A. Homes - Music for Torching

"Good," Warburton says. "Forward motion."

Warburton is slick. He is also five years younger than Paul; he is what Paul will never be. And Paul has hated him from the be- ginning-which, for Warburton, was only three years ago.

"Let's talk about the program," Warburton says. "Where do we stand? Where are we going?"

"Well," Paul says, "I think we have to look at return. We have to think about giving less and getting more."

"Yes," Warburton says, nodding. Out of nowhere Warburton's rubber band appears. There is always a rubber band; Warburton plays with it when he's thinking, when he's scheming, when he's psyching out the other side. He holds it between two fingers and pulls at it, flicking, flicking.

Paul's secretary buzzes. "Phone call."

"We're in a meeting," he says, surprised she's interrupting him.

"Phone call," she says again.

"Excuse me," Paul says, watching Warburton with the rubber band, wondering what it means if the rubber band snaps, splits in half, what happens if it accidentally shoots off, goes flying across the room. Does Warburton chase after it? Does he let it go? Does he acknowledge that anything happened? "This'll take just a second." Paul picks up the phone.

"Are you prepared to bleed? Are we on? I made an appointment for you with a friend of mine." The date is calling.

Paul can't answer. He can't turn away and whisper, "Your timing is lousy, I'm in a meeting." Instead he just says, "Ummm- hummm."

"Meet me at one at the Road Kill Kaffe, it's downtown."

Downtown, he hadn't planned on going downtown-that'll take forever. "Could we do it uptown?"

Warburton is checking his watch, flicking the rubber band faster.

"No," she says. "The appointment is downtown."

"Okay." He hangs up. "My apologies," he says to Warburton.

Herskovitz on the love seat starts in. "Return is fine, but what about the future? You have to look at what's ahead and not always down at the bottom line. You miss something staring at your feet."

Paul hates Herskovitz, creeping up behind him, gunning to run him over, to skip into the second spot, the big office next to the corner that's been empty ever since Sid Auerbach went into cardiac arrest during a conference call.

"Let me take this one on," Paul says. "I think we can do something here, we can go further if we go deeper."

"I want you to bring me a new way of seeing," Warburton says. "Fresh vision."

Paul nods. He checks his watch-noon.

"Good," Warburton says, getting up. Herskovitz and Wilson also stand. "Good," Warburton repeats, and it's like getting a grade-about a C. It's good, but it's not very good. It's not a

B, and it's not excellent-it's not an A, and it's certainly not bril- liant-not an A plus. He has to do better, to work harder.

Before lunch, Paul calls Elaine. "How's it going?"

"Good," she says, "really good. I phoned Ruth Esterhazy, got the name of her deck guy. He's here now, and we're talking. I also got the name of an architect to help with the French doors. And another painter has come and gone-that's a second estimate. And how are you?" she asks.

"Right now, I'm in kind of a panic. Warburton was here, he had two other guys with him. It wasn't good."

"Well," Elaine says. "We're moving along here. We're talking about all kinds of things; there are decks called Resort Style, Trendsetter, Bold Angled, and Weekend Entertainer."

The deck guy chirps in, "I'll leave some plans you can look at tonight."

Elaine continues, "I also found a commercial cleaning com- pany-they're sending a six-man crew this afternoon. They'll scrub us floor to ceiling, even the walls. And they suck the air out of the house and refill it with something better."

"Yeah, like what?" Paul says. "Laughing gas?"

She ignores him. "After what happened with Sammy yesterday, I'd like to have it boiled and sterilized."

"The painter can take care of the walls," Paul says. "Have them do everything but the walls. We don't need to pay for the same thing twice."

"We're covered," Elaine says.

"Fine, if you're feeling so fucking flush, then why don't you have one of those freaks come in and Feng Shui it? You know, point everything in the right direction. That's probably what it needs, a kind of chiropractic adjustment. Why don't you ask the deck guy if he can do that?"

"Why are you so angry with me?" Elaine asks.

"I'm not angry with you," Paul says. "I'm angry with everyone, and myself most of all. I'm having a lousy day."

"I'm sorry," she says. "I hope your afternoon is better."

"Yeah, I've gotta go," he says. "I've got lunch." He hangs up. He shouldn't have called. All of his anxiety, his stress, his guilt has been hurled at Elaine. He hopes she knew enough to duck, not to even try to catch it. Later he will apologize. He hates it when he does this, when he behaves badly.

Out of the office and into the day. The air is turning thick, like mud. Paul is fucking up. He should be at work. He should be having lunch with the boys, figuring things out. He will have to work harder to catch up. Double time. He makes notes on his palm as he rides downtown. Later they will be automatically erased, sweated away.

Exiting the subway, Paul is all turned around. He has no idea of where he is, which way to go.

"Road Kill Kaffe?" he asks someone.

The woman stops. Points. "Go east," she says, "go right. Go down a couple of blocks."

He is thinking about the date-wondering why he does exactly what she tells him to, why he can't say no. She's not living in reality; nothing is impossible to her. It doesn't occur to her that it might be difficult for him to leave the office and come downtown in the middle of a workday.

He arrives at the restaurant. She's not there. He waits. Finally he lets the hostess seat him. He opens the menu. He decides.

He plans what he will say when she finally arrives. He wants to tell her that he is overextended, that there's too much on his plate, that she is the thing that will have to go. He wants to tell her that he can't afford it on any level-game over. But he won't. He will go ahead. He will do whatever she says. He goes from hating her to being just annoyed and then slightly amused. Finally, she walks in.

"Ready?" she asks. "I want to take you somewhere."

"I ordered," he says. "I waited, and then I went ahead. Do you want something? Should I cancel it?"

"No, go ahead," she says. "I'll have a drink."

"I'm having a lime rickey, it's the house specialty. Lime rickeys and shrimp salad sandwiches. Want a sip?"

She shakes her head. "We have to hurry. The appointment was for one-fifteen."

He flags the waitress. "She'd like a drink," he says. "Iced tea? Lemonade?"

"Frozen margarita," the date says.

"In the middle of the day?"

"What's the middle of the day?" the date asks back.

His sandwich arrives; he inhales it, swallowing the baby shrimp as though they were aspirin tablets.