Stanley Elkin - The MacGuffin

“Druff,” Druff said. “Jeez,” Druff, usually not, waiting for the beep, at his best on answering machinery, the long-distance telephone, on intercoms (but this was different, he was at ease now) said, “what’s it been, a hundred years in the development and the bugs ain’t all worked out. Still sounds like we’re talking to each other out of our respective caves and sawmills.”

“Commissioner?”

“Mrmp mrmp. Nhhh. Mrump nhh mrmp.”

“Commissioner?”

“Because crackle there’s crackle phht crackle cellular even in taxis these days. I just drove over with a guy who has one. A simple immigrant. Two lines, little pink Princess speakerphone, answering machine, the works. Is this the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, or what? You say, Doug. You tell me.”

“Are you a little tight there, Commissioner?”

“Mrmp phhtt.”

“Hold on. I’ll buzz you aboard.”

Thinking as he climbed the two flights to his driver’s landing (since he really hadn’t any reason for coming here, that it was just some buying-time thing, not in his game plan, that he was running on instinct now, less than instinct, hunch, less than hunch, bald, gut-level opportunism, serendipity, chasing down his casual, pig-in-a-poke fate) that perhaps Doug had an idea there (since Druff had none of his own and it occurred to him that for an old campaigner — and this happened too: adventure, the whole MacGuffin thing, maybe even heroism itself, volitionless as a knee jerk — he was rather at odds with himself, with his very nature, what with his having no strategy and all, or even the paraphernalia of one — bumper stickers, campaign buttons, position papers, even positions, and, though he didn’t, he should have felt uneasy) with that drunk bit tossed in his lap, a ploy he could use. Sure, he’d play along. Doug wanted tipsy, he’d give him tipsy. Why not? He was already punchy.

“Ah, Commissioner there,” Doug, outside his apartment, called hollowly, leaning down over the railing at him. Sending his voice like a signal, some directional thing in the fog.

“That you, Doug?” Huffing and puffing. Laying it on.

“It is, Commissioner.” A broad smile in the guy’s voice, hearty as brogue, suspect as the good will of an announcer on the radio. Beaming all his heavy deferentials, chippered for the occasion as shined shoes.

“Where are you, Doug?”

“Right up here. Second-floor landing. Could you use a hand? I’ll come down and give you a hand.”

“No no. Just keep talking. I’ll find you.”

“Well then, to what do I owe the honor?”

“That’s it, you’re coming in clearer.”

“Careful there. Just a few more stairs.”

“My God, we could almost be in the same building, your voice is so clear. Huff puff, huff puff. What’s that? What did you say?”

“When? Nothing.”

“Thank God. I thought I’d lost you.”

“Very funny, Commissioner.”

“Crackle nhhh nhhh. Mrmp buzz. Snap crackle pop.”

“Here. Give me your hand.”

Druff, feeling like an asshole, put a finger to his lips. “Run silent, run deep.”

(He hadn’t playacted in years, he’d rarely bluffed this way. It was exhilarating, but it made him nervous.)

They shook hands. Doug, who was also in a suit — what was it today, the Easter Parade? — clapped an arm about the commissioner’s shoulder, and Druff, who liked him, suddenly remembered all the old conflicted vibes that seemed to collect about the fellow like a turbulent human steam. The doorman cop was a confection, a complicated candy, a bachelor more mysterious than a priest. Druff, still in Doug’s protective embrace, felt a sort of alarming reassurance, almost fatherly, as encouraging and skillful as the touch of a pederast.

“Oh,” Druff said, pulling away and indicating Doug’s spiffy clothes, “you were on your way out.”

“No I wasn’t.”

“Yes you were. I’m interrupting.”

“No you’re not.”

“Yes I am.”

“Not at all.”

“You’re all dressed up.”

“Well, so are you. Quite handsome you look.”

“Well, I was collecting my rents,” Druff said. It was an allusion to what Druff assumed was a general impression, that sense Doug gave off of an overtime heart. It was true. He wore his suit as if it were another uniform. How is it, Druff wondered, I like this agreeable, oleaginous hoverer? The commissioner risked the sweetest, lightest of hiccups, taking Doug in. Who, in turn, guiding him by the arm, covering his elbow like a leather patch, took Druff in. To the apartment. The commissioner attempted a soft stumble like a kind of stutter step and Doug, the blood of generations of crossing guards coursing through his veins, pulled him up quickly. He thought he knew what it might be about the guy. Then Druff, his boss years, who’d never been in Doug’s place before, or, for that matter, spent social time with him anywhere, whose habit it had never been to host picnics for the people in his department, or attend their weddings and baptismals if he could help it (and sometimes even their funerals), who had played his political career by some almost Draconian severity of the separation of powers, was helped into a soft, deep chair and smiled up at him sweetly. And Doug smiled back. And Druff put his finger on it. What he liked about Doug. It was the man’s asshole blindness. So much for it-takes-one-to-know-one. On the contrary, he thought, and realized he could continue in his assumed role forever, take it as far as he wanted, pull any stunt, go the distance with his act, that Doug would never challenge him. And this made him more nervous than ever.

Stop this, stop this, he commanded himself. And said to Doug, “Stop me. I’m putting you on. With my alcoholic vaudeville. I’m playing you for a sucker. You mustn’t believe a word I’m saying.”

“That’s all right, sir.”

“Mrrt phhht.”

“Perhaps the commissioner could do with a nice cup of strong coffee? Shall I put some up?”

“Crackle shnarl buzzblat,” Druff whispered.

“Sir?”

“Put some up your behind, that means.”

“What about a cool cloth for your head?”

“No no no no no. You don’t know fuck-all about sobering up tipsies. You’ve got it all turned around in your head. First you throw me into the shower with my clothes on. Time is of the essence. Don’t even bother to empty my pockets. The water’s got to be hot. Hotter than human skin can stand. And never, never sit a drunk down in a chair. You walk him around. Keep me moving. I’ve got to keep moving. Break my ass if I even look like I’m going to use it to sit down. Then, if there’s time, then the strong coffee. Stick the cool cloth in it.”

“Ah,” humored Doug.

“I’m making a fool of you. You know that, don’t you? I’m rubbing it in. I come, uninvited, to your apartment on a day you’re off duty. I seem to interrupt you at a time when you’re about to go out. And then, because I’ve apparently nothing better to do, I proceed to abuse you by pretending I’m drunk.”

“Strictly speaking, sir, I’m an officer of the law. I’m never off duty.”

“You’ve no shame, have you?”

“What would I be ashamed of?”

Druff studied the man, a fellow he knew to be his own age. Up there. An AARP card in his wallet. No doppelgänger, no alter ego. Just a humorless, unattractive, bachelor, jokey sort of man. “Well,” Druff said, “there’s been some talk.”

“Talk, Commissioner?”

“Not so much talk as rumor, chitchat, idle gossip.”

“What is it that’s said?”

Druff, slumped in the chair, straightened up. “I’m no tale-bearer, sir,” he said.

And then was talking away, spilling the beans. A mile a minute. But not about Doug, about the other one, dark Dick. “I’ve reason to believe,” he said, “the two-timing son of a bitch is tripping on his wife, making nice-nice with persons he never had no license to move on.”