Stuart Kaminsky - He Done Her Wrong

“Sorry,” I said.

“Now that I think about it, I don’t really know what I did those four years in the main office. Then sales fell. Who knows why? Carbon sales depend upon little competition and a triplicate society. In any case, bills mounted, my commission dropped, Phyllis had an abortion, skinny old John Whitney Lickter began to get on me, and I began to worry seriously about Hitler. But Lickter was the worst of all because I had to face his shriveled, frowning face every day with excuses. It got to the point where I couldn’t stand to hear his ‘Is that your total and complete report, Mr. Cortland? It leaves much to be desired.’ If any single thing drove me mad, it was that statement from him each morning while he sipped tea from a mug marked J.W.L. and played with the perpetual mole on his chin, the old fart. You don’t mind if I use a bit of profanity to color my speech, do you?”

“Not at all.”

“We do have to make some allowances for each other. After all we are mentally unwell. You don’t mind if I refer to our mental problem, do you?”

“I haven’t got any mental problem. They’ve made a mistake, I told you.” I tried to sit up and swallow, but the will was not enough. Ressner could be merrily hacking away at Mae West while I pretended to listen to this ranting maniac.

“Perhaps,” said Sklodovich, lying back on his bed. “It wouldn’t be the first time and it wouldn’t be the last. I hope you don’t mind the homilies. Do you? Actually I shouldn’t spend so much time apologizing. That was one of my problems. Always apologizing to my wife, to Lickter, to stationery store owners.”

“You were going to tell me about Ressner?”

“Oh yes. Well, one morning after I had lost my bus transfer and fought with the driver over changing a five-dollar bill, old Lickter called me into his office to grumble and complain about the lack of sales. You wouldn’t think to look at me, but I used to be a real worm; that’s a fact. I was home and office doormat. I handed old Lickter my report as usual and he read it grim-faced, glancing up at me through the smoke of his cigar or the steam of his tea; either of the two was constantly at his mouth. ‘Is that your total and complete report, Mr. Cortland? It leaves much to be desired.’ Instead of nodding in fear for my fragile reputation as I had previously, I grabbed the old man, took his damned cigar, tied him with the cord from his draw drapes, and dangled him out of the window fifteen stories above the sidewalk. He was too frightened to say much at first, but as soon as I tied one end of the cord to his desk I heard him screaming to the sunny sky. ‘The situation does leave a great deal to be desired, doesn’t it, Mr. Lickter?’ I called out the window and peered over to see a crowd gathering. ‘Cut the rope, man,’ someone shouted. ‘No, no,’ said another guy, ‘wait till I get my camera.’ Mr. Seymour, my immediate superior, chief Midwest sectional division manager in charge of erasers, came into the office about five minutes later with a smile on his false and lecherous face. ‘What’s going on here, Craig? Some kind of misunderstanding with Mr. Lickter? Can I help in any way?’ ‘I hung him out the window, you queer bastard,’ I said, tweaking his effeminate nose. I pulled him by the nose to the window and shouted down to the waiting crowd, ‘Mr. Seymour here is a queer.’ ‘Wha’ he say?’ I heard a woman shout. ‘He says Seymour is a fairy,’ said another voice. ‘Which one’s Seymour?’ ‘This one,’ I shouted. ‘Atta boy, Mac, toss him down here.’ Seymour, nostrils stopped, pleaded ‘led me go, please,’ ‘Mr. Lickter, you knew Mr. Seymour here was a queer, didn’t you?’ ‘Let me up, Mr. Cortland, I promise I’ll pay you anything,’ shouted Lickter, whose upside-down face was quite red. I shoved Seymour, the corrupter of office boys, into the large closet behind the huge desk. Next a cop came up and talked to me through the door, though the door wasn’t locked. ‘This is Sergeant Derk, Cortland. What have you done with Seymour?’ ‘He’s in the closet,’ I said, ‘but why you should care is beyond me.’ ‘Now,’ said Sergeant Derk slowly, ‘I want you to listen to me. Cutting that rope isn’t going to solve any problems,’ Do you think this whole thing sounds Freudian? I mean their fear that I might cut the imaginary umbilical cord that bound me to his authority.”

“It does sound a little Freudian,” I said, feeling a little reasonable fear of the orange-eating, talkative lunatic in the next bed.

“I didn’t even think about cutting the cord until he brought it up. But I didn’t answer Sergeant Derk, who went away after a few seconds. ‘Is there anything to be desired out there?’ I asked Lickter. He said nothing, and I noticed that the fire department had spread a net below the window and was busily at work on an additional net a few stories below. I helped Lickter up, and the now-massive crowd groaned. ‘Don’t worry,’ I shouted. ‘He’ll be right back.’ ‘Please Cortland,’ he sputtered, seated upright on the window ledge. ‘I’ll make you a partner.’ ‘Be realistic,’ I said, turning him upside down again when the normal paste color had returned. The crowd cheered. ‘How can you make me a partner? You know as well as I do that if I let you in, I’ll be thrown in jail and fired. You’d have to be crazy to make me a partner.’ Toby-do you mind if I call you Toby?”

“Not at all.”

“Next they sent a priest up to talk to me even though I’m not a Catholic. Why is it they always send a priest even though most people are not Catholics?”

Before I could answer he continued talking.

“The priest was a pleasant, chubby guy who looked scared to death but determined, so I let him in. ‘This is not the way, Craig. You can gain nothing from this. Let them go, and I’ll do what I can to help you.’ ‘You don’t even know me,’ I said. ‘I don’t have to know you, but I can see that you are a man who respects the laws of God.’ ‘I respect neither God, man, nor the Internal Revenue Service, father.’ “That is blasphemy, young man,’ he said gently. “Yes,’ I replied, wishing they had sent a more capable priest. But I’m sure they sent what they had on hand. ‘I’ll have to insist that you let that man in,’ said the priest. There was no choice for me.”

“You let him up?”

“No, I tied up the priest with the cord from the other drape, and he joined Lickter out the window. I’m not boring you, am I?”

“No.”

“Good. Well they sent Phyllis, but I wouldn’t let her in. There was no more drape cord, and I already had someone in the closet. She cried for a while and went away. You’re wondering about Ressner, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“The phone had been ringing the moment I lowered the priest out the window and heard the faraway voices below: ‘It’s a priest.’ ‘God no.’ ‘He gonna drop a priest?’ ‘That’d be something.’ ‘Oh, they’ll fall in the net.’ ‘Father,’ I called. ‘That is Mr. Lickter.’ ‘Courage,’ said the priest. ‘That’s the spirit, father,’ I shouted before answering the phone.”

Sklodovich reached under his pillow for a fresh orange.

“Then a red-faced old cop with a gun in his hand came outside the door and fired a bullet in the air. ‘Come out of there with your hands on your head or I’ll come in there and shoot you in the balls,’ he shouted indiscreetly. I was wondering why no one had thought of doing this earlier.”

“What did you do?”

“What did I do? For Chrissake I opened the door and let him in. I’m crazy, but I’m not stupid. I could tell that little son of a bitch meant business. I found out later he got a medal and they fired him for risking all those lives. A few months afterward I read in the paper that he was suspected of working for the syndicate.”