Teddy Wayne - Kapitoil

Mr. Schrub didn’t say anything. He only nodded. I valued that.

He picked up a glass of golden alcohol that looked even more golden from his desk lamp and drank from it, then held his hand under the lamp. “He had these hands, these huge hands. Johnny Bench hands. Skin like a deer hide, calluses everywhere. I always wondered when my hands would get to be that size, feel that rough. And they never did. Dainty little things.” He inspected his hand more closely and laughed quietly. “I get a manicure every two weeks.”

I understood, because I remembered looking at my father’s hands the same way when I was young, but now my hands are of equal size, although his skin is rougher.

“It’s funny,” he said. “You act a certain way, and you think you’re an absolutist, but every day there are these little shifts. They’re so small you don’t even notice them. And one day you look at yourself and aren’t sure how you got there.”

I said, “That is usually how change occurs. It is like physical growth. You cannot detect it on a daily basis.”

“Like a physical growth,” he said, although I had merely said “physical growth” and did not include the indefinite article. “Exactly. Like a tumor.”

I didn’t want to correct him, so I said nothing, and he looked at me and said, “I know listening to a drunken old man ramble on isn’t your idea of a wild Saturday night. I’ll let you hit the hay.”

As I exited the office, he said, “Thanks for the talk.”

I said, “You are welcome, Mr. Schrub,” and then I felt even worse about spying.

I went to my room. Now I would have to return in the middle of the night for the voice recorder. I considered his statement about the little shifts and what Mrs. Schrub said about being different now from what she was at age 16. My mother always told me the best jobs helped others, but my skill set does not make me a good teacher, and although I am strong at memorizing, I had difficulty with biology and therefore would not be an efficient doctor, and I am not very interested in the legal system because it is man-made and elastic to different countries and not universal the way math or programming is. Of course I am creating and distributing wealth through Kapitoil, but I am only indirectly helping others. To reroute my brain I read The Grapes of Wrath , and I stayed awake until I completed it.

I initially became angry at Steinbeck when the character Rose of Sharon gives birth to a baby that is dead. It was as if he didn’t want to write a happy ending, so he selected the unhappiest ending. But then she fed the dying man she didn’t know at the true ending with the milk that she initially reserved for her baby, and I appreciated the previous negative charge. It was possibly the first time a book made me think differently about a subject not because of a logical argument. I felt like calling Zahira to tell her about it, but I didn’t want to contact my father.

In addition, it was 2:30 a.m. and an optimal time to retrieve the voice recorder. If someone detected me, I would say I was making myself at home in the fridge.

I descended the stairs slowly. The house was muted, and the light under Mr. Schrub’s office door was out. As I walked down the hallway, I heard voices outside the front door. If I stayed near his office I would be caught, and if I ran back upstairs it would look suspicious, so I quickly entered the kitchen.

The sounds were (1)the front door opening with difficulty; (2)Jeromy and Wilson whispering loudly; and (3)a female voice laughing with them.

Mr. Schrub’s sons entered the kitchen with a female approximately their age. She was very tall and thin with blonde hair and a face that was slightly like a horse’s and a white scarf tied around her neck. I wished I wasn’t in my nightwear.

“Hey, what’s going on, Karim?” Wilson said. He sniffed and rubbed his nose several times and said, “Karim works for my dad. This is George.” I was surprised a female had the name George, but I didn’t say anything. “What are you doing up, man? A little midnight snackage?”

“I already ate some baklava,” I said.

“He already ate some baklava,” Wilson said, and he laughed and again sniffed his nose, and George laughed also, even though there was nothing humorous or original in his statement. Then he said, “What, you don’t like our country’s cuisine?”

“I very much like American food,” I said.

He asked, “And how do you like our house here?”

“I like it very much as well.”

“So if I go to — where the fuck are you from, again?” he asked. I told him. “Qatar,” he said. “Qatar. Qatar.”

He got up and ran to a drawer and pulled out a knife and put it behind his back. Then he said, “Cut her, cut her,” and returned to the table and grabbed George’s arms behind her back and commanded me, “Cut her, Karim, cut her,” and deposited the knife in my hand as he held her.

It was a knife for butter, so I knew he wasn’t serious, and she pushed him off and said, “You are such a cock, Wilson,” but she was laughing and then said, “And don’t be mean to him,” which was generous but made me feel like a child even though I was the oldest.

Wilson said, “But seriously, if I go to Qatar, you’ll put me up? We’ll hang?”

“Yes. Although we do not have as luxurious accommodations, I will try to show you the hospitality your family has shown me,” I said.

He nodded and smiled. “I’m just fucking with you. The only thing that’s going to cut her is a surgeon’s knife.” He compressed his hands over her breasts. “Give her a nice pair of D-cups.”

George pushed him off again, but Wilson asked, “What do you think, Karim? Does she need an upgrade?”

Although her chest was in fact very minimal, and the rest of her body was so thin that I could see light blue veins everywhere, I said, “I do not know.”

“Why not?” he asked. “You don’t swing that way?”

Jeromy said, “Come on, Wilson,” but he ignored him.

“I have not been observing your girlfriend in that mode,” I said.

“My girlfriend ?” he said. “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my sister .” He kissed George with his tongue for several seconds until she again pushed him away. “This is what we do with our sisters in America. We keep it in the family. Family’s important, don’t you agree?”

The room and the house were quiet. “Family is very important,” I said.

He put his hand on George’s behind. “And you do this with your sisters in Qatar?”

“No,” I said. “We treat our sisters with respect. If you truly had a sister, maybe you would understand.”

Then we heard rapid footsteps like a clock ticking quickly and Jeromy said “Shit” and in a few seconds Mr. Schrub opened the kitchen door with force. He was wearing the same clothing as before and looked as if he had fallen asleep in his office.

“How did you get home?” he asked Wilson.

“Drove,” Wilson said.

His face was as red as the hawk’s shoulders. “You’ve been drinking?”

“No,” Wilson said. “I had one drink. Maybe two.”

Mr. Schrub breathed in deeply through his nostrils. “Would you mind taking a taxi home?” he asked George. She looked very afraid and said she didn’t mind, and he gave her a $50 bill from his wallet and asked her to call for it and wait outside.

I didn’t know if I should leave as well, but I was afraid to ask. I moved to the kitchen door but Mr. Schrub said, “You can stay, Karim.”

Then he turned to his sons and commanded them to sit down. They both looked at the table as he spoke. I don’t remember all his words, but at a high volume he told them that they should call a taxi if they had even one drink and he wasn’t bailing them out for any more DUIs and they were irresponsible and he was fed up with them. In the middle of yelling at them he picked up the knife, which I had placed on the table, and he didn’t pay attention to it in his hands, but when Wilson interrupted him once to say he was 21 years old and legally allowed to drink, Mr. Schrub yelled even louder and bent the knife approximately 30 degrees with his hands and Wilson didn’t say anything else.