Richard Russo - Everybody's Fool

“Think about my offer, Roy,” his mother-in-law said.

“I will,” he lied. Though it didn’t look like she believed him, she rolled up the window anyway and pulled out into the street.

Cora came over then. “Oh, Roy, look at you!” she said. “I heard you was hurt—”

He held a finger up to stop her. “Dummy up a minute,” he told her. “I’m trying to remember something.”

“Sure, Roy,” she said. “I was just—”

“ Got it,” he said suddenly.

“Where you goin’?” she said when he turned away from her. “To Gert’s? Can I come? I got some money…”

But he’d stopped listening. Over at the curb he had a direct view of the parking lot, where he’d seen that flash of red when they got here. Seeing what it was, he smiled, then frowned, recognizing with some apprehension the approach of an impulse, the very kind that, up to this point in his life, he’d shown not the slightest ability to control. He thought of how old Bullwhip had identified Roy’s problem and told him what to do different. Well, he was one to talk. He’d gotten out a few months before Roy, and after six weeks he was right back in again. When Roy asked what happened, all he’d said was, “I saw me an opportunity.”

More agitated people were streaming out of the Arms now, but Roy paid them no mind. His whole brain was pulsing red.

Don’t, he told himself.

Then he did.

THE BAREFOOT, HALF-NAKED MAN who’d bolted from the Morrison Arms that afternoon was Rolfe “Boogie” Waggengneckt (Boogie Woogie, his last name being unpronounceable). He fled straight up the center of Limerock Street, right past the now-three-sided mill. By then, midafternoon, the crowd had largely dissipated, but Carl Roebuck’s crew and the NiMo guys were still there, as was Officer Miller, who was providing a police presence. These men all paused to watch, slack jawed, as Boogie motored past. Though middle aged and woefully out of shape, he had run track in high school, and in his ramrod posture, churning arms and fluid stride you could glimpse the runner he’d once been. Propelled by stark terror, he made it farther and faster than anyone, including himself, would’ve predicted, though compared with youth and rigorous physical conditioning fear is a poor fuel, thin and easily burned through, even when there’s a lot of it. So when Boogie’s tank was finally empty, he stopped like a windup toy and sat down in the middle of the street, utterly spent and aware at last of the spectacular pain in his shredded feet.

Officer Miller was reluctant to leave his comfy post but reasonably certain that a barefoot man, clad only in undershorts, running up the middle of the street was the sort of thing Chief Raymer would want him to investigate. He approached the man cautiously, in accordance with best practices as detailed in the police manual, a document he’d committed to memory as a hedge against the necessity of having to think on the spot. In his mind’s eye he could actually see the relevant text, which warned officers to be cognizant of the possibility that a fleeing suspect might be carrying a concealed weapon, though in this case that seemed unlikely. Nor did the man appear to be a further flight risk. Boogie’s feet, oozing impressively, looked like someone had gone at them with a cheese grater, and his chest was heaving violently. Clearly he wasn’t going anywhere unless somebody carried him, and so Miller, his confidence growing, turned his attention to the matter of questioning the suspect. Where to begin? He might justifiably raise the issue of public nudity, he supposed, since Boogie’s dark genitals were clearly visible in the gap between his upper thigh and sagging undershorts, but opted instead to address what he considered a more urgent concern. “You can’t just sit down in the middle of the road,” he said.

Boogie, blinded by tears of anguish, slowly took in the fact that he’d been joined by a uniformed police officer, which meant his situation, already deeply embarrassing, was now officially humiliating. Having little breath with which to speak, he chose his words carefully. “They’re not my snakes,” he said.

Officer Miller wasn’t sure what sort of response he’d been expecting, but this wrong-footed him completely. Who’d said anything about snakes? Was the man on drugs, imagining himself to be pursued by reptiles? His pupils weren’t dilated. Though he reeked of stale beer, he didn’t appear drunk, just adamant. “I’m not going back in there,” he insisted. “You can’t make me.”

He was, however, willing to go to the hospital, so Miller radioed for an ambulance, which Charice told him to follow so he could take a statement. This did, surprisingly enough, involve snakes. According to Boogie, when the occupant of apartment 107 relocated for three months to the county jail, he’d sublet the place to a man who gave his name as William Smith. While he’d never actually met him, Smith had hired him over the phone at Gert’s Tavern, Boogie’s home away from home. How the man came to know about him was anybody’s guess, but he apparently had gleaned that Boogie was somebody who could be hired for minimum wage, provided the job required no actual work. Smith described himself to Boogie as a traveling salesman and an entrepreneur currently testing several business opportunities in upstate New York. He would likely require Boogie’s services for three weeks, though it was possible, if said opportunities panned out, that the employment could last well into June. Smith further explained that he himself would rarely be in residence. He meant to use apartment 107 primarily to store his inventory.

Boogie’s duties, as described to him over the phone, could not have been more perfectly suited to his temperament and lack of ambition. He was to sign for packages that would arrive periodically during working hours, Monday through Friday, via UPS. There were rules, however. He was not allowed to have friends over — no problem there, because Boogie didn’t have any — nor was he permitted to entertain women, even less of a problem. His wife had left him over a decade ago, and he hadn’t had a date or any other encounter with a woman since. In fact, he was not to even answer the door unless the person on the other side of it identified himself as a UPS driver. The packages he signed for were to be placed immediately in the large kitchen refrigerator, the shelves of which, Smith explained, had mostly been removed to make more room. There would be, Smith admitted, one minor inconvenience that couldn’t be remedied. Like all the other apartments at the Morrison Arms, 107 had just one bathroom, accessible only through the bedroom, the door to which would be locked at all times. When Boogie needed relief, he would have to go upstairs to his own apartment or, if he didn’t feel like climbing the stairs, use the weedy lot out back. These matters would have to be attended to briskly, lest he miss a UPS delivery. Otherwise, he was welcome to watch TV and drink free beer from the well-stocked minifridge that Smith had thoughtfully provided.

Boogie’s only other duty was to make sure the large air-conditioning unit in the bedroom window was kept running at all times. (Though the front room had a ceiling fan, it was otherwise uncooled.) Smith explained that the bedroom contained, among other things, temperature-sensitive pharmaceuticals. At least twice a day — once in the morning and again in the afternoon — Boogie was to go outside and make sure the bedroom unit was functioning properly. If for any reason it stopped — a fan belt broke, say, or the building lost power — he was to immediately call the number written on a slip of paper attached to the fridge with a frog magnet. In all probability no one would answer, but he should leave a detailed message. If Smith needed to communicate with Boogie, he’d call him on apartment 107’s telephone. When Boogie inquired if they’d meet at some point, William Smith said it was possible but unlikely. If the terms and conditions they’d just discussed were acceptable, he could begin work the following morning.