Austin Dispatches | No. 206 | May 29, 2018 |
It was a dark and stormy
flight. A squall shook the charter jet and its inhabitants. In the galley, the
stewardesses negotiated vigorously. Finally, the victor, with high cheekbones
and an ash blonde updo ponytail, swayed along the aisle to the cabin’s front.
“Excuse me, sir? Sir?” The
stewardess tapped the passenger on the shoulder of his cadet grey linen jacket.
Wolfgang P. Barbados halted
his reverie. He turned his view from the window. Smoke wafted from his cigar. He
arched an eyebrow quizzically and half-smiled as he stopped his Walkman, playing
a mixtape from last evening’s gamine dinner companion.
The stewardess flustered at
Barbados’ expression. She glanced at her giggling co-workers. “Mr. Barbados,
will you please extinguish your cigar, until we’re out of the turbulence?”
“Oh, of course. And please,
call me Wolf.”
An awkward conversational
pause ensued.
“The captain says we should
be through this weather before we reach U.S. airspace. Because of safety
requirements, my colleagues and I will be restricting our service to passengers
for the duration … but afterward, if there’s
anything I can do for you.”
She hesitated, considering whether she hadn’t misemphasized some words in her
utterance.
Wolfgang smirked bemusedly.
“Since you’ve made an offer like that....
If you’re free for lunch, I know this great little Italian restaurant in
Hasbrouck Heights. After we land, I can call and reserve a table for us.”
“Uh.”
“Weather permitting, we
should land about –what? –” Wolfgang glanced at his Rolex wristwatch –
“eleven-thirty Eastern Standard Time? You’ll have a chance to slip into
something more flattering than that polyester uniform.”
“It’s a blend,” she said
indignantly.
“Is that a yes?”
The stewardess laughed, so
loudly she felt self-conscious, and placed a hand to her mouth in embarrassment.
She glanced again at her co-workers, pantomiming commentary on her conversation.
The other passengers, who received perfunctory attention from the stewardess who
placed second in the galley negotiations, began to focus on the flirtation to
distract themselves from the prospect of drowning. They also wondered why they
weren’t getting such personalized service.
“Your offer’s very
flattering – I think – but I’ll have to check my schedule before I can commit.
Just in case.”
“Very well. I’ll wait for
you in the business office.”
To the extent she could
strut amid turbulence, the stewardess strutted toward the galley.
The passengers deplaned in
the jet’s hanger at Teterboro Airport. Wolfgang unzipped the car jacket covering
his 8972 BMW 750iL. He stowed his portmanteau and briefcase in the trunk, opened
the luggage, and shifted his Grand Tour’s accumulation of brochures,
periodicals, clippings, business cards, receipts, and pamphlets from the
briefcase to the portmanteau to make space for the mail, delivered by
DHL and
the American Letter
Mail Co., that awaited him at the airline business office.
“Bill … bill … bill. Boy,
it’s good to be back in the States,” Barbados quipped to the courtesy desk
clerk, as he stuffed the bills into the briefcase.
Reporters swarmed into the
office, brandishing notebooks and tape recorders with their hands not clutching
White Castle and Habit Burger Grill coffee cups.
“You’re still here. We
nearly missed you,” said a reporter from
U.S. News and World Report.
“I arrived sooner than I
thought. What merits such attention?”
“You’re a
newsworthy name on
the passenger manifest,” said a reporter from the
Bergen Newspaper Group. “Ever
since that Rolling Stone piece.”
“People on the East Coast
actually read that old hippie rag?”
“ ‘Hippie?’ ”
“Hmmm. ‘Scruffy bohemian
loser.’ ” The reporters noted the term.
“The question is, Why did
you agree to that interview?” asked a stringer for
WBGO-FM.
“Supposedly Rolling Stone is
belatedly attempting to
redefine itself for the Seventies. Some elders on the
California Liberal Coalition Executive Committee thought there was good
publicity from the youngest-ever committeeman, and a local at that, talking to
it.”
“Who's the Liberal Coalition
going to endorse for
president?” asked a reporter for
The Jersey
Journal.
“Gentlemen, the major
parties haven't even nominated their tickets yet. ”
“Who's the coalition likely
to endorse?” asked a reporter for WFDU-FM.
“Who're you leaning
towards?” asked the reporter for Our Town in Maywood.
“We've had multiple good
presidential choices in my lifetime and I expect that'll continue, with or
without an official LC endorsement.”
“But who’re you leaning
towards?” asked the WFDU reporter.
“I know many of the
candidates and I think they’d make good presidents. Several of the candidates I
haven’t met, based on what I’ve read or heard, would also make good presidents.
After all, it’s not like they have to do much during the term of office – well,
other than stifling the urge to throttle
Sam Donaldson.”
“That sounds like a
non-answer answer,” said the U.S. News reporter. “What’s the real thinking on
the LC’s excom.”
“I just got back from
vacation.”
“How did you find Europe?”
“With a map.” The crowd
laughed.
“What did you do?”
“Golf, among other things. I
was at the Himalayas of Prestwick, on the fifth tee and – ”
“Getting back to the
presidential race –”
The blonde and a couple of
fellow stewardesses, now garbed in stylish mufti, tentatively entered the
business office. The blonde froze at the shifting attention from everyone else.
She pantomimed a change of mind. The stewardesses quickly backed out of the
office.
Wolfgang frowned.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen—”
The reporters looked around
in confusion.
“All I know about the race
now is what I’ve seen in the news
during vacation. I won’t know what the excom thinks until it meets after the
conventions. Right now I don’t know what I think about the matter. … The real
question is who’re your editorial boards going to endorse?”
Barbados glanced at his
watch. “Now, if you'll excuse me, it's late, I'm on Paris time, and I've got to
take care of the paperwork that's accumulated in my absence.” Barbados extracted
a fistful of bills from his briefcase's exterior pocket.
“Unless you'd like to pay
them.” The reporters grinned, scattered, some for the nearest pay phones, some
for their cars.
Barbados turned back to the
clerk. They both shrugged. Wolfgang tugged at his abstract pattern
Missoni
necktie. “ ‘I tell ya I get no respect.’ ”
The clerk laughed. “I was going to tell you
just before they entered. They left messages for you before
they stepped out for coffee.”
Barbados glanced wistfully
at the door where the blonde exited. “Since they were obviously at White Castle,
I guess that rules out eating there.”
Wolfgang paid his parking
bill and dictated telegrams for delivery to his parents and to his girlfriend,
both of Sunnyvale, Calif.:
Back safe in
USA. Will call later as time permits. See you next week.
Love,
Wolf
Wolfgang exited the airport
at Malcolm Avenue. He turned right on Route 17 and continued until he reached
Bendix Diner in Hasbrouck Heights. He unknotted his tie and tossed it onto the
back seat. In the diner, the waitresses used frequent, unrequested refills of
coffee and cream as means to flirt
with him at his booth, even though he was obviously focused on
scarfing American
food, including onion rings, after weeks of continental European cuisine. He
tipped them each a silver 5-cent piece.
At another booth, another
customer muttered to his friend maybe he could get that kind of service if he
were some big shot rich guy. “Yeah, maybe the waitresses
would be falling all over you … if you weren’t such a cheap
bastard,” the friend quipped.
Wolfgang resumed his
drive
through the midday mid-Atlantic hustle and bustle, along Route 17, then Route 3,
onto The Helix, through the
Midtown Hudson Tunnel, onto
West 39th Street in
Midtown Manhattan, then along Fifth Avenue before entering the resident garage
of a skyscraper at Fifth and 57th Street.
Wolfgang ascended from the
parking garage to the atrium. At the concierge desk, he picked up more mail, and
instructed staff to carry the parcels and periodicals accumulated in his
absence. “The chief wants to see you when you’re available,” the concierge said.
In the apartment, Wolfgang
directed the staff to deposit the mail atop his main desk, while he dropped his
luggage in the bedroom. Wolfgang tipped the staff with redeemable notes issued
by a New York bank, activated his computer, played his answering machine
messages, hung his jacket and necktie in the bedroom closet, opened the
portmanteau to air it, and placed his briefcase’s contents on the main desk.
A familiar voice among the
messages gained his full attention. “Hey howya doin’. Come by the club. I’m
opening for some new talent tonight.” Wolfgang jotted a note in his planner.
He checked financial matters
through the news channels on television and the
Telerate module installed
on his computer. Nothing he saw, heard or read required an immediate decision.
Wolfgang intermitted the television. He called the landlord’s office and scheduled a meeting
for later that day.
He opened a package of LPs.
He took the records to the stereo system and set them in an empty
Per Madsen
Rackit module. He peeled the plastic exterior wrap from one of the albums,
extracted the LP, checked it for warps or scratches, placed it on the turntable,
ran a brush over the A side grooves, and activated the stereo system. He
repeated this for each side of each record in each such package in between
unpacking his luggage, opening his other parcels, and sorting through the
accumulated papers on his desk.
By 6:15 p.m., Wolfgang had
switched to listening to new CDs, replaced his Glock’s magazine with
frangible
bullets for one with hollow points, written notes to himself in a three-hole,
spiral-bound 9” x 12” notebook for the next day’s business endeavors, and
changed into a fresh outfit before arriving at the landlord’s office.
“Norma, hold my calls for 15
minutes,” the landlord told his executive secretary.
“The concierge told me you
wanted to chat.”
“Joe?” The landlord mentally
added a plus to the concierge’s employment record. “The staff gave you all the
help you needed with your stuff?”
“Absolutely. You have the
best staff.”
“So. While you were in
Europe. How was business?”
“I was … carousing most of
the time, but my impression, plus the business press there – I don’t think
there’s any deal awaiting you or your people.”
“Yeah? OK.”
“And the pace is a little
too leisurely for you. Nobody over there moves at your speed.”
“All right. I figure it was
worth a talk, especially after that Formosa deal. Although another finder’s fee
like that and you’ll wind up owning this place. My brother gave me hell for
waiving your rent in lieu of payment. You’d think he’d appreciate cutting down
on paperwork.”
The landlord paused in
thought. “Your sister’s graduating school, isn’t she?”
“Right.”
“You gonna attend the
ceremony?”
“I don’t dare miss it.”
“How long are you staying
here this time?”
“Through tomorrow, then a
couple days in Greenwich, a couple days in Baltimore to see relatives, then I
fly back to Sunnyvale for the graduation.”
The landlord activated his
intercom. “Norma, send a card to—.” Wolfgang gave the name and address. “For
high school graduation, ASAP.”
“Thanks.”
“What’s she doing after
school?”
“She has a part-time job in
an apartment leasing office. I think she might go into real estate full time,
until Mister Right comes along.”
“She a smart kid?”
“She’s a shark.”
“Sounds like somebody I
could use.”
“More like she’ll be besting
you in a real estate deal.”
The landlord guffawed.
“That’ll be the day.”
The club sound system
emitted a Caribbean klangfarbenmelodie that reverberated from the buildings as
Wolfgang sauntered east from his residence, browsing each
storefront along the
way. Other men who noticed him
tugged their women closer.
He entered
Jack Roy’s Laff
Riot on First Avenue, paid the dollar cover, sat at the bar farthest from the
stage, and ordered a G&T from Teddy the bartender.
Jack Roy emerged from his
office as the club manager, Tony, doubled as MC. Wolfgang noticed Jack bookended
a monologue with familiar bits, followed by a warm-up for the next act.
Wolfgang followed Jack to
the office. Inside, Jack had shucked his black suit for a paisley bathrobe. Jack
paced the office, verbally evaluating his set to Tony.
“Hey, you made it. How was
my set?” Jack asked. “What’d you think? How was I out there?”
Wolfgang regarded his drink.
“I think you’ve got a great future in aluminum siding.”
Jack deflated. “I knew it, I
knew it wasn’t getting enough laughs out there,” he said half to the room in
general, half to Tony.
Tony wordlessly conveyed
sympathy, even though he’d heard this plaint many times before.
Jack sputtered as he
attempted to down his Scotch without removing the lit cigarette in his mouth.
“Word gets out, and my next gig I’m the opening act at a Zanie’s in Fort
Lauderdale.”
“I’m kidding,” Wolfgang
said. “You killed. You should use the new bits on your next
Carson gig.”
“I can’t. This is material
for an HBO showcase in two weeks.” Jack continued pacing between gulps. “But
it’s no good, no good. The new stuff isn’t ready yet.”
Wolfgang and Tony looked at
each other, trying to think of something to assuage Jack.
“So call
Lou Silverstone to
doctor it,” Wolfgang finally said.
Jack paused. “Lou
Silverstone,” he repeated softly. He opened a desk drawer and checked his
address book.
Jack brightened. “That’s it!
I’ll call him after I introduce this next act. Hey, kid, you’re all right!”