Wade lost his money. His patent application was turned down. He damn near lost his house. And it was at that point, twelve or so years ago (he told me this), that he began taking an interest in demolitions and in the terminus-tending aspects of things found in everyday life. It’s hard to argue with him, and I don’t. Though selling real estate, I don’t need to say, is dedicated to the very opposite proposition.
A small plane pulls a banner across the blue-streaked November sky above us, heading north into the no-fly zone now abandoned by the Coast Guard and the “News at Noon” copters. BLACK FRIDAY AT FOSDICKS? the trailing sign says. No one in the departing crowd pays it any attention. Up ahead, a black man is helping the Salvation Army woman lift her red kettle into a white panel truck. Several landmark protestors are trailing their signs behind them as they seek their vehicles, satisfied they’ve again done their best. No one’s much talking about the Queen Regent, now a rock pile awaiting bulldozers and fresh plans. Many seem to be chatting about tomorrow’s turkey and the advent of guests.
“What do you hope for, Franky?” Wade has taken a grip of my left bicep and given me his Panasonic, which is surprisingly light. He’s eaten his sandwiches and left the sack behind. My Suburban’s at the far end of the parked cars. Wade intends, I know, to leap-frog on to weightier matters. The reminder of his own end, concurrent with the Queen Regent’s demise, fastens him down even more firmly to the here and now.
“I’m not a great hoper, Wade, I guess.” We’re not walking fast. Others pass us. “I just go in for generic hopes. That good comes to me, that I do little harm and die in my sleep.”
“That’s a lot to hope for.” His grip is pinching the shit out of me right through my windbreaker. Then he unaccountably loosens up. Vehicles are starting around us, back-up lights and taillights snapping on. “I’m not alive from the waist down anymore. How ’bout you?” Wade isn’t looking at me, but staring toward what’s ahead—my Suburban, which has an altered look about it.
“I’m shipshape, Wade. Fire in the hole.” I’m reliant on Dr. Psimos’s assessment, and on how things seem most mornings. You could say I have high hopes for life below the waist.
“I’ve plateaued,” Wade says irritably. “Left it all in the last century.” He’s frowning, as if he, too, has spied something wrong up ahead of us. The Millennium clearly has different resonances for different age brackets.
“Maybe enough’s enough, Wade. You know?”
“So other people tell me.”
What Wade and I have seen altered about my car is that the driver’s-side backseat window’s been smashed and glass particles scattered on the sparse grass. Below the door, on top of the glittering glass, is a flesh-colored Grand Union plastic bag with the milk carton inside. Though when I pick it up, it’s as heavy as a brick, and on closer notice I discover that the Sealtest carton inside—a pink-toned photograph of a missing teen on the label—actually contains a brick. The carton’s mission hasn’t been what it seemed when I felt it bumping my leg, its little brigand owner awaiting his chance at mischief. Did he sense I was a Suburban owner? Was I under surveillance from the beginning? This is why I never hope: Hoping is not a practical mechanism for events that actually happen.
“Little pissmires nailed you,” Wade snarls, taking in the damage, completely clear-brained, bifocals flashing at the chance to be permissibly pissed off, instantly intuiting the whole criminal scenario. “Too bad Cade’s not here,” he says, “though they probably didn’t leave any prints.” He hasn’t seen the actual culprit, only the virtual one (the real one’s spitting image). “Shouldn’t of stuck that stupid sticker on your bumper.” He scowls, walking around behind my car, assessing things like a cop, his little bandy-legged self full-up with race bile, which makes me angrier than the busted window—and fingers me as a typical liberal. “They probably hate fat-ass Gore worse than they hate shit-for-brains,” he says. (His only name for Bush.) Wade’s mouth wrinkles into a twisted, unhumorous smile of seen-it-all pleasure. “What’d they get? Did you leave your billfold in there?”
“No.” I touch my lumpy back pocket, then peer inside the mostly glassless window hole, trying not to touch a sharp edge. Glass kernels carpet the backseat and floor. Sunlight on the roof has turned it hot and boggy inside. The deed can’t be more than five minutes old. I stand up and look longingly around, as if I could rerun things, set a guiding, weighted hand onto little Shaquille’s or little Jamal’s sun-warmed head, walk with him over to the boardwalk for a funnel cake and some unangrified, nonjudgmental, free-form man-to-man about where one goes wrong in these matters. Possibly he’s a member of Cub Pack 31 and is at work on his larceny merit badge.
Nothing’s present in the backseat but a torn-out Asbury Park Press real estate page, a couple of red-and-white bent-legged Realty-Wise signs and the pink Post-it with Mike’s directions to Mullica Road. That seems long ago. Though yesterday wasn’t better than today. If anything, it was worse. I haven’t been in a fistfight today or had my neck twisted (yet). I haven’t been vilified, haven’t gotten in deep with my ex-wife, haven’t gone to a funeral. It may not be the right moment to count my blessings, but I do.
An enormous Invector RV as big as a team bus, with Indian arrow markings on its side, comes rumbling past us, its owner-operator a tiny balding figure with sunglasses inside the slide-back captain’s window. He frowns down at me with empathy and stops. He’s a “Good Sam” and has the smiling, stupid mouthy-guy-with-the-halo decal on one of his back windows. These birds are always Nazis. The captain’s sweet-faced wife’s behind him in the copilot’s space, craning past to see down to me and my lower-case woes. I know she feels empathy for me, too. But being peered down at, shattered glass around my feet, my car busted and an orange-skinned old loony as my teammate, makes me feel a wind-whistling loss far beyond empathy’s reach.
“Vehicle crime’s up twenty percent due to the Internet,” the Invector captain says from behind his sunglasses, surveying the scene from above. He’s weasly, with a puny little mustache that he may have just started. His wife’s saying something I can’t hear. Another man and woman, their lifelong friends, plus the square head of a Great Dane, appear in the back living-quarters window. All stare at me gravely, the dog included.
“What’d he say?” Wade says from behind my car.
I can’t repeat it. A saving force in the universe forbids me. Something tells me these travelers are from central Florida, possibly the Lakeland area, which makes me hate them. I shrug and look back at my window hole. I’m still holding Wade’s Panasonic, as if I was taping everything.
“No use callin’ the cops,” the land-yacht driver says, down from his little window. His wife nods. Their passengers have pulled the café curtains farther apart and are rubber-necking me and Wade and my broken vehicle. Both are holding tall-boys of Schlitz. I am another feature of the interesting New Jersey landscape, a textbook case of worsening crime statistics. Eighty percent of murders are committed by people who know their victims, which means many murders are probably not as senseless as they seem.
“I guess,” I say, and fake a grateful smile upward.
“Oh yeah!” From somewhere, a hidey-hole the police wouldn’t find—in a safe box, a glove compartment, under the sun visor—the land-yacht guy produces a nickel-plated revolver as big as Wade’s video cam, from whose barrel end he coolly blows invisible smoke like an old-west gunfighter who is also a good samaritan. “They don’t fuck with me,” he smirks. His wife gives him a halfhearted whap on the shoulder for language reasons. Their friends in the back laugh soundlessly. I’m sure they’re all Church of Christers.
“That oughta do it,” I say.
“That already has done it,” he says. “I’m ex-peace officer.” He lowers his big Ruger, S&W, Colt, whatever, smiles a goofy sinister smile, then revs his Invector into new life, issuing an order over his shoulder to his passengers, who disappear from the window. He sets some kind of blue ball-cap with U.S. Navy braiding onto his skint he
ad. “Buckle up. We’re casting off,” a man’s voice says inside. The captain’s wife mouths something to me as her window of opportunity closes, but I can’t hear for the motor noise. “Okay,” I say. “Thanks.” But it’s the wrong thing to say as they sway away over the dry grass toward new marvels awaiting them.
Cold pre-Thanksgiving winds whistle through my broken back window, stiffening my neck and making me feel like I’m catching something, even though I had a flu shot and am probably not. The advance weather of tropical depression Wayne is moving up the seaboard, and the once-nice sky has quilted into dense cotton batting, the cold sun that warmed us in the bleachers now retired. It’s November. Nothing more nor less.
The Queen Regent’s big finish has contributed little to Wade and me, only a bleak and barren humility, suggesting closure’s easier to wish for than locate. Driving back out Lake Avenue toward the Fuddruckers—through a precinct of crumbling mansions, a Dominican “hair station,” the Cobra motorcycle club and the Nubian Nudee Revue, all bordering a pretty green lake with low Parisian bridges crossing to a more prosperous town to the south (Ocean Grove)—I spy my little culprit window smasher, tootling along down the crumbling sidewalk in his big silver shoes and hooded sweatshirt, under the heavy hand of the Chicago Jew-Dog purveyor, a giant coffee-black Negro with woolly hair and big inner-tube biceps. Wade’s mooning out the window, sees these citizens and makes a satisfied grunt of approval, as if to say, See, now. More of this kind of parental oversight will get you less of that other stuff…pass on the vital gnosis of the civilization…a sense of what’s right…intact units, yadda, yadda, yadda. Better than a perp walk into social services in plastic bracelets, I’ll concede, and drive us on.
Wade is exhausted. His rucked hands, in the skinny lap of his jackass pants, have begun just noticeably to tremble, and his old white-fringed head won’t exactly be still and is ducked, anticipating sleep—which he complains he does little of. He smells possibly more sour, and one of his scuffed patent-leather slip-ons taps the floor mat softly. Old people, no matter what anyone says, do not make the best company when spirits flag. They tend to sink toward private thoughts or embarrassed, uncomprehending silence, from whose depths they don’t give much of a shit about anybody else’s private thoughts—all the “great experience” they carry become essentially useless. Not that I blame him. Seeing an implosion has given him the peek into oblivion he wanted. It simply hasn’t changed anything.
I remember, years ago, after my father died and my mother and I were living in a sandy, ant-infested asbestos-sided house near Keesler, my mother one morning backed our big green Mercury right over my little black-and-white kitten, Mittens. Apparently nothing caught her notice, because she continued out onto the street and drove away to her job. It was not the best time in her life. But Mittens made a terrible squawling scream I heard inside the house. And when I raced out in a panic of knowledge and cold helplessness, there was the sad, mangled little cat, not long for the planet, flopping and wriggling, making awful strangling noises out of his crushed little gullet and turning me crazed, since my mother was gone and no one was there to help.
Next door, on our neighbor’s front porch, was the neighbor lady’s—Mrs. Mockbee’s—antique old daddy, a dapper turkey-necked fossil who told my mother he’d fought in the Civil War but of course hadn’t. Still, he called himself Major Mockbee and sat long days on his daughter’s concrete porch in a straw boater, red bow tie, suspenders, spats and seersucker suit, chewing, spitting and talking to himself while Keesler Saber jets flew over.
He alone was there when Mittens got flattened by my mother’s Merc. The only adult. And it was to him I fled, my mind a fevered chaos, across the driveway in the sweltering Mississippi morning, across the damp St. Augustine and up the three steps onto the porch. The poor little cat had already grown quiet, breathing his troubled last. But I pushed his smushed limp body straight into Major Mockbee’s field of vision—he knew me, we’d spoken before. And I said, tears squirting, my heart pounding, my limbs aching with fear (I shouted, really), “My mother ran over my cat. I don’t know what to do!”
To which Major Mockbee, after spitting a glob over the porch rail into the camellias, clearing his acrid old throat and putting on a pair of wire spectacles to have a better look, said, “I believe you’ve got yourself a Persian. It looks like a Persian. I’d say something’s wrong with it, though. It looks sick.”
Unfair, I know. But truth is truth. I sometimes think of old people as being like pets. You love them, amuse yourself with them, tease and humor them, feed them and make them happy, then take solace that you’re probably going to live longer than they will.
Back in the Barnegat Pines days of ’84—when Wade took life more as it tumbled, projected a seamless, amiable surface, kept his garage neat, his tools stowed, his oil changed, tires rotated, went to church most Sundays, watched the Giants not the Jets, prayed for both the Democrats and the Republicans, favored a humane, Vatican II approach to the world’s woes, inasmuch as we live amid surfaces, etc.—back then I just assumed he, like the rest of us (prospective son-in-laws think such things), would wake up one morning at four, feel queasy, a little light-headed, achy from that leaf raking he’d done the evening before and decide not to get up quite yet. Then he’d put his head back to the pillow for an extra snooze and somewhere around six and without a whimper, he’d soundlessly buy the farm. “He usually didn’t sleep that late, but I thought, well, he’s been under a strain at work, so I just let him—” Gone. Cold as a pike.
Only, age plays by strange rules. Wade’s now survived happiness to discover decrepitude. To be alive at eighty-four, he’s had to become someone entirely other than the smooth-jawed ex-Nebraska engineer who was cheered to see the sun rise, cheered to see it set. He’s had to adapt (Paul would say “develop”)—to shrink around his bones like a Chinaman, grow stringy, volatile, as self-interested as a pawnbroker, unable to see his fellowmen except as blunt instruments of his demon designs. Apart from merely liking him, and liking to match Wade-remembered to Wade-present tense, I’m also interested for personal reasons in observing if any demonstrable good’s to be had from getting as old as Methuselah, other than that the organism keeps functioning like a refrigerator. We assume persistence to be a net gain, but it still needs to be proved.
“Why don’t you come down to my place for dinner?” Wade says gruffly out of the blue, more energetic than I expected.
“Thanks, but I’ve got some duties.” Not true. We’re re-crossing 35, the route I’ll take home. Some commercial establishment—I don’t know where, but cultural literacy tells me it’s there—will be eager to fix my back window, if only in a temporary way until after the holiday. Busted Back Windows R-Us.
“What the hell duties have you got?” Wade cuts his jagged eyes at me, working his tongue tip along his lower lip. He gives one bulky beige hearing device a jab with his thumb. “You don’t have a new girlfriend, do you?”
“I have a wife. I have two wives. At least I—”
“Hah!” Wade makes a strangled noise that could be a cough or a last gasp of life. “You know the penalty for bigamy? Two wives! I had two. I’m single now. Never had so much fun.” Wade’s forgotten we’re acquainted. He’ll be calling me Ned next. Ned might be better than Frank now, since Frank’s not feeling so enthusiastic.
Evenings down at the Grove are not for everybody. Dinner’s at 6:00 and over by 6:25. Then the inmates (the ones that can) scuttle out to the common room for rapt-silence CNN viewing and alarming postprandial personal odors. Meals are color-coded—something brown, something red, something that once was green, with tapioca or syrupy no-sugar fruit to follow. If I went with Wade, we’d arrive early, have to wait in his two-room “en suite,” full of his bric-a-brac, his bathroom full of medicines, his framed Turnpike battle insignias and vestigial home furnishings from Barnegat Pines. We’d watch a Jeopardy rerun, then get in an argument, like we did the one time I was a guest and unexpectedly saw him naked.
It’s no wonder Cade and family stay up in Pohatcong and don’t much look in. What can you do? Things are what they are. If we hang on too long, we reach the back side of the Permanent Period, where life doesn’t grow different, there’s just more of it until the lights go dim.
“I’ve got a surprise for you.” Wade’s white slip-on’s still tapping the floor mat, but his hand-trembling and neck-ducking have ceased. I’ve turned up the heater due to the back window draft. Suburbans have world-beating comfort systems, which is a reason to own one.
Wade claims he indulges in unbridled semi-sexual liaisons with several of the grannies at the Grove—in spite of being dead below the belt line. He charms them with his implosion videos and spicy narratives about things he’s seen in the backseats of stretch limos passing through his tollbooth. During my one visit, he had a tiny powdery-cheeked, pink-haired lawyer’s widow in her seventies as his squeeze. They smirked and winked, and Wade made lewd innuendos about night-time feats he was still capable of after two vodka gimlets and a Viagra chaser.
“I’d love to, but I’ve got a house-full back home,” I say, easing into the Fuddruckers’ lot across from the streaming Parkway. Wade’s Olds sits nosed under the faded yellow awning. A blue-and-white Asbury Park PD cruiser with a Bush sticker is parked across the lot, its hatless occupant observing traffic through the intersection. Technically, I have no one waiting at home. Paul and the unusual Jill have checked into the Beachcomber and are dining at Ann’s. Clarissa’s off on her heterosex escapade with honey-voiced Thom. My house is ringingly empty on Thanksgiving eve. How does that happen?