Richard Russo - Everybody's Fool

Boogie hung up half expecting to learn that the whole thing had been a hoax perpetrated by some asshole at Gert’s, maybe even Gert himself. Because drinking beer and watching TV were things he’d always paid to do at the tavern, this deal really seemed too good to be true. That very night, though, returning to the Arms, he found an envelope containing a key to apartment 107 in his mailbox, as per his conversation with William Smith, and the following morning there was another that contained half of his first week’s pay in advance and in cash.

By nature Boogie was neither curious nor thoughtful nor complex. Politically, he considered himself a libertarian. He disapproved of most laws and all government intrusion. On general principle he didn’t like being told what to do or what was good for him. He prided himself on never having to be told to mind his own business. Certainly anyone willing to pay him to drink beer and watch television was entitled to his privacy. It occurred to him, of course, that William Smith might not be his employer’s real name and the man probably hadn’t been completely forthcoming about his “business.” Also that his “inventory” might not be one hundred percent lawful, but what concern was that of his? He wasn’t a policeman. Once, toward the end of his first week, Boogie did suffer something akin to misgiving. That afternoon, when the television cut away from an old sitcom he was watching and the commercial didn’t come on right away, in the momentary silence that ensued he thought he heard a baby’s rattle shaking behind the bedroom door. While he disliked children of all ages, Boogie wasn’t sure he approved of leaving an infant alone all day in a locked room. But then he’d thought the whole thing through and came to the reasonable and reassuring conclusion that he must’ve been mistaken. A baby would cry and make a fuss every time it wanted its nasty diaper changed; it would cry for its bottle. No, that rattle was a figment of his imagination. Or maybe it had come from outside in the corridor.

Though generally laid-back, Boogie was, however, prey to the occasional resentment. That he wasn’t allowed to use the toilet rankled him. During the second week of his employment, the weather turned unseasonably hot and the front room was like an oven, even with the ceiling fan on high. Why should the bedroom’s AC be off-limits? Besides, locking him out of the bedroom was downright offensive, implying he wasn’t trustworthy. Also, though he’d been warned that he might never actually meet William Smith, it was borderline rude that the man hadn’t stopped by to introduce himself. Because he clearly was, however briefly, visiting the apartment. The packages Boogie put in the fridge never remained there more than two or three days before being relocated, Boogie assumed, to the bedroom. Every time it looked like Boogie might run out of beer, another case or two would magically appear.

Most days there was at least one delivery. The packages, which varied in size, were mostly flat, rectangular and marked PERISHABLE. One day Boogie signed for a box that was twice the size of the others, and its contents shifted like a half-full water bottle when he took it from the UPS man. Putting the box in the fridge as instructed, Boogie stood before the open door, wondering why, if these goods were indeed perishable, the temperature inside the fridge was set at fifty-five degrees.

The next afternoon, after depositing another package in the fridge, he noticed a long handle — maybe a broom? — in the gap between the fridge and the wall that hadn’t caught his attention before. Reaching into the narrow space, he pulled out an odd-looking contraption whose purpose he couldn’t immediately divine. At the lower end of the shaft was a bright orange V-grip; at the upper end a set of padded tongs. Sure enough, when you squeezed the handle, the open tongs closed, and relaxing the grip caused them to open again. Obviously, the implement was designed to grab hold of something, but what? An object stored out of reach on a high shelf, perhaps? There wouldn’t be much use for such a tool at the Morrison Arms. At five feet seven inches, Boogie could practically touch the ceiling when he stood on his tiptoes. Huh, he thought, that single syllable pretty much exhausting his curiosity. He stuck whatever the fucking thing was back behind the fridge. What difference did it make what it was used for? For that matter, if you yourself weren’t storing anything in it, what difference did it make that the fridge was running at a lukewarm temperature? Life was full of such meaningless riddles, and one of Boogie’s great skills had always been his ability to ignore anything that might’ve seemed troubling had he been foolish enough to think about it.

That night, however, upstairs in his own bed, he sat straight up, his disobedient unconscious mind having solved in his sleep the riddle of this bizarre tool. The tongs weren’t designed to fetch inanimate objects but to seize something all too animate that was best kept at a safe distance, something that might die if the temperature got too cold and would wake angry if it was too warm. It wasn’t a baby rattle he’d heard; it was a snake’s. “William Smith” was collecting reptiles, to what purpose Boogie couldn’t fathom.

Knowledge was not a state to which he’d ever particularly aspired, much preferring the bliss of ignorance. The realization that the only thing between him and a roomful of snakes was a plywood door seriously undermined his hard-won alcoholic equanimity. Whereas before he’d righteously resented the locked bedroom door, he now checked first thing in the morning to make sure it was locked. While he’d seen little purpose in going outside twice every day to see if the damn AC was still humming along, he now inspected it hourly. Try as he might, he could no longer get comfortable anywhere in the apartment. Television shows that had always held his attention were suddenly boring. One minute he’d be staring at the screen, and the next he’d be across the room pressing his ear against the bedroom door, straining to hear any stirring or rattling. If he drifted off, he’d awake in a panic, convinced something had just slithered over his feet, and whenever the UPS guy knocked he’d just about leap out of his skin. While in the beginning he liked to polish off at least a case of beer daily, it was now all he could do to drink a mere six-pack, which meant that by the end of the afternoon he was approaching sobriety, a condition he found both unnatural and tiresome. When he tried to eat, solid food instantly liquefied in his stomach and required him to gallop upstairs to his own apartment, and when he rose from the toilet, his sphincter on fire, he’d glimpse his sunken face in the bathroom mirror. He was becoming a wreck. Well, maybe he already was one, but still. As much as he hated the idea of missing all this money and free beer, he’d just have to tell William Smith to find someone else.

The following day, Wednesday, after a sleepless night, Boogie called the number under the frog magnet. No one answered, but the same voice he’d heard earlier came on the answering machine. “I’m not here. Leave a message.”

“Mr. Smith,” he said, “this is Rolfe Waggengneckt…uh, Boogie. I’m sorry, but I can’t work for you anymore. After today, you’ll have to find a replacement.”

After he hung up, the phone rang before he could make it back to the sofa. “Two weeks’ notice is customary,” said the voice by way of hello.

“You only hired me for three, and I already worked two,” Boogie blurted, not unreasonably.

“That still leaves one.”

Not knowing what else to do, Boogie decided to come clean. “I know what’s in the bedroom.”

“The snakes, you mean?” His employer didn’t seem alarmed in the least by Boogie’s discovery. “Or the guns?”