As Vince Lombardi’s accountant said (I’m assuming), “Money isn’t
everything. It’s the only thing.” Heck, every time I go to wipe my ass it costs me fifty dollars until it makes a man want to install a bidet.
“We’re cut off!” Gladys lamented.
“Cut off?”
“Yes…Cut…Off!”
I didn’t think it possible but these words stung as much
outside as they did inside a barroom. Perhaps even more so. I could always
stumble home and find more alcohol; money was a much more precious commodity.
When Gladys had stumbled in disheveled and white-faced I was
worried. When she went straight to my office, opened the fridge, cracked a
Natty Ice and collapsed in a leaky beanbag chair I was shattered; like seeing
Superman searching for ‘roaches’ under seats at the end of a Phish concert.
I quickly wrapped things up with Debra Townes promising to
meet again before or right after the police press conference. I, then, retreated
to my office where it took both hands and all my strength to unearth Gladys
from the beanbag chair. I helped her navigate through the now near ankle deep
hail of ‘beans’ that had blown out and, now, covered the floor. Next I deposited her in my desk chair from whence she began her tale.
“Cut off…,” she reiterated and took a decent-sized pull on
the Natty Ice. Her blouse had come out of her skirt during the beanbag fiasco,
but she paid it no mind. “They’re calling in our line of credit. We’ll have to
close down…immediately.”
‘They’ meaning the Green Mountain Savings and Loan and that "line of credit" bein the only thing keeping us upright these past two and a half
years. “Why? Why now?” I asked, confused.
“Who the Hell knows,” said Gladys with surprising candor as
she pulled the ubiquitous bun loose from the back of her head. The gun metal
gray and silver strands fell down Medusa-like. Snakes alighting on her shoulders.
“Did you talk to Henry?” I asked, referring to Henry Chase
the rotund, happy-go-lucky bank manager who handled our account. I’d gone to
school with Henry and talked him out of trouble junior year in high school when
his “City College of Business” fake ID nearly got him arrested in a Rutland package goods store. Remembering
that, these days he was happy to extend our line of credit to get us through
the rough patches.
“No, they brought the Old Man outta moth balls to deliver the
news. Hank just stood behind him with his finger up his ass which is no mean
feat for that fat bastard,” she spat. I wasn’t sure how I felt about this new,
foul-mouthed Gladys, but when she downed the rest of the beer, crushed the can
and motioned for another like a biker’s booze-bag I figured now wasn’t the time
to question it.
The Old Man was Riley Chase, Henry’s grandfather, Bank President and a Founding Father of our humble little town. According to
the older crowd he was once a strapping young buck that drove the ladies wild.
Now he was 88 going on 120, weighed 87 pounds in nightshirt with candle and had
the bone density of sparrow with spina bifida. At Town Council meetings Mayor Wes
Willard decreed that his standard somnambulant state to be a vote in agreement
with his and no objection was put forth in deference to saving time. “You met
with Riley Chase,” I blurted out, stunned.
“Yup, the Crypt Keeper himself.”
“He hasn’t been down to the branch since the Johnson
administration.”
“Yeah,” snorted Gladys, “Andrew Johnson…”
“And what did he say?”
Gladys cracked the can and sucked the foam off the top like a
pro, then continued. “He said our deal stipulated that if we exceeded our line
it kicked in a clause that allowed them to call the loan at any time. We needed
to re-apply for a new line every time we wanted an increase to avoid that. Hank
Chase was helping us out, but in the end it screwed us.”
“Sonuva bitch!” I exclaimed.
“Exactly,” said Gladys, taking a long pull. “We got anything
stronger round here?” She rose from my chair and started searching the shelves
and file cabinets for a bottle, I’m sure, she always assumed I was hiding.
I rarely drank the hard stuff. Max Lipper had brought over
whiskey one late November night when he was feeling blue about his kid from his
first marriage snubbing him for the holidays. We drank “Thanksgiving Specials”-
Wild Turkey with a splash of cranberry juice- but I was pretty sure he had
taken the bottle with him. Nonetheless I let Gladys search because I needed a
minute to let the news settle in.
So, that apparently was how it ended. On the one hand I sensed
relief. Derf, a quitter of many jobs, once said there were few feelings better
than giving notice and I was realizing he had a point. I felt lighter, like
after a post-Chinese food bowel movement. On the other hand I was angry that
the end was premature - a feeling, sadly, I was all too familiar with – and not
a by-product of my own inevitable apathy. At his age Riley Chase hardly gave a
damn about our two-bit newspaper. He spent most of his time up at the 9-hole Artfield Country Club dozing, drinking Old Fashions and trying not sit on his sack. Someone wanted us done in and knowing
Hank Chase was too soft they brought the old man out of dyspeptic dementia long
enough to do the deed.
As Gladys continued her quixotic search for the bottle of
Applejack she thought I’d hidden, I returned to my desk chair to mull things
over. So far I’d learned Curly Carson was an alcoholic, the police
investigation was definitely hiding something, the chief may have a gambling
problem and between the Episcopal minister, the dump on my car and someone
using the bank to shut us down perhaps I wasn’t as beloved in this town as I
always believed I was around last call at Pete’s Pub.
I reached across the desk for my own beer and accidently
bumped the mouse. When the screen came back to life I noticed the email icon
flashing against the generic beach background screensaver that Windows chose
for a man who views the beach like Roman Polanski does a Sweet 16- it’s hot,
sticky and, frankly, no one wants to see me there. I opened the email to find
the police press conference was scheduled for the next morning- Friday 10:30
AM. In government politicians generally schedule release of bad or
controversial news late on a Friday then hope something more newsworthy
deflects attention over the weekend…call it the Gary Condit-9/11 Effect. Chief
Bowden had a weekend place up at Lake Champlain. With the weather turning
warmer I figured he’d give a short statement that wrapped up the police theory
nicely, fend off a few questions with non-answers then hightail it out of town
until Monday. Considering we were belly-up it was a plan that just might work.
Glen Hubbard told me that the kid who’d come back to replace Miss Iceland
wasn’t exactly the second coming of Mike Royko and the stringers sent out from
Boston, Montpelier and Concord would swallow whatever Bowden told them in hopes
of getting out of a place I’d heard a guy from the Boston Herald call, “not the end of the Earth, but you can see it
from there…”
I was sitting there with a hopeless Native American after the
Battle of Wounded Knee hundred-mile stare when Gladys gave up the ghost on the
Old Grandad, straightened up and addressed me, “What the fuck are we gonna do?”
“First I think we should try to dial it back to PG,” I
started. “I’m glad you’ve loosened up, but I find your cursing
disorienting…and, well, that’s what the beer’s for. Both at the same time tend
to cancel out and I can’t face this situation sober.”
“Sorry,” she said, brushing smooth the front of her blouse.
She placed her beer down on the corner of my desk and tried again. “So what are
we going to do now?”
I sat there pondering which to the untrained eye probably
looked like someone trying to pass a stone. I could overthink anything into
inactivity so I wanted to keep it brief. I’d gotten into this first for the
story, then for Miss Iceland and finally to honor the memory of Ted Sheehan,
the Carson’s and this town. Of course, now the romantic angle was gone from what I could tell and as
for those other reasons I’d have almost certainly grown weary of them and
qualified my giving up in due time. It’s what I do unfortunately. But now it
was personal. They’d poked the bear, or at least the lethargic hairy guy who’d
spent most of the winter sleeping.
Now, however, it was spring and between the shot of Vitamin D
from the sun and just enough alcohol I had the energy and inhibition to make a
snap decision. “Are we paid up on this place? Rent, heat, electric,
telephone…?”
“Yes.”
“OK then…usually I’m not that picky, but this time I wanna
know who’s screwin’ me. Let’s try to round up the troops, such as they are, and
find out what’s going on,” I declared, trying to rouse myself, as much as
Gladys. Then I stopped and remembered one expense I would have to do away with.
“Guess I gotta fire the receptionist, huh.”
“Oh no,” said Gladys, faking sadness. “Not your ‘unusually
long shower’ girl.” Giving “unusually long shower” air quotes to indicate some
old witticism of mine she’d been saving up to bite me in the ass…which come to
think of it was part of that ‘shower’ scenario if I remember correctly.
“It’s war now…we all have to make sacrifices,” I said
facetiously. “Plus, those were the only showers I came out of feeling dirtier.”
Although I didn’t mention it the receptionist wasn’t one my fantasy girls. My
age having reduced me to using office supply catalog models and the women on
FOR SALE real estate signs as more believable substitutes. “By the way what’s
her name anyway?”
“Winifred,” Gladys answered in, what it took me several
seconds to realize was, all seriousness.
“Uh…OK…well, that takes a little of the sting out of it.”
“If it helps,” she added, “I caught her and her boyfriend
making out by the dumpster the other day while the phone was ringing off the
hook in here.”
“Thanks,” I responded. “That does help. I mean if I’m
involved in the PDA it’s a beautiful expression of love…when it’s other people,
it’s just disgusting.”
I let Winnie down easy, not that it mattered. She simply
shrugged, emptied the candy dish into her purse and walked out with a smile. I
wasn’t the firing type, but I figured she’d be fine. In fact with a body like
that, I considered if she screwed up her life that was on her.
Back in this office area Gladys was back at her desk and
already working the phones. Charlie Grissom, our comb-over photographer, was
already in and Gladys indicated she’d take care of notifying the rest of the
staff in due time. That left me to bring in the outsiders. I returned to my
office, grabbed another beer and made a mental note that if Gladys was to
continue her newfound imbibing we were going to need more stock and perhaps a
bigger fridge.
Sitting down I realized this wasn’t going to be easy. The
problem was cellphones. To a young person their phone is a device that brings
the world to them or helps them escape it. To a middle-aged person with a wife,
kids and a job the same phone is just a watch that yells at you. Thus, while
time had swelled my list of friends and acquaintances things like longer
working hours, helicopter-parenting and a lack of anywhere to hide had shrunk
their usefulness in a crisis.
I took a desultory pull on my Natty Ice and began to have
second thoughts. It was, to say the least, deflating. Anyone connected to the
police was out for obvious reasons. Derf would be in for a sack of White
Castles and a trip to simulcast, but if his work record was any indication the
help he could provide would be minimal. I phoned some softball buddies, a
couple of Pete’s Pub regulars and my reporter friend Glen Hubbard, but like a
Larry King wedding vow their commitment was tepid and imminently changeable.
In the main office I could see Gladys working the phones, but
couldn’t imagine she was having much more success. After all, in this Internet
age the saving of a small town press with mostly part-time employees was a hard
sell. Gladys and I had agreed to meet here tomorrow morning at 9 AM. Unfortunately, I was
starting to think that our matching hangovers and the expected sparse turnout would then
make shutting things down the only logical conclusion. I nodded to Gladys,
drained my beer and started for home where a Tree Tavern frozen pizza (yes, they
still make those) and some Muriel Spark awaited. I flung the can at an empty
plastic garbage can caught the edge and tipped it over into a tower of back
issues that collapsed with a mocking flourish. “Well, that’s just about right,”
I thought…and was gone.
Next morning I woke late and dressed slow. Shave?...why
bother. I’d parked the Falcon out front under a light because I really couldn’t
take another visit from the Mad Shitter at this point. Like its owner it
wheezed and coughed its way into action and I headed for town. As I drove I
mused that like Billy Joel’s “Brenda and Eddie” I’d gone from the “high to the
low to the end of the show…” Or, more correctly, from the middle to the bottom
to a state of limbo from which everyone, no doubt, would assume I’d recover. Perhaps Neil Young was right, I thought, maybe it was better to burn out than fade
away. However, considering he was now 70 and clinging to an ill-advised
“Godfather of Grunge” gimmick I decided to seek counsel elsewhere.
It was already 9:20 when I eschewed the main drag and decided
to park around back so as to avoid being seen in my death throes. Additionally,
I figured it would be easier to load my personal belongings into the Falcon by
pulling right up to the backdoor that accessed the office area. The dumpster
against our back wall was already filled with crap indicating Gladys, Charlie
and anyone who might have stumbled in, probably by accident, was already in the
process of burying the corpse.
I tossed my coffee cup in the dumpster and managing to stay
upright on a mix of caffeine and Zoloft I pushed through the door.
“Where have you been? You’re late,” intoned Gladys testily. I
thought this rather harsh until my eyes adjusted to a whole new world. Gone
were the paper stuffed milk crates, the overflowing garbage cans along with the
crumbling furniture and lopsided bookcases. The walls too had been cleared of
the plethora of push pins holding up long useless notes and outdated
calendars; though I was happy to see my velvet “Dogs Playing Poker” print had
held its place of prominence. The desks were arranged in a loose circle
creating a War Room type set up. There was even a couch with pillows for late
nights. I felt like one of those women on HGTV who see their room makeover and
scream “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!” (of which Derf once commented it
seemed easier these days to give your wife an orgasm by redecorating the
bedroom than screwing her in it).
“Welcome to your new home,” said Gladys. “We’ve got a month
to find the bastards who killed Sheehan and screwed us. We’re ready if you are.”
A small roar of approval went up and for the first time I
registered that 15-20 friends were clustered along the wall prepared to offer
their support. “And there’s another 8 to 10 folks who couldn’t be here this
morning, but wanna help,” added Gladys as she saw me scan the assembled.
“Check it out, bud,” it was Max Lipper calling out to me from
next to a full-size fridge standing next to my office where once a rusting
over-stuffed file cabinet held sway. “All your favorites,” he intoned as he
pulled open the doors to display frozen pizza, boxes of Stouffer’s mac-n-cheese,
salsa, dips and, of course, a 30-pack of Natty Ice. “Don’t know how you drink
that swill, but God bless,” he added, closing the doors and pointing to a shelf
next to it. “Plus we picked up these for you at some dead lady’s estate sale.”
“V.S. Pritchett, Pat Barker, Kingsley Amis, Nadine
Gordimer…,” I rattled off the names from spines of well-worn paperbacks. “Too
bad the old bag’s dead…She sounds like the woman of my dreams.”
Just then Gladys leaned in, grabbed my arm and said, “You may
wanna hold out for something a little younger…” and turned me toward the
backdoor. There Miss Iceland snuck in and was taking a place among the
gathered.
When I turned back Gladys was wearing a, what I always
thought was oxymoronic, shit-eating grin. “So how’d I do?” she queried.
“What can I say, I guess I’m all in,” I replied and her grin
just got shittier…
