Stuart Kaminsky: Bright Futures

“He was angry about Pine View School.”

She smiled. “And many other things,” she said. “Taxes, landfill, religion, the price of gasoline.”

“But mostly Pine View and Bright Futures.”

“So I understand.”

“You know something more about him, don’t you?” I asked.

“Nothing I can talk to you about.”

“He’s dead.”

“And you wouldn’t mind my talking about our sessions if you were to die?”

That gave me pause.

“I wouldn’t like it.”

“He was a patient of yours?”

“No,” she said.

“His daughter?”

I was about to push the issue when Ann rose from her chair with a bounce. I got up. “There’s someone in the waiting room who is here to see me. Do you mind going out the other way.”

“The other way” was through a door that opened into the offices of a Hispanic real estate and law office. I went through the door. A young woman, pretty and dark, was at one of the two desks in the outer office. She was on the phone and speaking in Spanish. I nodded as I went out onto Main Street, turned left, and then left again down Gulf Stream. My plan had been to walk back to my office.

But before I had gone five steps, someone offered me a ride.

He was smiling. He was one of those people who wore a perpetual smile. It didn’t mean he was happy or amused. He walked at my side, a few inches taller than me, a few pounds heavier, a few years older, and much better dressed. His dark hair was brushed back. His dark eyes were moist.

“You want a ride,” he said, his voice almost Robert Preston musical.

“No, thanks,” I said.

“It wasn’t a question,” he said, keeping pace with me. “I was letting you know that your fondest wish at the moment was a ride in an almost-new red Buick LeSabre. The car was washed this morning and sprayed inside with the scent of a forest. You’re not allergic to scented sprays, are you?”

“No,” I said, continuing to walk.

“Good, very good. I’m new to Sarasota,” he said. “Been here a few weeks. I like what I’ve seen so far. Air smells good, fresh. Know what I mean?”

“Yes.”

He looked to our right, beyond the manicured bushes and well spaced trees, toward the bay.

“And the birds, magnificent,” he said. “I’m from L.A…”

We were just passing a high-rise apartment building on our left.

“We have to turn around,” he said. “I’m parked back there.”

“I’d rather walk,” I said.

He reached over and flicked the brim of my Cubs cap.

His smile remained, but his voice changed. We weren’t just chatting anymore.

“Too hot to walk.”

“No.”

“It’s not open for discussion.”

I recognized him now, but I couldn’t place him. He had the tough look of a television heavy. He caught me looking. His smile got a little broader. He put his left hand on my shoulder to stop me and turn me toward him.

An old woman with a small, fuzzy white dog leading the way on a leash came out of the apartment building. She glanced at us, moved past, and started across the street.

“She wasn’t carrying a plastic bag,” he said, watching the woman and the eager dog pulling at the leash. “She doesn’t plan to clean up after the dog.”

“She’s old,” I said.

“Then she shouldn’t have a dog.”

“Maybe that’s all she’s got,” I said. “Jeff Augustine.”

“Son of a gun. You not only recognize me, you know my name. I’m impressed, flattered.”

“I used to watch a lot of old television shows. Rockford, Harry O.”

“I want you to meet a guy,” he said seriously.

“Mike Mazurki as Moose Malloy in Farewell My Lovely,” I said.

“Right, but it’s also Jeff Augustine on a street in Sarasota. I really have someone who wants to meet you.”

“And if I don’t want to be met?”

He shrugged and said, “Suit yourself, but I think it would be a good idea if you met this fella. Besides, he’d be very disappointed in me if I didn’t deliver you.”

“What happened to your career?” I asked.

He shook his head and watched the old lady and the little dog, which was now making a deposit under a small palm tree.

“Twenty-five years waiting for checks so I could pay my phone bills and my rent and eat reasonably. Toward the end I was singing second banana in dinner theaters. My biggest role was Judd Frye in Oklahoma, in Knoxville. When Judd Frye died that last time, I said good-bye to my career.”

“Now you…?”

“Yes, I work out, wear nice clothes, and persuade people to do things. It pays well and some people like the idea of having a guy with a familiar face getting things done for them.”

“Is Steven Seagal really tough?” I asked.

“You remember.”

“He threw you through a factory window and you fell four floors to your doom.”

“Doom?”

“It’s been nice talking to you,” I said. “Now I’m walking home. I’ve got packing to do.”

“You haven’t been listening closely… Look at that. She’s just leaving it there.”

This was all said calmly, more with regret than anger.

“You want an appointment,” I said, “give me a call or just drop by my new office. I’ll give you the address.”

“No, now,” he said, his smile even more friendly.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

He opened his jacket to show a holstered gun.

“You’re going to shoot me on the street because I don’t want to get in your car?”

“The car smells like a forest, and I’ve got a small cooler with bottles of water,” he said. “And yes, I could shoot you a little bit.”

“No,” I said, turning to walk away.

“You’re a real phenomenon. You’re not afraid, are you?”

“Worst you could do is kill me. This isn’t a bad place, and it’s a nice day for dying.”

“You’re a little crazy,” he said.

“You caught up with me just when I ended a session with my shrink. You know any good jokes?”

“Jokes?” He looked puzzled now.

“Jokes,” I repeated.

“Yes, lots. I did stand-up for a while. The good jokes weren’t in my act, but I remember them from Larry the Cable Guy and Diane Ford.”

“I’ll go with you if you tell me five good jokes,” I said.

The old woman with the dog was no longer in sight, but a shirtless black man with sagging slacks, unlaced shoes, and no socks was advancing on us, scratching his belly. I recognized him, had given him coffee and an occasional biscotti. He said his name was Clark, or maybe Cleric, and he claimed that he wasn’t homeless. His home, he said, was under the second bench in Bayfront Park, not far from where the dog had just relieved himself or herself.

“Five good jokes?”

“Five.”

“Deal.”

“This way.”

Clark was headed right for us.

“A friend of yours?”

“I don’t know,” I said as Clark lifted his chin, reached into his pants to adjust his testicles, and said, “Too many midgets. Too many.”

“It’s a problem,” I agreed.

Clark looked at Augustine and pointed a finger.

“You shot ol’ Kurt Russell. Some soldier movie.”

I gave Clark two quarters and said to Augustine, “The scent of the forest in a Buick LeSabre?”

“That’s right,” said Augustine. “Let’s go.”

“The Cubs,” said Clark, looking at my cap as if he had suddenly realized it was there. “Andy Pafko.”

“Who?” asked Augustine.

“Never mind,” I said. “Tell me jokes on the way.”

The LeSabre did smell like a pine forest. I turned down the offer of Evian water. Augustine drank one as he drove.

“Five jokes,” I said, index cards and pen in hand.