Stephen Cannell - At First Sight

Okay, okay. I know. Don't even go there. But the guy scares me. So, I couldn't find Melissa. God only knows where she was.

Evelyn and I got into a huge fight a day later. It was about Mickey D and the American Express account, which was a collective topic as well as a selective one. My no-limit Black Card had just been canceled because of the Hawaii trip. I'd failed to stay current. The less valuable Optima Card was only good for up to ten grand. Four had gone for Melissa's bail, but Evelyn spent another six-and wait till you hear what it went for. She maxed it out by prepaying a two-room, high-roller suite for her and Micky D at the Bellagio Hotel in Vegas. It was for the coming weekend, and cost twenty-five hundred a night. Apparently, Mickey D was going to compete in the Mr. USA bodybuilding show there. She spent another thousand on new clothes for the occasion. She wanted to be there to root Mickey on. Rooting, in case you forgot, is something hogs do.

Why was this happening?

Did Evelyn really think I was going to finance a trip to Vegas for her and this walking woodpile, who I'm now absolutely certain is wet-decking her?

You're probably saying to yourself: "Why all this anger, Chick? You don't even like her. Since you're working up to a divorce and you don't want to make love to her yourself, what's the problem if her trainer fulfills your sexual obligation? Once you hire the private detective, Mickey D is gonna get a starring role in your divorce anyway. It's win-win." I'm sure that's what you're thinking. Am I right?

So here's the deal on that. It's about respect, okay? The fact that I'm thinking about divorcing this angry woman, and would probably be thinking about it even if Mickey D wasn't in the picture, just isn't what it's about. If you think it is, then you're missing the point completely.

Not to be overly simplistic, but let's say I've got a car that I don't drive any longer because there are things about it I don't like. Let's further say that I have a newer, better car that I enjoy driving much more and I'm even thinking of getting rid of the first one. Does that mean I'd let some asshole I hate drive the old car around when I'm' not using it? See the problem?

So I said no to the Vegas trip. Mickey D could get somebody else to oil him up before his big pose-down.

Of course, Evelyn went completely off the tracks over this.

"Nothing is going to happen, Chick. It's just a sporting event."

Right. It's a sporting event like eating shit is a dining event. Standing around in a bikini brief, glistening like an oil wrestler in a strip joint, does not, in my opinion, qualify as a sport.

But Evelyn was in full rant; her pinched features turned blood red with anger. "You know, Chick, you sit around all day bitching about everything. The business sucks, the gardeners suck, the way I want to train sucks, Melissa sucks. But what do you do? What interests you besides complaining?"

"Lotsa stuffl" I shouted.

"Not a fucking thing. Nothing! You got no hopes or dreams, no hobbies or interests. You're as boring as a boiled chicken dinner. Why don't you go do something? Anything. Why don't you try, just for once in your goddam life, to work up some enthusiasm for something?"

This from a woman who finds emotional fulfillment in measuring her own biceps. I'm telling you, it's over. I'm absolutely done with this marriage.

The argument raged, but I didn't back down. I didn't relent. In fact, I was sort of beginning to enjoy it, because it took my mind off everything else. But the thing about fighting with Evelyn is you have to be ready for it to turn dangerous. She's tough, and on a whim will attack you physically. So when I argue with her, I always keep some furniture between us.

The next morning I was still pissed. I left before she got up. I climbed into my new Porsche Targa, backed out of my driveway, and just drove around. I was dreading going into the office. Everything down there was a shambles. I was also dreading ever having to go back home and face Evelyn and my problems with Melissa. I was dreading turning on the news and hearing about Chandler, dreading running into Mickey D or Big Mac, dreading not being able to get it up next time I tried. I had nothing at all to look forward to.

I was about as low as a guy can get, down at the bottom, French-kissing the drain. Evelyn said that I had nothing in my life-nothing worthwhile that I cared about. While these words were shouted in anger without much thought, from a woman with the emotional complexity of a truckstop waitress, there was a modicum of truth in what she'd said.

Amongst all my possessions and accomplishments, I didn't really have anything I cared about. Nothing did interest me. I had only one ambition. I wanted to be admired by others. When you stop to think about it, that's a pretty worthless goal.

Okay, here's another embarrassing admission, which I'm sure you've already figured out anyway. Under all my strutting and boasting, I had been depending on other people to grade my paper-to validate me. And with bestmarket. Com falling on its head, that wasn't happening much lately. Since I wasn't proud of my accomplishments, I was left trying to be proud of a bunch of possessions, which, once purchased, had instantly begun to depreciate at about 20 percent a year.

So despite all of Evelyn's bullshit, there was some truth in her accusations. I let a bunch of hucksters on Madison Avenue define me. I wore Armani because David Beckham did, or the Breitling Navitimer because Travolta wore one and "It's the instrument of professionals." See the problem? Even my status-heavy black Porsche Targa, which I bought because it was a car "with no substitutes:' now just seemed like an overpriced Hamburg penis symbol. Despite all those flashy possessions, I was pretty much lost. I wanted other people to want what I had, and nobody seemed to care. Pathetic.

I drove around the UCLA campus with the top down, hating myself in my hundred-thousand-dollar sports car. I was a psychiatric joke-a middle-aged Balsa Boy who couldn't get it up, hoping college girls would think my car was cool and smile at me. Of course, they didn't think I was cool. They looked at me like I was a guy delivering a pizza. I couldn't take a full day of that, so finally I headed home, arriving around noon. When I got there, thankfully, Evelyn was gone and the phone was ringing. Maybe it was Melissa.

I had to run for it and caught it just before the answering machine picked up.

"Hello?" I said, out of breath.

"Chick?" a woman replied.

"Who is this?" I didn't recognize the voice.

"It's Paige Ellis." And right then, my heart leapt. I'm not sure whether it was from fear or joy. Fear, because what if she knew I'd done the hit-and-run on Chandler? What if she was about to accuse me of it? Joy, because the sound of her voice sent a pure streak of ecstasy through me. You can see how tangled up I was inside.

"Paige?" I swallowed. "Hey, how you been?" I was trying to sound lighthearted. But immediately, I knew that was a mistake.

Chandler's death had been a national news story. I should have been sad-should have told her how sorry I was.

"You haven't heard?" Her voice seemed small. "It's been all over the TV."

"Heard what?" I had no choice now except to play dumb, but I gotta tell you, this was really sounding lame.

"Chandler was killed," she whispered. "A hit-and-run two days ago. Somebody just… just drove over him and then ran away."

"Oh, my God!" I was trying not to deliver the line badly. "My God, Paige. How awful."

"Chick, I'm so, I'm just… " Close to tears now.

"Oh… I know, I know," I said, cooing these words. But to be honest I was really angry with myself for the bungling way I was handling this.

"I just called to tell you that his funeral is on Saturday at two. I know you probably can't come, but I just wanted you and Evie to know about it."