handkerchief up, put it in his back pocket, and appraised Charlie with hooded eyes. He was a severe-looking man, with pale, slightly pockmarked skin and a thin, angular face. His hair was more white than gray and he wore it short, almost buzzed. After considering Charlie’s hand, he reluctantly shook it, his grip loose and fleshy. He didn’t bother to say anything.

“I heard you speak at the Economic Club. Last year, I think,” Charlie said.

The Hot Tamales continued to stare at him.

“I was over at DiSanto & Herr. Before that, I was at Collins & Park. I was there for about twenty years.”

Tamales remained silent throughout Charlie’s biography, briefly glancing over at his paper, then back up at him. Charlie thought he might be smirking, but he couldn’t be sure. He considered making one more attempt at conversation, but decided to cut his losses. “Nice meeting you,” he said. He retreated to the doorway.

“I know who you are.”

Charlie turned.

“Excuse me?”

“I know all about you,” Tamales said.

“What do you mean?”

Tamales now fully revealed his smirk and it rode high up on his face. “Charlie Baker,” he said.

“That’s right.”

“Charlie Baker.” With that, the Hot Tamales shook his head and swiveled around in his chair.

Back in his office, Charlie brooded. Tamales’s behavior, particularly his insulting comment, “I know all about you,” ate at him. After almost thirty years in the business, Charlie was concerned that, like Tamales, he had developed something of a reputation.

Exactly how big his reputation was, he wasn’t sure. While he was well known in the industry, he hardly felt he was infamous. Advertising, as a rule, attracts a certain type of person—egotistical, insecure, and insane—and while he had spent some time straddling the lunatic fringe, he didn’t think he ever crossed the line into the Tamales zone. For example, he had never called a woman a “whore” in a meeting, never demanded his staff adopt a six-day work week, hadn’t been fired six times, once for screwing the daughter of the chairman, and hadn’t plagiarized George Will in a guest column in
Advertising Age
—all crimes Tamales had allegedly committed. And while Charlie once did make his team come in on Easter Sunday (just a half day), and once called a young copywriter an idiot in front of a (small) group of people, and had recently thrown a gumball machine at a bald man (he was provoked), compared to Tamales, Charlie was Gandhi.

He spent the rest of the morning alternately plotting his revenge and fretting about his standing in the ad community. Around lunchtime, just as he was developing message points for his next encounter with Tamales (1. Fuck you; 2. Fuck off; 3. Fuck yourself), Ned walked in wearing a straw sombrero and a black and red corduroy vest.

“Hola,”
he said.

Charlie looked at the vest. The buttons had gold glitter on them and they sparkled.

“Dónde está Charlie?”

“
Dónde
, what?”

Ned wet his lips and spoke slowly. “Where. Is. Charlie?”

“I. Am. Here.”

“I mean for our bilingual meeting. We’re discussing how a second language can boost your career.”

“I. Am. Not. Going.”

“Por qué?”

“I. Am. Busy.”

Ned glanced around his office, saw that Charlie’s desk was reasonably clear and that his computer wasn’t even on. “I can see that,” he said. He stepped closer. “Why don’t you sit in on the meeting? It will be fun and educational. I hung a piñata. Monster.com sent it over. It’s full of Hershey’s Kisses.”

“I’d love to come to your bilingual jamboree, but I can’t. I have to wrap things up and leave early today. I’m going home to have dinner with my son.”

“But Charlie, in a global economy the more languages you know, the more marketable you become. For example, I speak three languages.”

“Congratulations.”

“Gracias. Merci. Danke.”

“Can you get out now?”

Ned took a deep breath, set his jaw, and ripped off a few sentences in rapid-fire Spanish. “You’re probably wondering what I just said,” he said when he was finished.

“I don’t care what you just said.”

Ned said something else very quickly in Spanish, his face serious, his head shaking with the intensity of the words and the effort.

Charlie had endured enough. “Get out of my office right now. Pronto. Get out. Now! Now! Now!”

At that precise moment, Tamales walked in, a look of extreme annoyance on his face. He immediately pointed at Ned. “Where were you this morning? I was looking for you.”

“I just got in,” Ned said.

“I thought I asked you for the conference room. I told you yesterday that I needed the conference room for a meeting, and there are people in there wearing costumes.”

Ned slowly took off the sombrero and began pulling on some of the straw. “Yes, well, we have a meeting scheduled. The other conference room is available, down by the cubicles.”

“I’m not having a meeting in that shit hole. I need the big room with the windows. I have some people waiting here. I can’t take them back there.” He glanced at Charlie, then back at Ned. “There’s a damn piñata hanging in the big conference room right now. A piñata. I need that room and you’re holding some kind of party. What kind of place is this? This is ridiculous. I want those people out of that room now.”