Jim Gavin - Middle Men - Stories

She closed her office door, thinking she was about to cry. But she didn’t. Something rattled in her chest, but she didn’t cry.

At six o’clock, she walked down to Dave’s office. When he saw her at the door, he stopped juggling and reached for his jacket.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

They went down the street to a sports bar. The Giants were playing, so they had to fight their way through crowds moving toward the waterfront stadium. Dave kept looking back, as if he might lose her, and Nora realized she had never been alone with him. Here, in public, the veneer of dynamism fell away and he seemed pensive and unsure of himself. When he brought over their pitcher, he spilled some on the table, and got flustered as he looked for napkins.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and carefully wiped down the table, sopping up every drop. He sat down, took a sip of beer, and Nora knew what he was going to say.

“At this point in time, Nora, we need to start thinking about migrating some of our resources to an outside vendor.”

“Do I still have a job?”

“Yes! God, I’m sorry!” He almost spit out his beer. “I mean, that’s the good news. For you, I mean. I’m not explaining this very well. Listen. We’ve decided to make some major… in a couple weeks. Direct mail, prospect management, customer analytics — we can’t justify those costs right now.”

“Are you leaving anything in-house?”

“Like I said, we can’t justify—”

“Who’s left?”

“You, mostly. The plan is to shift you into more of a liaison role with sales.”

Nora leaned forward slowly and rested her forehead on the edge of the table.

“I want you to know that I fought for you and your team. But mostly you. That’s why I wanted to maximize our profile at the conference. I was hoping something good might happen.”

“That was a great plan, Dave. Thanks.”

“I know this isn’t ideal for you, but I did — I really fought for you.”

“I heard you,” she said, lifting her head, “and I said thanks.”

“But you were being sarcastic. Which is okay. I understand. That’s how some people cope with challenging situations. It’s something I’ve always liked about you, the way you’re kind of… everyone in the office enjoys your sense of humor. But listen. I fought for you and, going forward, I think you’ll be in a good position. As Geneva evolves, you’ll be right there with me, delivering the…” Dave stopped for a moment and stared at his beer. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Basically, the kind of mission-critical solutions that address the needs of our clients.”

Outside the window a scalper was yelling and waving tickets. Nora asked in a sour tone if Geneva was going to sacrifice their luxury box at the ball park. Dave looked hurt, as if she had failed to understand something obvious, and said, “I fought for you.”

Nora suddenly understood the evening’s shape and direction. It was like floating on a river and hearing a waterfall in the distance. She signaled the waitress for another pitcher, and for the next hour she watched Dave get drunk. He couldn’t handle his liquor, but that seemed part of whatever clumsy plan he had set in motion. By the time they got to the third pitcher, Dave was trying to pet Nora’s arm. She lightly removed it and he looked ashamed. She got the feeling that he had never tried anything like this before. It was almost touching. Eventually his seduction devolved into a series of whimpering confessions about his family life and the pressures he was under at Geneva. He and his wife were constantly at odds, and he got the feeling that if the next restructuring didn’t work out, he might get the ax himself.

“It’s been a difficult time for me,” he said.

Nora, still relatively sober, figured that if she offered him a choice, right now, between fucking her or crying like a little boy on her shoulder, he would choose to cry.

Dave paid the tab and they started walking toward Market, without any real destination in mind. At a crosswalk, he tried to kiss her, but she pushed him away. After effusive apologies, Dave reiterated that he was under a lot of pressure lately.

“I saw something the other day,” he said, as they kept walking. “We took the boys to Golden Gate Park for a picnic. We’re sitting there and a kid walks out of the bushes. She’s a punk-looking kid. She could’ve been twelve years old or nineteen. I have no idea. But she’s in ratty clothes and I swear to God she’s got a homemade bow and arrow slung over one shoulder and a dead cat over the other. She walked right past us, like we weren’t even there.”

“I want another drink,” said Nora.

Dave stepped away and made a phone call. They walked down Kearny and into North Beach. On the way, Nora’s phone rang. It was Bobby. She let it go to voice mail and then listened to the message.

“What’s so funny?” Dave asked.

“Nothing,” she said, and when they finished their second round of cocktails at nine o’clock, she turned off her phone and said, “Let’s get dinner.”

• • •

“Next time Nora’s in, she’ll take care of it. I swear.”

“It’s fine. Do you want your credit card back?”

“No, keep it. As a token of my affection.”

The barbacks were wiping down counters and turning off the lights. A fat Beatle was onstage, whistling to himself and unplugging his amps. Bobby picked up his bag and followed the bartender out the front door, where a few other Beatles were smoking. Ringo smiled and waved to Bobby.

Geary Boulevard was a cold, misty hollow, tilting toward the ocean. Bobby saw the bartender getting in a cab and ran after her.

“Where are you going?” he said.

“Home.”

“You should stick around.”

“Let go the door, you fuck!”

He heard voices behind him. A pair of John Lennons were moving toward him saying, “Hey, hey, hey…”

“Hold on,” he said, turning back to her. “I want to show you my Man Handle.”

He reached into his bag and she started to scream. Before he could show it to her, someone grabbed him around the waist. Bobby tumbled to the sidewalk. He watched the cab’s red taillights disappear down the street. Slowly, the Fabs dispersed. Ringo helped him up.

“What the hell?” said Bobby.

“They thought you were about to do something.”

“Do what?”

“Hit her.”

“I’d never hit a pretty girl.”

Bobby grabbed his bag and started walking down the sidewalk. Ringo caught up with him and asked if he was all right.

“Which way is the ocean?” Bobby asked. “I’m freezing out here.”

“Do you want a ride?”

“Can you take me to Nora’s house? It’s around here somewhere.”

As they turned and walked past the bar, one of Ringo’s bandmates said, “What are you doing, man?”

“I’m giving him a ride.”

“Tell him to take a cab.”

“He bought us drinks all night.”

Ringo had somehow packed his drum kit into the trunk of his Honda Civic. The trunk didn’t close all the way, but he had everything secured with bungee chord.

“I’m glad Nora flaked,” said Bobby, as they drove off. “I had a blast tonight. You guys are unbelievable. Where’d you get the wig?”

“It’s not a wig.”

“Bullshit!”

“It’s not. I swear.”

“Do you go to work like that?”

“I teach music. No one cares what I look like.”

“That’s lucky.”

The avenues were washed out in an orange, syrupy light. It was like driving around inside a pharmacy bottle. All the houses looked the same. Bobby told Ringo to stop.

“I think this is it.”

He rang the bell several times. Inside a dog started to bark, which was a bad sign, because Nora didn’t have a dog. He heard footsteps in the hall and the door opened. Behind the metal security screen, an old woman in a bathrobe was looking at him.