Leonard Michaels - The Men's Club

“I certainly do have an ordinary life. I drive to San Francisco in the morning. I drive back in the evening. I never pick up hitchhikers. I’ve never gotten a traffic ticket. As for the furniture, that was surprising; but I realized what it meant. She was leaving me. I think she made her point too strongly, but then she could also have burned down the house. It was still there, after all. She didn’t take the doors and windows. They are detachable and they aren’t without value. Do you know what it costs to have a door hung? But I don’t really want to pursue this incident. I was saying something about psychoanalysis, that’s all. If you think, after six years of psychoanalysis, my wife decided to leave me and ream out the house, it means I’m wrong about myself, well, that’s your business. Think what you like. As far as I’m concerned, nothing happens to me. It never does. This men’s club proves what I’m talking about. I come to the meeting and it turns out not to be a real men’s club. Why aren’t we doing anything physical?”

“Physical?” said Kramer.

“Of course. Aren’t we supposed to do something? Something physical? All this talk, talk, talk. It’s sick.”

Berliner, smiling, said, “You never, you nothing. Too much, Harold. You must have a secret life. Confess, man. What do you do?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“Far out.”

“Well, there’s nothing secret about it. I sue people and defend them against suits. I should say corporate individuals. People can’t afford the services of my firm. I read documents and write legal instruments. Occasionally, I’m required to travel. Then I’m in some hotel room or talking to a judge, clarifying arguments. The work is hectic. Full of anxieties. One of the senior partners collapsed recently during a conference.”

“That’s a story,” said Berliner.

“Good. I told it, paid my debt to the club. Quentin had a heart attack and died. Quentin Cohen. You may know that he invited me here.”

“Quentin?” said Berliner, standing up as if he’d been called from another room.

“Haven’t you noticed he isn’t here? I suppose others didn’t show up. Perhaps they’re all dead.”

Berliner, mouth open, lips hardly moving, spoke as if his words came from yesterday or tomorrow. “Quentin is dead?”

“Yes. He fell down at a conference.”

“He fell down?” Berliner put a hand through his hair and, as if imitating words, said, “He fell down.” He needed another fact, something to help assimilate the news. Sufficiency settled in Canterbury’s features. His eyes, lit by inner principle, looked bluer. That he had no more to say made him terrific. Berliner waited in vain. Canterbury was stone. Then, as if wheedling with fate, Berliner said, “But Quentin wasn’t a sick guy. We had lunch a couple of weeks ago. He ate lasagna. We used to play poker, go to the track. He had plans. A trip to Acapulco.” He sat again and said, “You see it?”

“A dozen people saw it. Lawyers. A stenographer. Quentin was speaking when he fell and hit the table. We caught him before he slid to the floor. We pulled him onto the table, on his back.”

“Then?”

“Berliner, you’re harassing me. Coins and keys spilled out of his pockets. Drool was at the corner of his mouth. What do you want to hear?”

“He was my friend.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I didn’t know him intimately. He had a speech impediment.”

“That’s right.”

“I mention it. His chief physical feature. I was always conscious of it. Perhaps if I’d known him better I wouldn’t have been. When he invited me here, it was an overture. He wanted to be closer. His secretary, cleaning out his desk, found a note he’d written to himself, saying to remind me of this meeting. She gave it to me a week ago. After his death. I hadn’t gone to his funeral. In a sense, I’m here to pay my respects. Easier than a funeral. It was very terrible, the coffee cups all knocked over. What can I tell you? Somebody untied his shoelaces to help circulation. Quentin’s socks were mismatched. One was brown as the salad bowl. See, along the outside. That brown. The other was white. Oddly indecorous, even rather shocking. The socks made him look clownish; vulnerable. He was probably distressed that morning. He had to speak in public. The prospect might have troubled him. His speech impediment. Squishy, sucking sound, like walking in wet grass. I never had a good idea of it. He spoke so quickly always. As though to disguise it or keep your attention on his next word, and he’d tip his head back when he spoke, as if pulling himself above his mouth, away from it, and his eyes watched you so closely. He watched what you were listening to — his sense or his speech impediment. I used to receive strange phone calls at home. At any hour. A man’s voice. He’d whisper. It frightened me. Then, one day, I wasn’t even thinking about it and I realized the man was Quentin. I was positive. His voice came through the whisper. Something came through, the faintest something. Why would Quentin do that? I never mentioned it to him, but after I knew, I felt he knew that I knew.”

“You never mentioned it?”

“Not to him. I discussed it with the other partners, of course. That didn’t do Quentin much good.”

“What did he say on the phone?”

“It doesn’t make any difference — the disturbing thing was the whisper.”

“You knew what he was saying?”

“He said the same thing always. Harold, how’s your cock?”

“Quentin said that?”

“I’m positive.”

“But with his speech impediment,” I said, “didn’t you have some idea it was him right away?”

“No. He whispered. Besides, people don’t sound exactly like themselves on the telephone. We don’t look like ourselves in photographs, either. We’re merely recognizable, for better or worse. On the phone voices are thinned. Purified. The wires do it. For some it’s a wonderful improvement. People complain so about modern technology. Depersonalizing and all that. As though there were something wonderful about the real person. My wife, for example. After six years of analysis, she finds out who she really is — a greedy little furniture thief. Well, Quentin came into himself on the telephone. His real self. His freedom.”

Kramer stood up. “Who wants coffee? I think I’ll put on coffee. The women bought Brazil, Kona, and Uganda. I can mix it up. How do you guys like it?”

“Sit down,” said Berliner.

Kramer, at the kitchen door, stopped, about to push it open. “Let’s have some coffee. Doesn’t anyone want some coffee?”

Berliner slammed the table with his fists, shouting, “What is this coffee shit? Harold is talking. We came here to talk, not to drink some coffee. You want some fucking coffee, Kramer? Make some for yourself. Shove some up your ass.”

Kramer walked back and leaned across the table toward Berliner, as if about to slide through the plates and grab his neck. The tattooed forearms had a lethal, serpentine gleam. He spoke, again with excess control, this time menacing, and he didn’t blink. His eyes were locked open.

“Maybe you didn’t hear what Harold said. I’ll tell you what he said. He said our club is a fucking funeral. He said he came here to pay his respects to the dead. Mr. Lasagna with the speech problem and funny socks. Meanwhile, since Harold is here, he is doing us a big favor, which is to improve our morals. You know what I mean? He explained to me what I do for a living is a bunch of shit. Did you hear that? I thought you were my friend, Solly. Maybe I was wrong about you. Maybe I ought to kick your ass.”

“Try it,” said Berliner, lunging up, hair like thrashing salt, green eyes blown wide. “Come on. Come on.”