Thomas McGuane - Nothing but Blue Skies

“Frank, I’m your accountant. Are you saying you don’t care?”

“No, I’m saying my focus is elsewhere.” He wanted to get up. “Do what you can, John. I’m not much help just now.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“Yeah, yeah I do.”

“What is it?”

“I’m gonna drive around. Take in the sights.”

Frank felt very heavy in his chair. John’s healthy interest was unbearable. His comfortable office had become a cell. Frank resolved to make a smooth, unjerky exit so that he didn’t seem disturbed or alarmed to John, who always had his best interests at heart. It was astonishing how the smoothness could go and leave an alarming jerkiness in its wake; it was astonishing how lightness could become heaviness. He was reduced to longing to be elsewhere. He thought he was within an inch of jumping out the window or breaking into a crippled trot.

Frank feigned a smooth tone. “John, you know about thick and thin. This is thin. We’ll be fine.” He lifted his hands and dropped them to the desk with a dead-fish sound. It was not really smooth, a geekish gesture actually. It was as if he had emptied a couple of detached hands from a basket.

“I know we will,” John said in a warmly formulaic tone that indicated the numbness was catching.

“Well, I gotta go,” said Frank, not knowing where to put his gaze.

“It was good of you to come,” said John with an averted look of his own. This was torture for both of them.

“So long, John,” said Frank. He was sweating bullets.

“So long, Frank. Hope everything goes okay.”

“It will, John.”

“Good, Frank.”

“This is me, then,” Frank bleated, “heading on out.”

He made it through the door with a sense of rebirth, went down to his car and was suddenly fatigued again and wanted to curl up and sleep in the back seat.

He drove back to his office. Eileen did a cute little number about not knowing who he was. Wanting to fire or kill her, he laughed amiably. He closed his door and gazed at the surface of his desk with its notices and mail. The short-term interest rates that were presumed to stir a recovery weren’t doing that, and of course they couldn’t save as bad a calculator as Frank was on his cattle. Shell Oil and Chrysler posted losses so huge Frank felt his didn’t matter. A human rights group was disturbed by its tour of China, and Canada’s ban on tobacco advertising was overturned. Israel declared itself unpersuaded of the need for peace talks. Makes my failed marriage seem like a small thing, Frank thought. We never indulged in penny stock fraud, and unlike the Ceausescus, we never built underground mazes or had group sex with Nazi soldiers. But while I was buzzing around in a stolen car, Cadbury Schweppes enjoyed some modest gains on the strength of North American operations. Charles Keating’s exciting new show, a securities fraud trial, would be opening to standing room only in beautiful, easygoing Los Angeles, California. Indeed, Frank’s follies notwithstanding, Deadrock, Montana, seemed fairly quiet, with street scenes innocent of arbitrageurs.

The bank agreed to treat the loss as a simple debt, to be repaid over the year at simple interest, one point above prime. At first they wanted to exploit their position on the clinic, and Frank told them where they could put their position. He felt so blue, he looked at the stream of receipts for the mini-storage. It didn’t matter that it was chicken feed; it was steady. He began to think about an entirely new life, fueled by mini-storage facilities scattered around in midsize towns in Montana. He thought this new life could be in the Tongass wilderness in Alaska, a de Havilland Otter to get him around the half-drowned climax forest. This perked him right up.

Holly called while Frank, with forensic calm, was trying to clean out the refrigerator — a single olive floating in a quart jar of brine, cheese slipping into decay, a plastic dispenser with old ketchup running down the side, a carton of whipping cream with a vicious odor, a huge wedge of angel food cake folding in on itself in desiccation. He had the willies.

“Will you buy me a little computer? I’ll pay you back.”

“Sure,” he said, and closed the refrigerator door.

“I took some lessons to see if I like it, and I like it.”

“Sure, if you think you need it. I guess everyone is using them.”

“Thanks, Daddy. Also, I’m in love.”

“Oh no, not again. This one got a ring in his nose?”

“Nope. I’m not going to describe this one. You never get the picture from my descriptions. You’ll have to see for yourself.”

“No hints?”

“I’ll give you just one: he’s older than you are.”

“Older than I am!”

“Mama’s meeting him tonight. She’s not too happy.”

Frank walked around the block, then down toward town, where he thought he glimpsed Smokie coming out of Sage Records. When the wolf was extinct, you could go to Sage records and get a wolf tape. Frank even felt that he would feel less dolorous about his situation if there was a good tape of himself.

It was early Friday evening and Frank walked along the sidewalk in front of his building, formerly the clinic. It was a cool, low, sanitary shape with an even hedge of potentillas along the front and specimens of paper birch and seedless cottonwoods in bark-filled beds. An old man was running a Weed Eater along the base of the building with a fanatical small-engine raving, a monofilament hiss as the weeds tumbled neatly. The building was pale ocher brick and overhead the sky was deepest cobalt, the clouds white, white, white. The street seemed to climb into a magnificent cloudland.

The Weed Eater man watched Frank let himself in with a key. The doors were self-closing and made a soft cushioning sound as they shut off the outside and exposed the silence of the interior. Frank hiked himself up on the receptionists’ desk and looked out into the waiting room. Magazines, fireproof curtains, green naugahyde (“unborn naugahyde,” Gracie called it) chairs, shin-high tables; no anxiety, nobody waiting to hear what was wrong with them, no news of a baby they weren’t supposed to have, no maintenance reports on wearing-out bodies, no heartbroken fat girls waddling back to the doctors’ offices carrying their own records. It was a true dead zone, with decorations by Cézanne, Matisse and Charlie Russell. He picked up the phone, also dead. The Rolodex was opened to Bungalow Pharmacy and some wag had written on the desk blotter, “Eat Shit and Die, Motherfucker.”

As he walked back through the hall past the receptionists’, looking into the denuded lab and trying out the scales, peering at an anatomy poster and, finally, stretching out on an examining table, he asked himself what else you could do with a clinic, for Christ’s sake; acoustic tile ceiling, nonglare lights: time for self-examination. Oh, no, wait a minute, not just now. Let’s rent the building first.

It was such a nice little cash cow, when you matched up its receipts with its credits and depreciations. In low moments, he had waved the records in Gracie’s face while she struggled with Amazing Grease — its moody pothead cook, its recalcitrant swampers and dishwashers, the steam heating system, the hot sauce whiners and check bolters, the food and wine experts, the academics who weren’t sure if they were out on the town or ironically observing those who were. Quietly, throughout this mayhem, the cash cow clinic went on. Now? Dead in the water. The boats gathered ’round the carcass; flensing knives drawn … Helplessly, Frank had started rotating his equities through his head, noting the pattern of erosion. He was in need of an introspective convalescence. Too much was going wrong and he hadn’t taken the time for lamentation or simple worry. Worry took time, and it must have taken energy because it often produced a terrific appetite. Heartbroken chow hounds were familiar figures. But he would have to take that time before things turned to powder.