David Gates - Preston Falls

"Yah, okay." Calvin opens the top drawer of a metal file cabinet and sticks the envelope inside. "So you come by here Saturday. What time you come by?"

"We're supposed to start around nine. He wants us there eight, eight-thirty to set up. So — seven o'clock?"

"Best make it quarter to. Bring all the shit you're going to bring, and you go straight there from here."

"Right."

"And you tell Reed he can go fuck himself. The last fuckin' time, tell him. I like to know what the fuck I'm deaUn' with. And I ain't so fuckin' stupid I don't know you get more than a taste."

"Then you know more than I do."

"Yah, so what is this, fun for you? Your fuckin' weekends up from New York? You ought to stuck to auctions. Church suppers, that shit."

"TeU me about it," Willis says. "This is not my idea of fun. Yours either, I guess."

"Yah, I give up on that shit a long time ago." Calvin spits on his floor, rubs it with his boot. "So I guess you got the biU."

Back at the house, Willis starts coffee and checks the machine. Four blinks. He hits Play.

"Hey, man, it's Reed. Listen, you got to come rock and roll tomorrow night. Give me a jingle, right? It's real real important we get together." Beeeep. "Hey. Reed again. You there? Shit." Beeeep. Long nag-

I 3 9

ging buzz. Beeeep. "Willis. It's Marty. Listen, bud, I hate like hell to bother you up there, but we've got a mini-situation on our hands, and I was sort of figuring. Well, by now he's probably bored out of his mind up there staring at the trees, so, ah, if you get a chance. It's Wednesday morning? Eight-fifteen? Actually, tell you what. You have a fax up there, why don't I just fax the thing to you. At the very least you'll be amused." Beeeep.

So Marty Katz is still on the planet. Dandineau Beverages. All very strange.

Up in his study he finds the fax curling out of the machine: a page of Time magazine with the Sportif ad where the sweaty blonde's tipping one back and it's, like, do you really see her nips or is it just a trick of the light. So? He wrote a form letter to cover this six months ago. Willis tears it off the roll and takes it over to his worktable. Oh. Next to the ad there's a photo of a syringe poking into a forearm (inset, head shot of teenage boy) to go with a story about high school jocks and steroids, plus some thought-provoking shit about values. Who among us is not implicated when some high school jock someplace shoots steroids? Willis picks up the phone.

"Steroids," he says when Marty answers. "Make-a you strong like bool."

"Hey," says Marty. "Mighty white of you to call, old man."

"So do we really care?"

''You don't care. What do you care? You got trees to stare at. Bucky, however, cares deeply. And through Bucky I'm learning to care."

"Well, so that's good, isn't it?" says Willis. "There's too little caring in this world. That's why our young people are turning to steroids."

"So you have any thoughts?" Marty says. "He wants a statement."

''Awright, good idea. That way we can point out the irony, just in case anybody missed it. Somebody should tell Bucky it's now okay to bottle up your rage. I read somewhere that it doesn't give you cancer after aU."

"Why don't you tell him? Here, I'll transfer you."

"Okay, okay. Uncle," says Willis. "I take it you already tried talking him out of it?"

"We don't all have your raw courage. I got Carey Wyman started on the thing."

"Oh, well, hell. Then you don't need my help."

"Very funny," says Marty. "Any chance you could look over his efforts?"

PRESTON FALLS

"Sure, no problem. With or without him knowing?"

"Oh, he knows. Probably easiest to talk with him online. You're wired there, right?"

"If you only knew," says Willis.

"I appreciate this. It shouldn't take up too much of your morning. What exactly are you doing up there?"

"Oh, you know. Drinking heavily. Doing drug deals with the locals. Got thrown in the slammer the other day."

"What did you, rape a cow?" Poor Marty thinks this is still heartless businessman badinage. "So you're getting stuff done on your dacha?"

"Little bit," says Willis. "Mosdy sitting on my ass."

"What the good Lord made asses for. Something to sit on while you're watching football. Except you don't watch football, right?"

"No, I'm an intellectual. Don't you read my stuff?"

"I swear to God, if you're writing a fucking novel up there. . Anyway, look. I told Carey you might be in touch. And I'll make sure Bucky knows you were pulling an oar on your time off. Might help you out of the doghouse. I told you what he said, right? When I told him we were having a pour for you? He said, 'I think I'll be busy.' "

"So he was probably busy."

"You know, you worry me, little guy," says Marty. "You're kidding, yes? When you come back, you're going to have to be a very good boy. You let it be known that you have a life. That's the mother of all no-nos."

"CaU this a life?" says WiUis.

"Bite your tongue. Somebody's apt to hear you." Marty's big on counting your blessings.

Willis hangs up, turns the computer on and types an E-mail message to cwyman.dandi@aol.com: just spoke to marty. you have my sympathy, how far along are you?

He goes downstairs and gets another cup of coffee. When he comes up again, he's got a thing back: hopefully i'll be finished by noon, do you think this works as a through-line? we start out deploring any form of drug use {flick at our say no msgs on labels for last five years), then transition {still need to work this out) to idea of sportif as healthful alternative to empty-calorie soft drinks, minerals etc. etc. cheers, carey.

Ah, youth. But that's unfair to youth. What explains Carey Wyman is that Buckridge has a soft spot for job candidates from the shit-ass college he went to in Indiana. Willis hits Reply to Sender and types: starting off with antidrug shit seems fine, the lie du jour, right? but think we

need a whole other level of bogosity slash deviosity here, since we've already got the name out there for free {which is the object of the game), why not bag the ad copy {bound to look self-serving and just say we vigorously applaud time's reporting, over and out. or what the fuck, maybe we're even proud to be associated with, the high road, valderi, valdera.

A message comes back: thanks, i'll try that, do you think b will go for it, though? cheers, carey.

Willis hits Reply and types: marty can probably sell it to him. {if you want, i'll sell marty.) one thing in its favor, from b's pee oh vee: it'll come from you, not me. i predict a happy honeymoon.

Message back: thanks, but hopefully i can sell m. don't want to take up your time, cheers, carey. The one endearing thing about Carey Wyman is how right out there he is about wanting Willis's job. Willis hits Reply and types: go for it, with an old man's blessing.

He's still logged on, to see if Carey Wyman is going to try a snappy comeback, when the phone rings. So he was smart to get separate lines; Jean said it was a waste since he was only there weekends.

And in fact it's Jean.

"Am I interrupting you?" she says.

"Nope," he says. "Just — you know. What's up?"

"The school just called. Apparently Roger hit a litde boy this morning."

"Is he okay?"

"Roger? Yes, he's okay in that he didn't get hurt. I wasn't going to call you, but then I thought you should know."

"Right," he says. "What about the other kid?"

"He's fine, apparently. They took him in to see the nurse, but she sent him back to class."

"So I guess we'll have a codefendant when the parents sue. Was this self-defense?"

"Apparently not," she says.

"Hmm. Well, that's not so good. So how's the school playing it?"

"Mr. Giles sent him to the Quiet Room for the day." This is the school's euphemism for detention; Roger's done time there before, though never a whole day. "He'll have to make up the work, and — okay, I'll be right there."