Jim Gavin: Middle Men: Stories

“Hey, Marty,” he says. “I saw that thing in the Pipeline . Congratulations.”

It came yesterday, the new issue of the Pipeline , quarterly organ of the West Coast Plumbing Association. Twelve pages, two staples. Martin Costello, a nominee for sales rep of the year.

“I’m working on my acceptance speech,” Costello says.

Rocha laughs. He and Connie are nice enough, always helpful. A common-law thing, no kids. Hedging their bets for twenty years.

“You should hire our pool guy,” Rocha says.

“I don’t mind doing it.”

“Your water looks a little green.”

“I’ll blow it up with chemicals,” Costello says. “Nagasaki the shit out of it.” Points to the deep end. “There’s a lizard down there. At the bottom.”

“I thought lizards could swim.”

“I’m not sure.”

“Crocodiles can swim,” Rocha says. “A crocodile is just a big lizard.”

“I know salamanders can swim.”

“That’s true.”

“They’re amphibious,” Costello says.

“My grandma used to keep axolotls.” Rocha spells the word for him. “Mexican salamanders,” he explains. “Milky white, with golden eyes. They’d freak you out.”

“Golden eyes? Holy shit.”

Nods, silence. A meeting of the minds. Two medieval doctors.

“You’re not swimming, are you?” Rocha asks. “The water’s a little green.”

“I’m just gonna float around on the raft.”

The trimmer cracks on, the noise a million tiny cracks in the afternoon.

Costello is shirtless, his belly soft and pink. Still wearing his old Dodgers cap. He hasn’t combed his hair on a Saturday in thirty years, not since before the kids were born. He flips the cap around so he can see what he’s doing. The long pole rests against his shoulder; he pushes it under the lizard, but the poor sucker won’t budge. Costello gives up.

His sacraments wait for him by the shallow-end steps. Sports page, crossword puzzle, felt-tip pen, the Tareytons, three left, and a Zippo flashing in the sun. And the new issue of the Pipeline . A bit of vanity. He climbs carefully onto the plastic raft and pushes off the side, off the tile that she chose, orange and purple, a floral mosaic, Spanish.

A nice day, warm and clear. What they call an azure sky. On the wooden telephone pole in the corner of the yard a single crow keeps vigil. The telephone wires run parallel to everything. The sky divided by clean horizontal lines: the roof, the wall, the wires. This is what he paid for. Peaceful ranch house living. Sea-green stucco and a sliding glass door.

Three mortgages, babe, each one more magnificent than the last.

Costello is looking at himself. Page three of the Pipeline , a feature article about the company he works for, Ajax Plumbing Sales, of Compton. Special notices to Jack Isahakian, the owner, who is nominated for manager of the year, and to him, Martin Costello, the top outside guy. The supreme council of elders will announce the awards this Friday, after the annual WCPA Best Ball Extravaganza. Every contractor, rep, and wholesaler in SoCal descending on whatever shitball municipal golf course the council has managed to rent out. The hackfest of all hackfests.

Costello is pictured merrily athwart a brand-new Ultima 900, which he specified onto every track house built last year in the high desert by Progressive Plumbing, Inc. (formerly Lamrock & Hoon LLC). The defective ballcocks on the Ultimas are still causing problems — a nightmare sorting the warranty situation with the factory — but the article doesn’t mention that. A nice fluff piece. Jack, in his humility, made the photographer put the entire Ajax crew in the picture, inside sales, outside sales, warehouse crew, everybody hanging off forklifts and pallets in the sunny pipe yard. Everybody squinting, faces bright. Linda — pronounced Leenda —in her wheelchair, waving to the camera. Next to the forklift, Costello’s son, Matt, the picture taken a couple weeks before he gave up plumbing to finish his degree, God bless. The article extols Ajax’s transformation after the brutalities of the last housing crash, the bust years, 1989–95, the trifecta mortgage years. Jack Isahakian, quoted at length: “We got fat on new construction like everybody else, but when reality set in we had to change things, think smaller, master the nickle and dime stuff with our wholesalers.” All the news that’s fit to print.

Rocha finishes whacking his bottlebrush plant, turns the trimmer off. Costello, drifting in the deep end, sees a cloud of red needles floating over the wall.

“We’re turning on the barbecue tonight,” says Rocha. “Feel free to come by.”

A year of warm regards and kind invitations. A year of telling lies to avoid them.

“I’m meeting the kids for dinner,” says Costello.“Thanks, though.”

Rocha salutes and leaves the wall. A moment later the sound of his diving board, then a splash of impressive magnitude. Jesse Rocha, a virtuoso of the cannonball.

Costello lights up. Tareyton, the taste we’re fighting for. No more sneaking them. Killing himself out in the open, under a blue sky.

Costello drifts for a few minutes, blowing smoke rings, idly snapping the Zippo. Nice and quiet. A dragonfly hovers over the water, touching down smooth and fast, then gone, zigzagging up and over the wall, a dust-off.

The telephone pole in the corner of the yard, like the mainmast of a ship. Galleons and caravels. Sailors in the crosstrees on lookout. Magellan and his crew, drifting on the equator, praying for wind.

Costello starts the crossword, but can’t concentrate. An uneasy feeling clutches his stomach. The lizard directly below, full fathom five. He pushes off toward the shallow end and disembarks, his feet slipping into the slimy water.

• • •

Evening comes. The house is dark. Costello drives his Pontiac Grand Am one block, parks in a cul-de-sac, and walks back to the house, slipping in through the side gate. Smoke and mirrors, to make the Rochas think he’s out with the kids. The Rochas always knock a second time, asking again if he wants to come over.

Later, in his recliner, in the dark, with the curtains drawn and the air-conditioning blasting, he turns on the game. The voice of Vin Scully, soothing and omniscient, the God voice of SoCal. Costello gets nervous during games. He paces the green shag in the family room, looking for distractions. The upper shelves of the wall unit are full of pictures, Katie and Matt and Megan, as kids, in various stages of toothlessness and rec league glory. Then the encyclopedias, Funk & Wagnalls, A through Z, one a month at Safeway for two years. Costello wants to look up axolotls, but “A” is missing. There’s a copy of Moby-Dick . Some other random books of nautical lore. Krakens, mermaids, the fata morgana. Costello finds the book of explorers, turns to his favorite passage. Magellan’s crew, lost in the doldrums of the Pacific, slowly starving to death. Costello, laughing, reads his favorite quote: “… and when they ran out of rats, they chewed the bark off the mainmast.”

In the kitchen, by the light of the refrigerator, Costello takes out a giant bag of hot dogs. Then a giant tub of mustard, then a giant tub of mayonnaise. Smart & Final, apocalypse shopping. He puts dogs on a paper plate, shoves them in the microwave. Waiting, he sets up four buns, slapping on mustard and mayonnaise. He takes a fifth bun, balls it up, dips it in the mayonnaise, swallows it whole. The dogs pop and hiss. He pours Pepsi from a two-liter bottle into a clean glass just out of the dishwasher. A bit of decorum. The television illuminates the family room, waves of blue, aquarium light. Costello, leaning forward in his recliner, a dish towel over his knees, eyes focused on the game, mayonnaise punctuating both sides of his mouth — this is how he eats. The kids are trying to get him out more. It’s been over a year, they say, you need to get out there, you need to do something, go somewhere. Go where? We’ve got the pool.