The Doorman Page 6

  "I spent it," Oscar answered.

  "Spent it!" Pete repeated, unable to believe his ears. Because Oscar so rarely bought anything, Pete had always assumed thriftiness to be one of his faults and fully intended to someday tap the sizeable nest egg he must surely possess. That Oscar could be so selfish as to spend all his money on himself was beyond belief. "On what? Movie posters?"

  "No," Oscar answered. "You."

  "Me? But how?"

  "Replacing what you stole."

  Pete was appalled. To give your money to The Man like that and just because it belonged to him. It certainly took the sweetness out of stealing. "You idiot!"

  "Sorry."

  "Now what?"

  "Don't know. Salvation Army, I guess."

  "Salvation Army? You can't do that. They don't let you drink. Let alone get high."

  Pete paused. Although he knew it ridiculous, in a strange way, he felt responsible. The least he could do was let the guy stay a few days. Maybe longer. Despite being fired, Oscar, as a long term employee, was entitled to pogey and Pete could take some. Call it rent. Yes, he thought, this could work out really well.

  "Don't worry," he said. "You can stay with me."

  *

  Mabel was feeling good. The martinis, the massage and the ego-lift that comes from condescending to the less fortunate had combined to create a state of well-being that was almost spiritual. But then, glancing into a bar, she saw... him! The bum! The one she gave five dollars to! He was sitting at a table with a glass of beer in front of him. Convinced that she had been conned, she considered storming into the bar and demanding her money back. But no: it was too late. The money was gone and there was nothing she could do about it.

  Well, she thought, I'll never make that mistake again. A tsunami could sweep away a village of peasants and she'd just sail by in her yacht. No way! I'm not falling for that. And all because a bum had caught her in a moment of weakness.

  Too kind, she thought. I'm just too kind for my own good.

  *

  Pete pulled into the backyard, narrowly missing a garbage can whose beaten body played tic-tac-toe with the dents in his car. An old lawnmower, seemingly sated, stood at the exact spot its efforts had ended. They got out, walked to the door and went downstairs.

  "Not bad, eh?" Pete said, showing him around. "Kitchen, bedroom, bathroom. Separate entrance even."

  "Where's this go?" Oscar asked, noticing a set of stairs.

  "Upstairs."

  "Who lives up there?"

  "My mom."

  "Thought you lived alone."

  "I do. I'm squatting."

  "In your mom's basement?"

  "Someone has to. Might as well be me."

  Despite being a blood relative of the owner, Pete saw himself as a squatter who had liberated the space from its capitalist landlord: he was, after all, depriving her of the money she would have received from a renter. Originally a bare concrete hole, his father spent several years finishing it and then promptly celebrated his achievement by leaving his wife for a younger woman. Soon after Pete's mom added a separate entrance and a kitchen and started renting it out to students until one summer Pete unexpectedly moved downstairs and declared it his own. A phase, she thought. He needs his independence. And so said nothing. But deep down she knew it was more than that.

  "And your dad?"

  Pete scowled. "He doesn't live here."

  "Sorry."

  "No problem. He left years ago."

  Pete didn't like to talk about his parents. For a while, he had commuted between them. Until, that is, he had a fight with his stepmother and pushed her down a flight of stairs. He hadn't intended to. He just lost his temper and the stairs were behind her. After that, and his father's transfer to another city, communication between them steadily diminished, from infrequent phone calls and the occasional postcard to nothing at all, the hot trauma of his abandonment slowly fading into a phantom pain he rarely felt. Ever since, it had just been him and his mother, whom he blamed for providing him with the necessities of life.

  "Well, at least you have your mom."

  Pete grunted. Truth was, he didn't like his mother and avoided her as much as possible, waiting until she had left for work before going up for breakfast - which wasn't difficult since he woke up a couple hours later. The real problem was dinner, which he usually got around by liberating leftovers and placing them in his mini-fridge for later. Sometimes he would even collect a few groceries and attempt to cook something, usually macaroni and cheese. Either way he would return the dishes the next day for cleaning. At first his mother had been upset by his metamorphosis into a sullen shut-in but, in time, had gotten used to it and even left money around for him to find. On the rare occasion their paths crossed - a Saturday afternoon say, when she came back from shopping early or he got up late - an awkward embarrassment ensued, made all the worse by her stilted small talk and his surly grunts. When exactly, she wondered, did I lose the ability to talk to my son?

  "That reminds me," he said. "You're going to have to be careful."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Don't make any noise or she'll come down. And then you'll have to leave."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah, she's as mean as hell. And hates strangers."

  The truth was quite different. Myrtle, Pete's mom, was a social person who enjoyed meeting new people. His real fear was that she would use Oscar's presence as an excuse to snoop around. For the most part, she respected his privacy, only coming down when she knew he was out and only when she had a specific purpose, like to tidy up or check on the furnace. Occasionally, she would sit on the couch and linger, looking around the room for clues as to what was happening in her son's life and how she could repair the relationship.

  "No problem," Oscar said. "I'll be quiet as a mouse."

  "Great. Now let me show you where you're going to sleep."

  *

  Almost, Myrtle thought. On top of her, cradled in the valley of her pelvis, was Jack. Moments before he had been all muscle; a few spasmodic jerks and he was spent. Only his penis remained and it was slowly deflating like an old birthday balloon.

  Penis... what a funny word. No wonder they preferred cock. So much stronger. Dick, dong, slong, tool, wang, prick, pecker, willy and wiener. And that's not counting all the individual names they give it, so many of which start with mister: Mister Happy, Mister Friendly, Mister Johnston - the last of which was a real name. She had even met a guy by that name once. Some jazz fan in a fedora who had felt her up in a cloakroom. Where was that, anyway? The country club? She was still married at the time and so, hadn't let it go any further. Maybe I should've, she thought. All things considered. But that was long ago and there was no way of knowing that David would leave her for Bobbi. The memory made her nostalgic. Men had been so eager then. So kind and generous. Romance was a given. And then, almost overnight, they turned into pigs. Either that or players. Myrtle wasn't sure which was worse, the slob with the beer gut who watched TV in his underwear or the slick charmer who broke your heart. But everyone needed a bit of affection from time to time so here she was, having sex with a married man. And it wasn't even enjoyable. Not really. So much buildup and then, the usual letdown.

  There has to be more to life, she thought, than this.

  *

  "Pete?" Myrtle asked. "Is that you?"

  Someone was definitely down there. She could hear him moving around. That there was no answer didn't mean it wasn't Pete. He often ignored her. But whoever it was was trying to be quiet and that was unusual.

  "I'm coming down."

  Or was she? What if it was a burglar? Did she really want to confront him? But what was the alternative? Sit upstairs and wait for him to leave? Grabbing a pepper shaker for protection, she opened the door and crept down the stairs.

  The lights were on but the place was empty. Looking around, she noticed that the back door was open. He must've forgotten to lock it, she thought and, despite her fear, felt angry.
At least the thief was gone. Nothing seemed to be stolen. The TV and stereo were where they always were. If anything, things looked neater, like he had tidied up. Must be one of those compulsive types who can't stand a mess. She had dated such a guy once. Although nice, he lived according to an invisible checklist: everything had to be a certain way and got upset if she ate her potatoes before her peas. At the time, shortly after her divorce, she had been fragile and so, unusually accommodating, but unfortunately his compulsions included cleanliness - he simply could not stop washing his hands - and his constant monopolization of the sink made it impossible for her to do her makeup and that she could not endure.

  Myrtle was about to go back upstairs when she spotted a roach in the ashtray; picking it up, she dusted it off and sat down. Something shifted beneath her - a spring, no doubt. But then it happened again and she heard a sound, a muffled moan, and, looking between her legs, saw a head whose face opposed her own. Leaping up, she screamed and, grabbing the pepper shaker, turned it several times suddenly, spraying his face with spice.

  "Ow!"

  "Who are you?" she demanded. "What do you want?"

  "Oscar," he answered. "Pete's friend."

  Myrtle stopped. "Pete has a friend?"

  Never popular, Pete had few friends. The last she knew of was back in grade school, some kid named Todd who always seemed to have his finger up his nose. But even then she knew that Pete, not Todd, was the bad influence. In her darker moments, she wondered if he would become one of those kids who takes a gun to school and kills his classmates. They'll blame me of course, she thought. and hoped she would at least look good on TV.

  "From the Palace. We work together."

  "What are you doing here?

  "Hiding."

  "I can see that. But why?"

  "I got kicked out of my place. Pete said I could stay here but don't make any noise or you'll get angry."

  "He did?"

  "Yeah. He said you hated people and would kick me out."

  "I see."

  "Uh, can I come out now?"

  "Oh sure. Let me help you."

  Myrtle grabbed his jacket and pulled.

  Heavy, she thought. Just imagine if he were dead. Disposing of a body must be a lot more difficult that it looks on TV. Hopefully it'll never come to that.

  "Thanks," Oscar said, and slowly stood up.

  Right side up, he looked a lot less threatening. Although a big man, he was more fat than muscle and his large moon-shaped face suggested an oddity that was more amusing than dangerous. His clothes, which proved his employment at the Palace, were torn and dirty and smelt suspiciously soiled.

  "Are you alright?" she asked.

  Oscar thought about it. "Not really."

  "Maybe we should wash those clothes," she said, as much for her sake as his. "Do you have anything else?"

  "All my stuff is in my apartment."

  Not that he had much. Oscar saw clothes as a necessary inconvenience and often wore the same shirt several days running. To him, a jacket was a lifelong possession and he had trouble understanding how clothing stores stayed in business.

  "I might have something upstairs," she said, knowing full well there was a bathrobe in her memorabilia box of ex-boyfriends. Since her divorce, Myrtle had dated about a dozen men, each of whom had left something behind and, rather than throw it out, she had kept it as a reminder of their failure to connect. Sometimes, when she felt particularly self-pitying, she would open it up and rummage about, relishing the scent of an aftershave or stroking the silk of a scarf she herself had lovingly picked out.

  "That would be great."

  "How about food? Are you hungry?"

  "Starved."

  "Okay then. Let's go upstairs."

  *

  "Oscar?"

  Pete looked around. No one. Above him was the sound of voices and laughter. Only then did he notice the open door.

  "Oscar!"

  Startled, Oscar turned and saw Pete in the landing.

  "What are you doing?"

  Oscar hesitated. "Eating?"

  "I need to speak with you. Immediately!"

  Oscar looked at his plate.

  "You can bring it with you."

  When Oscar returned to the basement, Pete was standing in the living room with his arms crossed.

  "I thought I told you to be quiet."

  "I was. But she found me hiding under the bed."

  "That's no excuse."

  "It's okay," Oscar assured him. "She said I could stay."

  "That's not the point."

  "No?"

  "No. I don't want you going up there."

  "Why not?"

  "Because she's using you, that's why."

  "For what?"

  "To get at me."

  "But she's your mother."

  "Exactly."

  "I don't understand."

  "You don't have to. But as long as you live under my roof, you follow my rules. Got it?"

  "Sure."

  "Now go to your room."

  *

  "A man!" Mabel exclaimed as, spearing an olive with a tiny plastic sword, she quickly gutted it with her teeth and spat the pit out onto the large pile that lay before her like the slaughtered skulls of a defeated army. "You have a man in your basement?"

  "A friend of Pete's," Myrtle explained, "who got locked out."

  "The basement's the perfect place for them. Keeps them out of trouble. They can fiddle with their tools and whatnot and all you have to worry about is them losing their fingers."

  "It's not like that."

  "Oh you don't fool me," Mabel replied, pointing her sword in accusation. "I can tell you like him."

  "He's interesting. I'll give him that. But not really my type."

  "Why not?"

  "Well, for one thing, he's fat. And not very bright. Simple even. And not only is he not a professional, he doesn't even have a job."

  "No job!"

  Employment was a deal breaker for Mabel. Unlike Myrtle, who fancied herself a feminist, Mabel was a traditional woman who saw men as raw material to be turned into husbands and fathers. According to her, bachelorhood was a crime and a man's true purpose was to be married and miserable. Sex was their reward for doing so. Why else would they want it so much? It also explained why women didn't enjoy it: each sex was only allowed one pleasure and for women it was shopping. That a man could be so selfish as to stay single infuriated her and she was convinced the real reason some men had sex with one another was to save money.

  "At least he's young."

  "Not really," Myrtle replied. "He's almost my age."

  "So what's the attraction?"

  "Well, he's kind. And gentle. I feel relaxed around him."

  "Good enough. Now all we have to do is lure him up. Like the rat in the corner you coax out with a piece of cheese."

  "Mouse," Myrtle corrected. "Cornered rats you leave alone."

  "That's ridiculous. Why would I leave a rat in my house? Makes no sense."

  "Whatever. Not sure I can. Pete's got him trapped down there like a prisoner. Won't even let him come up to eat."

  "Typical. They're all like that, especially when they're young. Clinging to one another like drunken sailors."

  Mabel saw it all the time: young guys swaggering in the street like outlaws when they should be home with a woman, buckling down to a life of low expectations. Cowards, she thought. Real men knew that the true test of toughness was giving up everything you enjoy for the sake of your family.

  "Well," she said. "We'll see about that."

  *

  Over the next few days, Myrtle tried more than once to lure them upstairs by cooking something delicious but each time Pete resisted, forcing Oscar to stay downstairs with him and share his macaroni and cheese or burnt potatoes. But I made it especially for you, he would say, exploiting Oscar's sense of obligation. Only once, too drunk to remember to collect some leftovers, was there no food in the suite. Undaunted, Pete simply declared a fas
t and lectured Oscar on the merits of letting your digestion fully empty - a decision he quickly reversed once Myrtle had gone to bed.

  And so Myrtle ate alone. The combination of a nice meal and the sound of their voices only added to her loneliness. It was so unfair. Yes, she was his mother but she had no desire to interfere with his life. She just wanted a little company, that's all. Was that so terrible?

  Which made it hard to say no to Jack. He would call her up at the oddest of hours and have her meet him for a quickie. Part of her wanted to refuse, make him give her a date of some sort, even if it was just fast food, but her need for company always let her down. Sometimes he would just pull up in front of her house and fuck her in his car. At least she never invited him in. Her home was her sanctuary. She wasn't going to let him pollute that.

  And these days the sex wasn't even good. Sometimes, after he was gone, she would wonder what she saw in him. True, he was her type - athletic and successful - but that didn't seem to matter anymore. Myrtle considered herself a feminist and justified the affair on the grounds that it was her choice, her body and her pleasure but the more she thought about it, the harder it became to distinguish her behavior from that of her opposite, the self-loathing woman with no respect who repeatedly gives herself to men who don't care about her.

  More and more she found herself thinking about the peculiar stranger downstairs. Something about him, his innocence most likely, appealed to her. He reminded her of how she used to be and she wanted to be like that again. Before Jack. Before the divorce. Before everything. Back when she was a young woman full of hope and men were nice to her. She wasn't sure what she wanted from him but she definitely wanted something and, one way or another, was going to get it.

  *

  "The real question," Robin said, looking Oscar in the eye, "is do you have what it takes to sell sausage?"

  "Maybe."

  "That's not good enough. I need a yes."

  "Yes."

  "Louder."

  "Yes!"

  "That's better. Take a look at this," he said, pulling a plaque from the wall.

  To Robin Wolfe, it read. For Outstanding Excellence.

  "You see that?" he asked. "They could've just said Excellence but they didn't. They added Outstanding. Now what does that tell you?"

  "Uh... they had lots of space."