Michael Laser - Cheater

They wait together for the first visitor to show up. Each time they hear the elevator bell go dong, they look at each other with a grim sort of gaze, This is it, the moment of truth. Frankly, it gets pretty absurd after a while. A dozen strangers wander past the doorway-a dozen grim gazes-but then, just as Karl lets out a little snort at the comedy of it all, their first visitor shows up.

It’s an Upchurch, but not Phillip.

Randall Upchurch, Realtor and candidate for mayor, could pass for a male model, thirty years later (except, perhaps, for the shape of his head, which reminds Karl of a paramecium). His creamy white suit shows off the depth of his tan-which, to tell the truth, has sort of an orange tint, unless that’s a reflection from his peach-colored shirt. He wears his thinning hair combed straight back, and his teeth are as white as a new ream of paper.

“Karl Petrofsky?” he asks.

Karl nods.

“Randy Upchurch, glad to meet you.”

He shakes Karl’s hand firmly but cordially. Lizette is about to slip out of the room when the other elevator dong s, and they hear a familiar urgent rhythm: Mr. Klimchock’s heavy-footed approach.

Karl and Lizette exchange a panicked glance (Both at once?!) and then Klimchock is there in the doorway in his standard gray suit, frowning impatiently.

Karl’s stomach slides a bit to the side as Mr. Upchurch’s cologne surrounds him.

While Karl’s soul thrashes in a helpless panic, Mr. Klimchock’s frown evolves into a fit of confused consternation. His shining, smooth scalp turns deep pink. He can’t speak.

“Klimmy!” Mr. Upchurch laughs. “How’s the education biz? Still molding America’s future, one pimple at a time?”

Mr. Klimchock’s mouth opens, but no words come out. His cheek twitches.

Another dong- and Samantha Abrabarba enters the room, carrying a small turquoise gift bag. She’s wearing lavender slacks today, and a yellow blouse with a big foofy front. It seems to Karl that she must go through lipstick and eye makeup by the vat.

“I thought I’d have you to myself, cutie-pie,” she says, taking in the crowd. “Mind if I cut in front?” she asks Mr. Upchurch, and hands Karl the gift bag. Inside, a Beanie Babies stegosaurus peeks out, with plaid fur. She leans over and kisses Karl on the cheek while he sends Lizette a scrunch-browed grimace- She’s crazy, I don’t even like her -but Lizette misses the signal because she’s glaring at the floor.

“You’re a popular young man,” Mr. Upchurch says.

No need to reply, because Samantha takes over. “This is peculiar,” she says, eyeing the two older men. “What are you two doing here?”

The assistant principal and Mr. Upchurch dart evasive glances around the room.

“What does Phillip Upchurch have to do with Karl?” Samantha wonders out loud. “And why would Mr. Klimchock come visit you in the hospital?”

Lizette moves to the foot of Karl’s bed and addresses them all crankily. “Listen, y’all-Karl is still sick, in case you didn’t notice. You can’t come in here all together, you’ll wear him out and then he’ll have a relapse. Could we get some cooperation here?”

Samantha gives Lizette a suspicious sidelong gaze. “Karl, why is she bossing everybody around? Do you want to whisper anything in my ear?”

“No, everything’s fine.”

“I smell something fishy. Why would they all be here together?”

Mr. Upchurch lets out an extremely fake guffaw. Mr. Klimchock follows his lead with a strained Hmp hmp hmp.

“You’re not fooling me,” Samantha says dryly.

“Will you please just -be quiet !” blurts Lizette.

“No, and you can’t make me.”

“Young lady,” Mr. Upchurch says benevolently, “we’re just here to visit Karl. We’re not sinisterly plotting anything.”

She leans in close-so close that Karl can smell her mint toothpaste-and murmurs, “What’s going on, Karl? Tell me so I can rescue you!”

“Nothing’s going on, they’re just visiting.”

“Okay, people,” Lizette announces, “here’s what we’re going to do. We’re gonna take turns. Everybody will get to see Karl, one by one, okay? No mob scenes, just nice, private conversations. You’ll all get your turn. Eenie-meenie-minie-mo-you first,” and she points at Mr. Upchurch. “The rest of us’ll wait outside-there’s a bench at the end of the hall. Let’s go. Come on, before visiting hours are over.”

She steers Samantha out the door with a hand on her shoulder, and gives Mr. Klimchock’s suit sleeve a tug as well. Karl’s heart fills with admiration and gratitude.

“That’s one macho young lady,” Upchurch comments. “I assume she’s not your girlfriend.”

“Not exactly. Not yet. Maybe, sort of.”

The unexpected answer amuses Upchurch, but only briefly. Taking his time, he peeks out the doorway, just as his son did. Karl waits for him to come closer before coaxing the words from him-but Mr. Upchurch never gets near him.

“I supposed Klimmy’s here for the same reason I am,” he says, pacing the room. “He wants you to take the SAT and bring up the school’s average. Am I right?”

“Probably.”

“Good to know he and I are on the same page. Listen, I really can’t stay-there’s a campaign fund-raiser over at Chez Shea-but this shouldn’t take long. You’re obviously a very smart young man. I think Phillip must have gotten off on the wrong foot with you. He still has a lot to learn about people skills.”

An odd movement in the hall catches Karl’s eye. It’s Lizette, outside the doorway, hiding from Upchurch, wiggling her thumb at Karl, sliding it horizontally, over and over, above her head. What could this mean? It looks like she wants him to set his hair on fire with a cigarette lighter.

The switch! He turned the mike off to save battery power and forgot to turn it back on.

“Excuse me a second,” he tells Mr. Upchurch, and hurries with his IV pole into the bathroom, where he flushes the toilet, slides the switch, and readjusts his hair in the mirror.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, and climbs back into the bed.

Mr. Upchurch turns his back to Karl. “You know why I’m here. Let’s be frank.”

“What? I can’t hear you, my ears are a little clogged. Could you come closer?”

Karl is sweating all over, including his scalp. Will he electrocute himself? Not really: a nine-volt battery can’t deliver a fatal shock. But he learned long ago in the garage that it can give you a painful burn-painful enough so he would have to tear the microphone off his scalp-which gives him all the more reason to sweat.

“Let’s get down to it, Karl,” Mr. Upchurch says, but-can’t he understand English?-he’s still facing the door, making sure no one else walks in.

“Hold on, wait, I wanted to ask you first“- can’t you just turn around?! -“how do you know Mr. Klimchock? How come he got so upset when he saw you?”

Mr. Upchurch snorts to himself. “That’s a long story. But I suppose it might help to share it with you.” He paces the room as he speaks. “Klimmy and I went through school together, just like you and Phillip. Believe it or not, we had some things in common: good singing voices, and a strong interest in Felicia Maniscalco. His interest was more romantic, mine was purely physical. Our senior year, the class musical was The King and I. Everyone knew Felicia would play Anna-no one else could compare. That’s why Klimmy and I both wanted to play the king: to get close to her. But, while Klimmy assumed his talent would win him the part-and he really did have a terrific voice, much better than mine-I wanted it more. I made an arrangement with the kid who was playing the piano during auditions. In exchange for an outrageous fee, he messed up while playing for Klimmy. Your Mr. Klimchock was a high-strung young man; the fumbling piano threw him completely off. He had a fit, right there on the auditorium stage, in front of Felicia and everyone else. It was sad to see.” Upchurch smirks, still tickled by the memory. “So, I played the king, and he ended up playing Tuptim’s secret boyfriend-the monk. I’ll tell you something: bouncing around the stage with Felicia, singing ‘Shall We Dance?’ under the lights, that’s still one of the best memories of my life.”