Thomas McGuane - Nothing but Blue Skies

“Naw, Roundup.”

“Roundup?”

“Yeah, they got everything in Roundup.” The continental accent was gone. “Major Serb hangout since I don’t know when. And … there was a time when Dean fuckin’ Martin coulda run for mayor. Hey! ” he shouted.

A voice came back from the kitchen.

“Put on Dean Martin!”

“Look, Federico —”

“Fred. Federico is just my restaurant name.”

“Fred, this has been great —”

“And free.”

“Oh, well, that’s nice, good, thank you. But look, I’ve got to get going now. Really, I’m going to have to eat and run.”

Fred was raising his forefinger in the air, the ball of the first digit now at eye level to Frank. “One thing, Frank.”

“Yes?”

“Before the bank gets involved under a reorganization, why don’t you discount the hell out of your clinic and sell it to me. You know they’re coming. This leaves them holding the bag, what every red-blooded American boy desires.”

Frank was horrified that this information was so general. “Do I know they’re coming?”

“You know they’re coming. I know who you are, Frank. I think you realize that.”

Frank considered the light fog in his brain and decided he could rise above it. He cleared his dishes to one side of the table and felt things slow down gracefully. He looked across the table, mentally measuring Fred, and said, “Make me an offer.”

Fred had his right elbow on the table and was leaning on his hand. He straightened up and turned the hand so that the palm faced the ceiling. “Where do I start?”

“With an acceptable price. That’s the fastest.”

Fred smiled. “What do you think it’s worth?”

“Fred, I can’t buy it and sell it at the same time. Make me an offer.”

“Make you an offer …”

“Yeah, like pull up your Fruit of the Looms and go for it.”

This was getting pretty close to what Frank and his friends in high school referred to as the family jewels. This would shoot right to the heart of a Dean Martin fan.

“I guess we could look at structuring a deal. How would you want this, Frank?”

“In American money.”

Fred leaned on his fist for a moment and then said, “What about five hundred thou?”

Frank said nothing. It was an insulting offer. This guy was primitive. Frank’s hand was rested on the table. He raised it slightly and pointed upward.

Fred smiled and said, “A little dish of spumoni?”

“No thanks. Fred, who told you I might need to sell the clinic?”

“Talk of the town.”

Frank immediately related this to Gracie. That must be an interesting development to her, an antidote to the wearying predictability of the once brilliant businessman. El Floppo. For an instant, Frank saw failure as a way of dancing out ahead. Any creature that goes in a straight line is an invitation to predators. Except that old Fred here was sort of the predator.

“Did you see in the paper where Pepsi is coming out with a see-through cola?” Fred asked.

“They’re gonna fall on their ass,” said Frank.

“I agree,” said Fred, “but you know, colas are naturally clear.”

“Huh.”

“Little known fact. They add the coloring. I saw this VIP from Coke, cornered by reporters. He was yelling, ‘We have no plans to market a clear Tab!’ He looked like the wolves had him. He was shakin’ in his boots. I kinda felt sorry for him.”

“How’s anybody going to know this stuff’s clear?” Frank asked. “They going to pour it out on the ground?”

“The product’s gonna be in bottles, not cans.”

“Oh.”

Fred eased his checkbook out of his inside coat pocket. Frank smiled amiably, but it was camouflage. Fred had no way of knowing that this sale wouldn’t even meet the mortgage. Frank was trying to remember how these things were cross-collateralized — the hotel, the mini-storage, the office equipment and so on. He remembered reading that the boa constrictor doesn’t actually squeeze you to death but simply takes up the slack when you exhale or relax and never lets you get it back. Result? Mort . At the same time, contemplating the loss, Frank had the thought, This isn’t quite registering. He tried to picture a soup kitchen. It was like dabbling in failure.

Fred said, “You want my guy to prepare the closing?”

“There isn’t going to be a closing.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Frank. There’s gonna be a closing.”

It was happening. The snake was taking up slack. You could have whatever you wanted, but you couldn’t take a breath.

As Frank walked up Main Street, he reflected that recent history had shown that business failure and political disgrace were reliable preludes to spiritual awakening. Maybe I have that to look forward to, thought Frank. He was standing in front of a shop that sold stereo systems. They had Vivaldi and Tina Turner in the window and a display showing a man slumped in a large armchair, holding on for dear life, his hair blown back, all by the power of his sound system. He wondered why everything was crazy juxtapositions, cartoons or exaggerations these days. He wondered why his career was up in the blue and he was running around trying to field it like a pop fly.

There before him was Karl Hammersgard, the baseball coach, who had a cigarette centered in his teeth. He was shorter than Frank, but he bent back from the waist to talk rather than bend his head at the neck. This was one way short people looked up to taller people without appearing like they were looking up a stovepipe. A car pulled alongside them and parked. Frank caught the blue oval and the word “Ford” in the corner of his eye.

“Where’ve you been, anyway?” said Karl Hammersgard.

“I’ve been around.”

“You have? Maybe I just haven’t been paying attention. I saw Gracie. Is there … what.”

“Is there what?”

“Anything cooking?”

“Not with me, Karl. Alas.”

“Alas, huh?”

“Well, semi-alas.”

“I think it’s alas, old pal.”

“Maybe it is, Karl. I’m one of those guys you read about who’s not really in touch with his feelings.”

“Hey, me either. I don’t want to be in touch with my feelings. What a can of worms!”

“You said it. Say, what about Dick Hoiness? You see Dick Hoiness?”

“Frank, I seen Dick Hoiness about four days ago. Dick has really took off, got his own office, got a new car. I’m proud of him. Isn’t it something? He was the worst of all you hippies.”

After Frank continued down the sidewalk, he thought about Fred. It was Fred’s turn to hoard. And Dick Hoiness’s. I’m not going to hoard anymore, he told himself, no matter what.

He used the side door of his office to avoid any awkwardness with Lucy at the travel agency. There was a note from Eileen saying that she had quit and asking him to call. He called and got a recitation of events in which Eileen tried to be fair-minded, but she spoke in a sardonic tone about her need for a predictable atmosphere, a world that was not changing daily. She said that she would be willing to work on a contract basis, some bookkeeping and some typing, if that was needed. Frank thought that it might well be. He thanked her for many years of service, and when he got off the phone, he felt immediate relief to have the office to himself. He began to work at his desk. The bills and letters were hopelessly mixed up; so were the incomprehensible wads from the tax assessor, who was just now coming into season. He found himself reading the unsolicited mail; not just Victoria’s Secret but also ham catalogues, tool catalogues, garden catalogues, sporting equipment catalogues, video catalogues, salmon products catalogues, fun things for kids catalogues, self-help catalogues. There were many things to buy. It was desolating.