Dan Wakefield - Home Free

He did not remember going back to the apartment. He remembered sitting there on the living room floor with a big glass and a bottle of gin, wearing just his ratty bathrobe. He remembered he had vomited. He remembered Lou coming in sometime after dark and saying, “My God, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He remembered saying, “Yes.”

The collar pinched his neck. He had not worn a tie for over a year. His one standard “grown-up” suit felt itchy and cumbersome. He had bought it on sale when he first came to Boston at one of those “plain pipe rack” stores, and he didn’t mind that it was really too big. He liked the feeling he was hiding out in it. The vest added to the sense of protection and disguise.

“Tell me, Mr. Barret,” said the rotund man behind the personnel desk, speaking through a fixed and professional smile, “why did you choose to come to Boston to complete your education?”

“Because my old lady got a job here.”

“Your mother is employed in Boston?”

“Oh. No, sir. My—uh—girlfriend.”

“Your girlfriend found employment in Boston and so you left your former college and followed her here?”

“Yes, sir.”

The smile that was not a smile leaned forward.

“Come, come now, Mr. Barret, we have to do better than that .”

“We do?”

“Oh, indeed.”

“Why?”

Fat fingers laced together, chin rested on them, smile drawn above.

“Because rational decision-making is a key part of the maturation process.”

“What’s a better reason for coming to a place than to live with the person you love?”

Palms raised upward, nothing to hide. Smile still painted in place.

“If you don’t know, Mr. Barret, I doubt I could explain.”

“Right.”

Firm handshake.

At the door, Gene turned, said through his own smile:

“Incidentally, sir, with all due respect, you’re the slimiest cocksucker I’ve come across yet.”

Mouth open.

Out.

Coffee break.

A railroad car luncheonette on Cambridge Street near Government Center was nearly deserted, there was counter room for unfurling the employment section of the Globe . Gene studied the columns, pencil poised to ring any reasonable possibility for the “real work” he was pledged to do. For Lou. For himself, too. He said. Or she said.

The headings themselves, the boldface-type descriptions over the details of what was being offered gave him a dry, aching feel:

Commodity Options, Full Charge Bookkeeper, Shipping Dept. Helper, Offset Feeders and Tenders, Layout Person, Printed Circuit Board Assembler.

But he made himself look below the titles, read the real nature of what was available:

“CLERK: Conscientious person to learn computer billing.”

The thought of a lifetime lurched ahead of him, sick on the roller coaster.

“PURCHASING AGENT: Ambitious, systematic individual for supervis. capac. Prefer background in fence, hardware.”

No chance there, no background whatsoever in fence, hardware.

“EARN REAL MONEY” caught his eye, wondering if it meant the other ads were just come-ons for funny money. Monopoly money. But he realized it only meant this promised more money. Real meant a lot. All you had to do was “Learn to sell and install aluminum and vinyl siding. Perfect opportunity to become your own person in one of today’s fastest-growing fields.”

The chance to “become your own person” appealed but shit, siding was Flash’s field, and he wasn’t about to go up to the boondocks and try to muscle Flash out of siding sales, aluminum or vinyl. Let em send some innocent up there.

The ads he liked the ring of he knew would not pass as appropriate or serious or worthy for a man of his degree. A shame, for he liked the offer to

“DRIVE DANDY DAN ICE CREAM TRUCK on established routes.”

The idea of driving a Dandy Dan Ice Cream Truck was a gas in itself, but to think you wouldn’t be driving it just anywhere, not into untried or hostile territory but on established routes , that was a real zinger. That meant the kids would be waiting for you, they’d hear that “Dandy Dan” jingling bell theme music coming and they’d be out on the sidewalk with their little fists full of change, faces all rosy with eager little smiles.

He could see Lou’s rosy face and its eager little smile when he drove home his first night in the Dandy Dan Ice Cream Truck, and stepped out in his red-and-white jump-suit uniform with “Gene” written in scroll over his pocket and the black-billed white cap perched rakishly on his head.

No thanks.

The only other one that really caught his fancy was “ORGANIST, must be able to entertain a mature crowd.”

Far out. Could it be for one of the strip joints in the Combat Zone, someone who had to pound that organ so wild that it kept the “mature crowd” from rioting till the next act came on? Or maybe this was for the job of organist at Fenway Park, who had to play the “Fight” music at just the right time, trill to the homers, hit loud chords of inspiration when the Red Sox came to the plate, and all the time keep the “mature crowd” in hand and off the field with martial music drowning out the ugly decision of an umpire?

Now this was a job with thrills and challenge, and one he could wear a suit to work in, too, satisfying both his own sense of restlessness and Lou’s sense of propriety.

But shit. He didn’t play the organ.

Gene was jostled as people sat down on each side of him. It was nearly noon and the place was filling up. He folded in his Globe , looked up at the menu of the day, and ordered a Pepsi and a meatball sub.

“Don’t be discouraged,” Lou told him after the first week of trying.

Gene wished to hell he had Flash’s knack for inventing jobs, even though they didn’t last long.

Flash fell by one night full of enthusiasm for his new career. He was decked out in white bell-bottom trousers, brown suede boots, a red silk shirt, and two strands of love beads.

He was a rock impresario.

Well, not quite an impresario. Not yet. That would come later, staging mammoth concerts and so on. Right now he was simply the manager of a new rock group.

“Which one?” asked Gene.

“Rasputin and the Schemers.”

“Far out,” said Lou. “Historic yet. How’d they get the name?”

“Dude on bass went to college,” Flash explained. “He’s like the leader. Rasputin. Grew himself a little goatee, to throw a little evil in the image. Then there’s a brother and sister, they’re like the Schemers part. Chick plays organ, he does guitar.”

“What’re they into?” Gene asked.

“Just grass and pills. No hard stuff. I laid that down heavy, one of my conditions for takin em on. No hard stuff.”

“I mean what kinda music,” Gene said.

“Oh, Christ, you know, the regular shit you hear. Like everyone else. It all sounds the same to me. They’re no worse than the other ones. The difference is, they got me to handle em.”

Flash had heard the group at a small bar in Somerville, got to rapping with them, kind of started improvising what he could do for em. That was their first gig, the one in Somerville. They lived around there and the bartender fixed it up for em. But shit, they had no future. Nothing lined up. What they needed was professional help, guidance. Flash offered them a package. He would act as their road manager, publicist, promoter, business agent, all rolled into one, for an even fifty percent of the take.

“Fifty might seem a lot,” Flash admitted, “unless you take into consideration I’m doing three or four different jobs for em.”

“You got em any gigs yet?” Gene asked.

“Hell, I’m mappin out a whole tour, puttin it all together.”