(This story happens in 2003.)
The sun is bowing behind the steep walls of commerce that line State Street in Madison. A man dressed in shabby clothing explores the sidewalk frantically, crawling on all fours. His name is Jeffrey Salinger. He has been blathering for hours with his nose close to the pavement. His bizarre behavior tends to redirect timid pedestrians to the other side of the road, where a grimy man named Kickbush flashes a stained-teeth smile through a store window.
“I could see all the way to Australia if it wasn't for this damn sidewalk!”
Salinger pounds his fist against the pavement. He goes on.
“Sacrilegious didjeri-douche-bags got the nerve to celebrate Christmas during the summer. Why do the construction workers even build these obstructions? What are the Ausies hiding in their kangaroo pouches?”
He suddenly stops fidgeting. His eyes seem to hatch an epiphany. Meanwhile, a stray terrier approaches Salinger, sniffing inquisitively.
“Wait. Construction workers post orange signs that read 'Men at Work.' Men at Work—an '80s pop group...from Australia. It all makes sense now. I've got to warn somebody!”
Startled by this outcry, the terrier yelps in Salinger's face. The dog is promptly slapped across the snout.
“Not while I'm conspiring!” Salinger barks.
The terrier's skittish demeanor turns stoic as he slowly wipes his wounded nose, gazes down at the fresh blood on his paw, and then pivots his head left to right, glaring intensely.
Just then a battery-powered alarm clock sounds-off wildly, not far from Salinger and the terrier. The time is five o'clock. The clamor frightens the dog into a dead sprint down the block. Salinger rises to his feet and dusts off his gashed green pants.
“Wow! Thanks for the tremendous performance,” he calls to the departing terrier. “That was intense; I'm talking rabid
Old Yeller intense.”
Across the street, Kickbush leaves his post behind the counter of his gun shop, called AK-47 Heaven, and waddles over to greet Salinger.
“Helluva job, son. You've earned your peanuts today. Heh!”
“Thanks, Colonel Kickbush. Listen, I'd love to chat—“
“Really? 'Cause I've been awful lonesome since the wife left me and I shot that smart-ass parakeet. Thought it was hot shit 'cause it could recite the whole alphabet...”
“No. I mean to say, although I'd love to chat, I can't do it, because I really should be leaving soon. I was so low on gas I had to take the bus this morning.”
“Oh. Well...say no more.”
Kickbush reaches his stubby fingers into his pants pocket, struggling every inch in the tight slit between his flabby thighs and faded jeans. In time he extracts his thick leather wallet with a determined grunt.
“Phew,” Kickbush laughs. “Must be what it's like to give birth.”
Salinger chuckles politely. Kickbush opens his wallet and thumbs through the bills.
“You know, Sali, since you crazied-up this side of the street, my business has increased by 30-percent.”
“30-percent? Huh. That's impressive.”
“Yup. You got to understand, this is America. Sheer whim is the fifth most common reason people buy guns.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure. Number one is for protection, followed by hunting, and then blind hatred of foreigners at number three.”
“What's the fourth reason?”
“It's, um...compensation for a small penis,” Kickbush says tentatively.
Salinger nods calmly while his counterpart fidgets and scratches his thinning hair.
“Any-hoo, back to sheer whim,” Kickbush says. “Here's the scenario: Mr. And Mrs. Consumer are window-shopping on State Street when suddenly they're confronted by some poor, hopeless basket-case—that's you—so they flee across the street, catch a glimpse of something deadly and shiny through the front window, they have a quick fantasy about killin' a deranged yahoo like you, and rat-ta-tat-tat, I'm up three-hundred bones.”
“Nice,” Salinger says, rather quietly. “Well, I just hope the places on this side of the street aren't hurt too badly.”
“Bah. To hell with these soulless money-grubbers. We're doing society a favor by hurting their business.”
Salinger turns around and gazes morosely at the sign displayed above the nearest building. It reads: The Boys & Girls Club.
“Well, I don't know about
soulless money-grubbers...”
“Hey, don't kid yourself,” Kickbush says. “You ever see one of those little bastards beg for quarters to play an arcade game at a pizza party? Next thing you know, they're pining for GI Joe's and flu shots. And guess who pays for
that.”
With a righteous grunt, he finally hands Salinger a sweaty wad of cash.
“But hell...” Kickbush continues, “Maybe they're not
all bad. I slipped you something extra for that daughter of yours. To be pissed away on eyeliner and blush, no doubt. Heh.”
“Na, I doubt it. She's only seven.”
“Well, hell, my girl wore that gunk at about that age, and she turned out just fine.”
He reaches for a magazine tucked between his ass and blue jeans and displays it for Salinger.
“Matter of fact, she's featured in her daddy's favorite mag,
The Right to Bare Arms and Cleavage. She's pointing a .44 magnum at a burning Mexican flag and she's got a grenade danglin' from her tittie-cup. Very tasteful. Makes for good oglin' material on the bus.”
He offers the magazine to Salinger, who declines. Salinger starts to walk away.
“No thanks. Now, I really should be going.”
“Yeah, I hear ya. Those public-transit fascists are really cracking down with their anti-fondling laws and whatnot...” Kickbush laments.
“So long,” Salinger calls, jogging off.
He runs for the nearest bus stop. Along the way, he passes a shabbily dressed man licking a lamp post and pondering its flavor. Salinger shakes his head, disapproving.
“Amateur,” he mutters, not breaking stride.
____
A green neon sign that reads Pipefitter's hums just beneath the bedroom window of Emily Salinger. Two neon pot leaves flank the bright sign. Salinger is in the midst of tucking his daughter into bed, but he is distracted by an unrelenting and obnoxious knock on the wooden door below. Agitated, he pries open the window at the foot of Emily's bed.
“Come on! Open up,” a voice pleads.
The plea is coming from a bearded man wearing a tube top cop outfit.
Salinger is momentarily puzzled, but he soon processes the situation.
“Read the sign!”
“Sign? What sign?” the bearded man asks.
He is nudged by his friend, a bald man wearing a black leather leotard, who points to a sign in the first-floor window. It reads: Not to be confused with the nearby gay bar of the same name.
“Whoopsy,” the tube top cop says.
“Yeah, sorry, our mistake!” his friend calls up.
Salinger shrugs, indicating that the apology has been accepted.
As the two men walk away, the tube top cop says to his friend:
“Well, I guess that explains the pot leaves.”
Salinger closes the window and hangs a stray blanket in place of an actual curtain.
“That's better. Sorry about that,” he says.
Emily shrugs.
“It wasn't your fault.”
He smirks complacently. It's a tamer version of the more dashing smirk found on a poster above the headboard of Emily's bed. It's a movie poster of
Raiders of the Lost Ark. Salinger's face is superimposed on Harrison Ford's body.
“Tell me another one,” she says.
Salinger grins slightly, but shakes his head no.
“Sorry, Em. No can do. It's past ten and you've got school in the morning.”
“Who cares? We take two naps before lunch, anyway. Just one more. Pleeeaaassseee.”
She giggles and thumps giddily on the springs of her mattress. Salinger reconsiders.
“All right, all right,” he says with a pretense of exhaustion, “Just one more and then it's lights out.”
His daughter claps her hands with the quickness of a butterfly flapping its wings. She leans forward with anticipation.
“Okay, let's see...Let me think. Um...Pat Sajack,” he says at last, snapping his fingers.
“The Wheel of Fortune guy is gay? Get out!”
Emily gasps and clutches her stuffed Sponge-Bob toy against her chest.
Salinger nods, smirking like a man who knows all, pleased to see the wide-eyed wonderment in his daughter's eyes.
“Wow, I guess I had a hunch about him, but...Hey, what about the new host of
The Family Feud? Is he gay?”
“You'll have to wait until tomorrow night for the answer to that question.”
She groans and plops the back of her head onto the pillow.
“It's a simple yes or no question, daddy. It would only take
two seconds to answer.
Five seconds if you wanted to make it suspenseful.”
“Well, I've got to be to bed in
less than two seconds. Daddy's got to be on the set by nine tomorrow morning.”
“When can I finally see one of your movies?”
Inches from her face, Salinger freezes.
“Well,” he says, gathering himself, “Daddy's movies are mostly R-rated and therefore unsuitable for girls your age.”
“You can't shelter me from violence forever; I go to a public school.”
Salinger scratches his right side-burn nervously.
“Well, in addition to that, there's also adult situations and some nudity.”
Emily opens her mouth to speak, but her father interjects.
“
Please. Don't say anything. Good night, sweetie.”
He kisses her forehead and hurries out of her bedroom. On his way out he turns off the light switch.
In the cramped hallway now, Salinger hears the telephone ring. Unable to locate the receiver, Salinger digs through a laundry basket and removes every cushion from the couch before finding it hidden behind a yellow recliner. He picks off a hairy wad of taffy from the earpiece and then answers the phone on the ninth ring.
“Hello?”
He sniffs the wad of taffy, cringes, and tosses it over his shoulder.
A German-accented voice lets out a groan.
“Nine rings, Salinger. Nine
fucking rings. I suggest you keep your telephone atop your rolling papers so you never forget its location.”
“Who is this?”
“Promptness never was one of your more commendable attributes. Your lack of promptness tested my patience moments ago, and your lack of promptness for the
Renegade audition nearly cost you a role on the show all those years ago. Instead, it was my superior acting skills that cost you the and...subsequently buried your fledgling career.”
Salinger's brow furrows. He quickly shakes his head in disbelief.
“Sven Brinkerhaus?”
“Yes. This is the part where I would ordinarily clap my hands slowly, with haughty ridicule, but unfortunately, my hands are currently busy caressing your ex-fiancé's firm buttocks.”
“How...how did you find me?”
“Well, if you must know, Jeffrey, I found you through mere happenstance. In hope of rekindling my transcendent collaboration with
Renegade leading man Lorenzo Llamas, I sought to determine his whereabouts. I learned from VH1's
Where Are They Now? program that he now resides in Madison. It seems he's working on behalf of a powerful Christian Conservative group, masquerading as a crazy street person in front of a gay bar in order hinder their lascivious business...”
Meanwhile, not far from Salinger's apartment, a din of boisterous hollering, as well as Queen's “Crazy Little Thing Called Love,” emanate from a brick building. The pink neon sign on the side of the building reads “Pipefitter's.” Two pink neon pipes bookend the sign. Near the entrance, a muscular man with a long brown ponytail, clad in torn-jeans and a stained t-shirt, half-heartedly heckles a man in a phony cop uniform.
“Dude,” Lorenzo says, “I'm, like, totally hearing the voice of Jesus in my head right now. He's telling me that you're all going to hell. Is that crazy or what?”
Paying no mind to this homophobe for hire, the gay man enters the bar. Lorenzo hangs his head, stung by his failure.
“Bummer.”
Lorenzo is nudged by a teenager with stumpy dreadlocks wearing a Phish t-shirt.
“Hey bro, these guys sell killer bongs, right?”
“Read the sign.”
With that said, Lorenzo turns his attention to another one of Pipefitter's potential patrons. In vain he tries to convey a voodoo hex by wiggling his fingers at the man, encircling him with bouncy limberness as he does so.
The stoner reads the sign and mutters something to his friend as the two depart.
“Oh. That explains the dick-shaped, pink neon pipes, I guess.”
Back in Salinger's apartment, Brinkerhaus continues his haughty rambling on the other end of the phone line.
“...So I packed my luggage for Madison in search of the wayward yin to my yang. But when I arrived at the wrong Pipefitter's establishment, well, I stumbled across your address.”
Salinger clutches and yanks his shaggy brown hair.
“You sick bastard! You know where I live?”
His ear pressed tensely against the receiver, Salinger hears a dismissive snort from Brinkerhaus.
“Jeffrey, your anxiety is excessive. You've mistaken my Colonel Klink rancor with the hateful villainy of Mein Fuhrer. Rest assured, your daughter is in no peril. I merely wish to destroy your pitiful career...for a second time.”
Salinger recalls what caused the vendetta this crazy man from the past is clinging to.
“You're still pissed about that
Baywatch audition, aren't you?”
“A neophyte such as you had no business acting alongside of Herr Hasselhoff!”
“Jesus. I said two lines, left the beach and found out my girlfriend was pregnant, and had to move back home. It's finished. My life
still fell apart, okay? Okay?!”
After seconds of tense silence, Salinger raises his voice.
“Brinkerhaus?”
There is no reply. It becomes evident that Brinkerhaus has hung up the phone. This does nothing to subdue the flabbergasted ire of Jeffrey Salinger.
“Brinkerhaus? You pretentious freak. Answer me, Goddammit! Brinkerhaus? Brinkerhaus?!”
“Daddy! What are you screaming for?”
Emily stands at the threshold of her bedroom, frowning and rubbing her eyes.
With beads of sweat running down his crimson-colored forehead, a flustered Salinger forces an unconvincing smile.
“Oh. Hi, Em. I was just...singing 'Brick House,' that old Commodores tune...” He glances at the phone in his trembling hand and continues. “...To the, uh, telemarketer. Look—it's not important. Just go back to bed, sweetie. I'll be quiet.”
With grave disapproval, Emily shakes her head and shuts her bedroom door. Her father collapses onto the nearest couch, his chest heaving, his nerves badly jangled.
____
Salinger's rust-spotted yellow Mazda rolls into the parking lot behind AK-47 Heaven. Salinger parks behind his boss' pickup truck. He exits the vehicle and squints in the harsh morning light. His car is still trembling and rattling as he slips in through the back door.
Once inside, he is horrified to see Kickbush behind the counter with a .38 caliber handgun pointed at his face, his hands quivering tensely.
“No, Colonel,” Salinger pleads, “You've go so much to live for!”
Kickbush swiftly turns toward his employee, revealing the cigar jutting from the right corner of his mouth. He squeezes the trigger and lights his stogie with the novelty lighter.
“Don't get your panties in a bunch, Sali. I ain't suicidal, but I'm so
irate I'm on my third cigar of the morning.”
With that he sets down the gun-shaped lighter on the glass counter-top next to two virtually identical firearms. Salinger sighs with great relief.
“Irate? What about?”
Kickbush picks up a gun from off the counter-top and and motions toward the front window with it.
“Take a look outside, numb-nuts.”
Salinger eyes his employer suspiciously, then walks toward the window. He cups his eyes against the glass and sees a man wearing a fake beard, sandals, and a pristine white robe. The man is pestering pedestrians in front of AK-47 Heaven, redirecting them to the other side of the street. He spreads his arms wide and addresses the passersby with an air of haughty righteousness.
“My children, I have returned as I promised not to judge the living and the dead, but rather to declare Scientology the Earth's one true religion.”
Salinger pounds his open palm against the window.
“Brinkerhaus, you bastard! Showing up an hour early just to upstage me. You conniving...Düssel-dork!”
“He wasn't an hour early. You're an hour
late. Last night was daylight savings time, shit-for-brains.”
Salinger puckers his lips tightly and taps his fingers deliberately against the glass.
“Oh,” he says finally.
“Is that all you've got to say? Sali, we've fallen behind in the battle of crazy bums. The Boys and Girls Club is breaking my balls, and you're an hour late. Now get the hell out of my sight and do your job. And I hope to Christ you can come up with lines that are better than 'Dussel-dork'!”
Flustered and mortified, Salinger gazes down at his attire: A standard hobo getup, devoid of the essential pizzazz when compared to a phony Jesus. For today, he knows he'll need a more shocking and outlandish outfit. Thinking hastily, he notices a newspaper folded next to an array of guns on the glass counter-top. With an idea in mind, he snatches the newspaper on his way to the bathroom.
“I'll be back in five minutes,” he says.
“Hey, I still haven't read today's
Marmaduke, motherfucker!”
Kickbush's uproar is to no avail, however; Salinger has already locked himself in the bathroom.
Kickbush impatiently snuffs out his cigar on the glass display case, even though it is merely halfway smoked. He perches a fresh one between his lips. Gazing down at the trio of identical .38s, he struggles to recall which one is the novelty lighter. With a shrug, he resorts to eany-meany-miney-mo and selects the randomly designated gun. Holding it underneath the tip of his fresh cigar, he squeezes the trigger.
BLAM! A smoking hole is blown through the ceiling of AK-47 Heaven.
Awestruck and unscathed, he sets the gun off to the side and chuckles softly. He then places a new cigar between his lips and plays the same game of chance with the two remaining guns...
____
Clad in nothing but a newspaper make-shifted into a diaper, Salinger confidently emerges from AK-47 Heaven. With the front door still ajar, Kickbush calls to his departing employee.
“I don't care if the funny pages come back stained with skid-marks. You best return that newspaper so I can read today's
Marmaduke!”
Salinger waves his hand dismissively and embarks toward his post across the street. As he walks past Brinkerhaus—somehow resisting the urge to pummel the man into a lifeless mound of blood-oozing flesh—his gaudy outfit gets acknowledgment from his rival.
“Well-played, Jeffrey,” Brinkerhaus says, temporarily breaking character.
An easily duped pedestrian who is bowing piously before at the feet of Brinkerhaus rises to one knee to protest.
“Hey! Jesus didn't speak with no German accent! Well, that
does it. I'm gonna buy me a gun.”
The man scowls at Brinkerhaus—a despicable impersonator of Christ—and enters AK-47 Heaven. Brinkerhaus shakes his fist furiously at Salinger and curses in a fit of German gibberish. With considerable resolve, he gets back into character.
On the opposite sidewalk, Salinger is poised for meddling. He confronts a middle-aged woman wearing an American flag t-shirt just before she enters the Boys and Girls Club.
“Excuse me, ma'am, could you please tell me how my stocks are doing?”
Salinger turns around and points to the backside of his newspaper diaper.
The dismayed woman slinks away from the entrance to the Boys and Girls Club.
“Why, you revolting...
pervert! Well, my daughter can just walk home,” she says, stomping away with her arms crossed.
Moments later, an attractive young couple approaches Salinger. Perhaps by accident, perhaps drawn by chaos, they hazard to make eye contact with him. Salinger doesn't waste the opportunity.
“Oh, boy,” he says nervously, “I sure hope that's just
ink running down the back of my leg...”
The beautiful woman gags with squeamish reproach as her thick-armed boyfriend escorts her forcefully across the street.
“That shit is
not acceptable, bro!” the man admonishes, pointing his finger at Salinger.
“Who said it was definitely shit?” Salinger calls. “It might still be ink; I'm not sure. Maybe this guy can tell the difference.”
He pounces on another pedestrian coming his way. Sensing danger or at the very least discomfort, the man darts across the street, petrified by the idea of making eye contact with this lunatic wearing a newspaper for a diaper. Salinger's satisfied gaze follows his latest victim to the opposing sidewalk. To his surprise, Brinkerhaus is no longer prowling the area in front of AK-47 Heaven. He scans the long stretch of sidewalk and eventually spots Brinkerhaus cowering low inside a telephone booth three or four buildings down from the gun shop across the street. Salinger grins widely.
“Damn, I'm good.”
Just then a stern voice announces its presence behind him.
“Sir, would you please turn around?”
His moment of triumph chased away by a cold sweat, Salinger obliges. Just as he feared, the stern voice belongs to a cop. The officer eyes him reproachfully and quickly licks his lips.
“Identification?” he asks, extending his right hand.
Stupefied and woeful, Salinger idly pats his newspaper diaper before shaking his head no.
“Officer, I know this looks bad. But if you'd just give me a chance--”
“Sir, you're in violation of the city of Madison's indecent exposure ordinance. This offense counts as a misdemeanor--” at this point the cop becomes preoccupied with a relentless knocking on the window of the Boys and Girls Club. Salinger notices it, too, but he is too humiliated to gaze over his shoulder. “A misdemeanor that includes a significant fine of up to four-hundred dollars.”
The rapping on the window continues.
“In fact, without identification, I may need to—oh, no, not
that. Don't start crying!”
Although he is utterly crestfallen, Salinger isn't crying.
“Beg your pardon, officer?”
The cop points aggressively at the source of his distress. Salinger turns around and sees a girl his daughter's age in tears through the window of the Boys and Girls Club. She wipes the snot from her cute button nose and smiles weakly at Salinger.
The cop sighs deeply and then scratches his crew-cut deliberately.
“That's my daughter Jolene. She's—uh--she's a big fan of your work—always talking about the silly man on the sidewalk...” He clears his throat boisterously. “Look, you're practically her hero. I mean, when you blew up those balloon animals and pretended they were your cult worshipers—well, I tell you, that had her in stitches for days.”
Salinger's eyes narrow in disbelief. His mouth is agape.
“Hell, I've arrested men for being cross-eyed in a school zone, but I can't in good conscience arrest a man whose antics so consistently bring a smile to my daughter's face.” With that, he places his large hand on Salinger's bare shoulder. “I'm gonna look the other way this time. Just make sure no one gets hurt.”
That being said, he walks away, dotingly waving at his elated daughter as he passes by the window.
Salinger wipes the sweat from his brow and exhales heavily. He smiles sheepishly and waves his to his number one fan. The little girl hops up and down and claps her hands in a rapt frenzy.
Salinger turns his focus to the sidewalk across the street, where Brinkerhaus is still cowering inside a phone booth.
“Game on!”
___
The competition resumes and within minutes it reaches a rabid intensity. With equal efficiency, both thespians succeed in bothering pedestrians to the other side of the street. The constant divergence of passersby creates a virtual “X” in the street.
Both men notice Stanley Ool approaching from afar. Something about his walk—graceless and erratic—designates him as an easy target. Feeling overzealous, Brinkerhaus, still dressed like Jesus, cheats up the sidewalk several paces to confront Ool.
“Hello, sir, do you need a Messiah? Or maybe just a rigorous shoeshine?”
Ool's eyes dart down to inspect his shoes and he briskly crosses into Salinger's territory.
“No thank you,” Ool murmurs, his voice barely audible.
With a devilish grin, Brinkerhaus stares down his rival and frames his latest victim with two extended palms. Salinger is not intimidated. He rushes up to pounce on Ool, placing one foot in the gutter.
“Hey, can I have your honest opinion?”
Stanley dares to gaze up just long enough to take in the horrid sight of a grown man wearing a newspaper diaper.
“Would I look more striking in a Hula skirt made out of shredded magazines?” Salinger asks.
Overwhelmed by anxiety, Ool defects back to the other side of the street. Salinger returns his rival's cocky gesture and mouths the words: “He's all yours.”
“Getting awful tired of these...” Ool mutters, rubbing his wrists together in self-conscious torment.
Once he steps foot on the curb, he is harassed by Brinkerhaus.
“Hey pal, you got any weed? I promised Bob Marley I'd score him a bag.”
Quite flustered now, Ool is volleyed back toward Salinger's jurisdiction. Still fixated on his shoes he continues his pitiful mumbling.
“The Bible never mentioned anything about Jesus burning marij--”
That statement is interrupted by the earsplitting brakes of a city bus. Ool looks up just in time brace his arms against the impact. The bus had lost much of its momentum before colliding with him. Nonetheless, the impact launches him into the air. He lands with a vicious thud ten feet from the front of the bus, suffering serious—but not fatal—injuries.
Horrified beyond words, the rival actors stare blankly at one another as a small crowd gathers around the limp body of Stanley Ool. Then, in a decisive instant, the two simultaneously sprint for the vacant phone booth. Brinkerhaus loses a sandal and rashly goes back to retrieve it. This delay costs him the coveted phone booth. When his attempt to usurp the phone booth is thwarted by a pair of aggressive shoves from Salinger, he panics. After running frantically in no particular direction for a short time, he scrambles across the street into the Boys and Girls Club.
Not unlike Superman, Salinger emerges from the phone booth wearing a business suit and a top hat made out of newspaper for a fresh disguise. Whistling inconspicuously, he strolls away from the scene of the accident. He is still within earshot when Ool begins howling with vindictive scorn as he writhes on the cement with equal parts pain and anger.
“Friggin' bums! Mark my words, you haven't seen the last of Stanley Ool!”
Salinger stops whistling. He closes his eyes without breaking stride. He goes on trying to forget what he knows he'll remember.
___
Burdened with groceries, Salinger and his daughter enter their darkened apartment. He finds his way over to the kitchen table and sets down the groceries, then returns to the light switch next to the front door.
“So, finally, I said to Spielberg, 'Look, I'd love to make this happen, but I won't play second fiddle to some hack named Private Ryan.' And we haven't worked together since.”
Emily transfers the food items from a brown paper bag into the squeaking wooden cupboards. Taking a moment to gather her nerves, she turns to her father.
“Daddy, I was watching
MTV Cribs at Melissa's house the other day, and it got me thinking. If you're such a big movie star, then why do we live in a crummy apartment in Madison, Wisconsin?”
Salinger's body stiffens. Color drains from his face. He scratches his right side-burn, deep in thought and vulnerable.
“Well, Em...I'm a method actor, as you know, and for the past seven years, I've been researching the part of a low-income, divorced father.”
“Oh,” she says eventually.
“And someday soon...my painstaking research will pay off and--”
The phone rings. With relieved urgency, Salinger escapes the conversation and answers the phone on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Güten tag, Jeffrey. It was a grand show today, don't you think? Shall we call today's competition a draw?”
“You again? I don't believe this sh--”
He glances at his daughter listlessly unpacking groceries and then storms into his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him.
“
Shit. I don't believe this shit. I swear to God, if you're calling me from jail—“
“Nein, nein,” Brinkerhaus says, “You underestimate me, Jeffrey. To think that I could so easily be captured by the authorities.”
“Then how did you escape?”
“I posed as an instructor at the Boys and Girls Club and later fled before anyone was alerted that your silly laws require me to stay away from children.”
“Why are you calling me?”
Brinkerhaus sighs.
“Very well, I shall cut the chase in half, as we say colloquially. I know how much you Americans despise ties, the way you demand a clear-cut victor. For this reason, I'm quite sure you're every bit as distressed as I am that this morning our heated competition was thwarted by an unforeseen variable.”
Salinger stares unblinking into blank space and says nothing.
“Thus, I'm offering you a chance to exorcise the demons of your failed audition eight years ago. Meet me at nine tomorrow morning on State Street for a final confrontation.”
“'Final Confrontation?' For God's sake, I was almost arrested today! And the cop only let me go on the condition that 'No one gets hurt.'”
A pause from Brinkerhaus, and then, in a tired monotone, he says...
“And?”
“And then twenty minutes later, because of us, a guy got hit by a fucking bus! Thereby negating my conditional mercy from the cop. My God, it's no wonder Einstein fled your country. He was surrounded by idiots.”
“Jeffrey, I'd love to pause at length, reeling from the sting of that clever insult, but as my night-time minutes are rapidly diminishing, I must make this succinct. Before you dismiss the notion of a final confrontation, I implore you to turn on channel 46.”
“What is it?”
“It's—uh--let's see,” Brinkerhaus says, suppressing laughter, “It's two hot chicks making out or something. Be assured, it merits your attention.”
With that the line goes dead. Seconds later, Salinger lowers the cordless phone to his side, then tosses it onto the bed. He sighs and reaches slowly for the remote control resting on the nightstand.
“Two hot chicks making out, eh?” he deadpans.
He presses the On button and types in the numbers. The dim picture brightens little by little. On the screen, a group of ornery rednecks encircle a pony-tailed biker clad in a black leather jacket.
“This town don't take kindly to renegades, stranger,” says a mustachioed man in red flannel and a coonskin hunting hat.
Lorenzo Llamas twitches his eyebrow, surveying the bumpkins with chilled disdain.
“Wasn't looking for trouble,” he says with macho bravado.
“Well, it looks like you done found trouble,” says a burly southerner with tattooed biceps. After an elongated pause in which his stern countenance falters for a second, he is discreetly elbowed in the side by a fellow actor.
“
Stranger,” he adds.
The camera pans to the right. Salinger gasps at the sight of Brinkerhaus' gaunt, bony face, nearly ten years younger, disguised slightly by a cheap fake mustache.
“Yes. Big trouble indeed,” he says, his Southern accent leaving something to be desired.
An instant after he has delivered his line, a glass bottle wielded by Llamas shatters over his head. Brinkerhaus slumps to the ground as Llamas launches an onslaught of punishment against the hostile rednecks.
“Avenge me,” Brinkerhaus murmurs.
Inundated with disgust, Salinger turns off the television. He reaches for the telephone lying atop his bed. Bludgeoning the digits with his thumb, he dials his ex-fiancées phone number.
“'Big trouble indeed,'” he mocks, to himself. “What kind of hackneyed crap was that?”
Outside the bedroom, the sum total of Emily's doubt and curiosity has led her to cup an inquisitive ear against her father's bedroom door.
“Hey, Sarah? It's Jeff. Listen, do you remember that future favor you promised me—after the falling-out? Well, I'd like you to make good on it tomorrow. I need you to take care of Emily from eight until about eleven in the morning.”
Emily hears a barely audible hurried murmur on the other line.
“Why? Uh—because I've got to go to a singing telegram audition in Milwaukee. Pretty important stuff.”
Emily squints her eyes and wrinkles her nose, breathing heavily.
“You don't think so. Why not?” Salinger says, somewhat irritated.
His wife replies. A moment later, Salinger begins to fume.
“Tupperware party? You can't look after your own daughter for three hours because you're going to a damn
Tupperware party? Jesus, Sarah, you cheated on me with the Lamaze instructor and all I asked of you was
one fucking favor. And now you can't honor that because you're going to a
Tupperware party?”
This time Sarah's voice is quite audible. Terrified by the mounting tension and assailed by guilt for spying, Emily considers taking refuge in her bedroom, but the vitriol of the moment has left her paralyzed.
“Well, maybe I'd stop badgering you if you'd just be a
trooper for once!”
An exasperating delay ensues as Sarah chatters contritely on the other line. Salinger at last replies, this time in an unexpectedly pleasant tone.
“Really? So you'll do it, then? Great. Outstanding. I'll drop her off at eight in the morning, all right? Sarah? Are you there?”
Emily lurks outside the bedroom for a second too long. The door is pulled open with swift urgency and her father appears, not noticing her at once, instead bickering to himself.
“Nobody says goodbye anymore...”
He locks eyes with his daughter. Flustered and ashamed, she inches away from the doorway, vainly conveying the air of a casual and unassuming little girl.
“Hey,” Salinger says, forcing an unconvincing laugh. “How long have you been standing there?”
Her typically pale cheeks flushed crimson, Emily's gaze darts from her father back to the floor.
“Me? Oh, not long. Not long at all.”
With an uncharacteristically cold stare, Salinger takes in the sight of his daughter, stewing quietly in suspicion. Abruptly, he smiles with tightly pursed lips.
“Well,” he says, “It looks like you'll be spending some time with your mother tomorrow morning.”
Emily has wandered a few paces into the haven of her bedroom. Craning her neck into the hallway, her feet planted three feet from the threshold, she has, for the moment, the posture of a downhill skier. She grips the open door frame with tightly clenched knuckles.
“Okay,” she says.
Salinger pauses, his forehead crinkled as if troubled and deep in thought.
“Well, sweetie, I may be starring alongside of Nathan Lane in a kitschy musical called
Singing Telegram. The audition is in Milwaukee tomorrow morning. Keep your fingers crossed.”
Emily reassures her father with a simple, noncommittal nod.
“Good night, daddy.”
She hurries to shut the door, but Salinger hastily speaks up.
“You know, Em, Nathan Lane is gay, too.”
“Yeah, I already knew that. Good night.”
She smiles a nervous twitch of a smile. Doing a lousy job of concealing her eagerness, she closes her bedroom door.
Salinger stands listlessly in that same spot for awhile. He balls up his fist and raises it high in front of Emily's bedroom door as if to knock, then lowers his fist to the side. He slugs himself lightly three times on the hip. He exhales deeply, scratches his sideburns one at a time with brusque intent, and walks into his bedroom.
___
Outside of Pipefitter's, Salinger paces the sidewalk. His daughter stands nearby, inert, her shoulders slumped. Salinger peers in through the front window. A clock on the wall reads 8:30; plastic joints substitute the traditional hour/ minute hands. Salinger shoves against the glass and addresses his daughter.
“She'll be here soon.”
Emily has nothing to say. Salinger persists, completely aware that this is not going well.
“So. You excited about...playing Mouse Trap with your mom?”
“No. The little plastic cage is missing, so you can never catch the mouse. It can just wander the board with impunity.”
“'Impunity'? You're starting to use big words, just like a guy I know.”
“Yeah? Which guy?”
A joyless laugh escapes from Salinger.
“Which guy, you ask? Oh, the guy I'm referring to is none other than...drum-roll--”
Here he pantomimes a drum-roll, mimics the sound.
“Forget it,” Emily says, waving him off.
With that, a purple Cadillac rounds the nearby corner. As the car approaches, Salinger sees his ex-fiancée's face take on the look of a melted candle. Sarah wrestles with the rear-view mirror, wipes tears from her eyes, smears makeup. She groans, shrugs, and gets out of the car.
Salinger summons the cardboard charm of Ward Cleaver.
“By golly, it's your
mom!”
He winces as he says this last word, jarred by the savage force of the car door being shut. He places a hand on Emily's shoulder and gestures to Sarah's mascara-streamed cheeks.
“Look how happy she is to see you.”
“What?” Sarah says, taken aback. “No, it's not that. There was a Barry Manilow tearjerker on the radio. I guess Barry got the best of me.”
Nodding vacantly, Salinger's hand slinks off its perch.
“Since when do you listen to Barry Manilow?”
“
Some of us have changed over the years.”
“You have a Sublime tattoo on your lower back.”
“I had that
removed.”
She turns around and lifts her midriff a tad to prove it. She doesn't smile or say a word as the moment drudges along.
“I didn't mean to be late. Traffic was dreadful.”
“Hey, that's okay,” Salinger says. “We've enjoyed the wait. It's a colorful neighborhood.”
Two stoners exit Pipefitter's—the same guys who mistakenly went to the gay bar. One carries a tall paper bag capped by a glass tube. The stoner with stumpy dreads offers a high-five to Emily as he walks by.
“Yeah! You're down with the wake-and-bake, aren't ya?”
Salinger swipes at the stoners as they dart away, laughing. Sarah scowls at Salinger as he regathers himself and crouches down to Emily's eye-level.
“They were talking about waking up and baking brownies is all. Okay. I'll be back in no time, Em.”
Emily nods imperceptibly. Their eyes are still locked when Salinger pulls away, headed to his car. He balks for a moment and then waves to Sarah.
“Thanks.”
Mother and daughter stay quiet as Salinger starts his car and drives off. They watch him round the corner and pass out of view behind a liquor store. Sarah faces Emily, leans down, and squeezes her kneecaps tensely.
“Emily! Do you like seaweed wraps?”
“No, that sounds awful.”
“No?”
She looks around the neighborhood for some sort of alternative. Liquor stores and pawn shops outnumber bookstores and antique shops and no one she spots in the hackey-sack circle down the street seems to be going anywhere in life.
“All right. All right. How about some..trampoline-ball, or
dodge-ball or something like that?”
“Dodge-ball over seaweed, I guess.”
Sarah nods several times and grins miserably.
“OK,” Sarah says. “Plan-B it is.”
An empty spot in the lot at AK-47 Heaven is filled by Salinger's Mazda. He parks and reaches into the backseat for a change of clothes, a haphazard bundle of tattered and dirty shirts, shoes, socks, and shorts. He digs and peruses through the bundle for the right ensemble, disrobes skillfully within the close quarters, and dresses himself with the same ease. He exits the car dressed in raggedy shorts the length of Larry Bird's and a heavily duct-taped tank-top. He glares at the overcast sky as he goes through the back door of the place.
Like a dog on the jock of his master, Kickbush waddles over to Salinger. He's dressed in a gray sweat-suit. Around his neck hangs a tin whistle that flashes like Tinkerbell when the light hits it just right. He checks out Salinger's clothing and nods his approval.
“Mornin', champ. Nothing flashy, today, eh? I like it.”
“Did you just call me
champ?”
Kickbush smiles and reaches for a nearby flyer.
“Sure did. These flyers have been scattered all over the neighborhood. I'm telling ya, champ, that Nazi ninny don't stand a chance.”
Salinger snatches the flyer and reads it crossly.
“'Saturday, May 28th: Wet t-shirt contest outside the Boys and Girls Club on State Street. Competition starts at nine a.m.'”
“Naw, read the fine print below that—way at the bottom of the page.”
With a mighty, face-compressed squint, Salinger brings the flyer within inches of his nose.
“'And then two homeless men compete.'”
Salinger tosses aside the flyer and points at Kickbush's whistle.
“What the hell is that for?”
Suddenly bashful, Kickbush tugs on his whistle-necklace.
“Oh, I was just hoping I could be your coach for some pre-game calisthenics. Maybe blow my whistle every time you do a push-up. Encourage you to crap thunder. That sort of thing.”
“You don't have to do that.”
“Oh,” Kickbush murmurs.
The dejected old man lowers his head. He revives once he recalls what the glass he placed on the counter-top. It is filled with the burnt orange slime of raw eggs.
“Well, then at least gulp down these eggs I cracked.”
“I'd rather not.”
“Come on. It'll give you the protein boost you need to beat that German sum-bitch.”
“I don't want to drink it.”
“Five bucks. I'll give you five bucks. Please. Gulp the damn egg.”
“No!”
On the brink of a tirade, Kickbush clacks his boot against the floor-tiles at the rate of a jackhammer.
“OK, five bucks
and a health-care plan!”
“Deal.”
He snatches the glass from his boss's grasp and chokes down the raw eggs. Salinger gags and doubles over, gets in a tangle with his gag reflex but prevails. He extends his hand. Kickbush hands over the five-dollar-bill.
“It was worth it,” Kickbush says.
“I agree,” Salinger says.
He pockets the cash and strides out the front door. Across the street, he spots Brinkerhaus, who is surrounded by a small crowd of male spectators. Some chain-smoke, others sip from flasks, and all of them search around with lecherous intrigue. Brinkerhaus is wearing the Jesus wig he had on yesterday.
“At last, my archenemy has arrived. Jeffrey, say hello to my throng of confidants. They've gathered to gape at your demise.”
Groveling resounds throughout the group. They don't comprehend or care. A horny spectator raises his voice.
“What kind of a wet t-shirt contest
is this? It's five after nine and I still ain't seen no soakin' nips!”
Brinkerhaus exerts a tortured sigh.
“Very well. We shall get to the preliminaries. KITTY!”
A buxom brunette clad in a white tank-top emerges from a nearby back alley. She darts past the men, narrowly avoiding gropes. She sidles next to Brinkerhaus timidly and flutters her eyelashes. The men hoot and holler like the studio audience from
Married with Children.
Gentlemen, this is Kitty. As you see, she has over-sized breasts of dubious authenticity. Her turn-ons include promiscuous sex with men...”
At this, the deadbeats cheer tepidly. Brinkerhaus rolls his eyes.
“Or, if you prefer:
women. Fine. She is a both-way swinger.”
At this, the deadbeats roar their approval.
“By contrast, her turn-offs include people with high school diplomas and blah-blah-blah.”
He hands a five-dollar-bill to Kitty and then bends over to pick up a jug of water. With a bored expression, he presents the jug to the onlookers and proceeds to douse Kitty's chest. He looks away as he does so. To the delight of the crowd, jumps up and down and pumps her fists passionately. Perhaps the most esteemed man in the bunch, a Japanese tourist, moves in closer with a hand-held camera to get the lusty footage.
“Yes. Very good,” Brinkerhaus says. “Well, my confidants, today we have certainly seen some quote 'soakin nips.' But as today's lone competitor, Kitty clearly stands out above the rest. She is your champion, you pillow-humping misogynists.”
The men cheer uproariously.
Across the street, Kickbush quietly admires the girl. Joyful tears swell in his eyes.
“My little angel's made her daddy the proudest man on Earth,” he says.
Across the street, his daughter seeks a generous tip. She holds out an open palm and nudges Brinkerhaus, who whirls around and accidentally catches sight of the soaked imprint of her nipples. He shrieks and covers his eyes. With his other hand, he reaches into his pocket for spare change and tosses coins at her.
“There. That's more than you were promised. Now be gone!”
Indignant and infuriated, she slugs him on the arm and stomps away. Her folded arms cover her chest. She is pursued by a few perverts, but most stay put, reasoning they don't stand a chance at fucking her, anyway.
Brinkerhaus scowls at Salinger as he rubs his aching arm.
“And now, Jeffrey, the main event commences. We meet again— not unlike Goliath and KITT in the season-two finale of
Knight Rider.”
“Let's get this over with.”
Brinkerhaus nods. The two engage in a cold stare-down as they rotate positions until they're poised in front of their appropriate buildings. Half the crowd shuffles over to AK-47 Heaven. Brinkerhaus calls out.
“When I count to three, the competition begins. The next pedestrian to enter either of our jurisdictions shall be volleyed from sidewalk to sidewalk. The winner is the man who permanently vanquishes his pedestrian across the street. Alles klar, Jeffrey?”
Salinger nods.
“One,” Brinkerhaus says.
Salinger intertwines his fingers and stretches his hands forward. He listens to the knuckles crack.
“Two.”
The crowd looks on, riveted and confused. The Japanese tourist pans back and forth from Salinger to Brinkerhaus. State Street is hushed until a girl's voice is heard. She stands outside the entrance of the Boys and Girls Club, behind Salinger.
“Daddy. Is that you?”
Salinger's face turns the color of a surrendering flag. Dread and shame consume him as he inches 180-degrees and faces his daughter. Making and maintaining eye-contact is excruciating for Salinger. She wrinkles her nose as she scrutinizes his raggedy clothes.
“What's going on?” she asks.
“Hey, Em,” Salinger says through quivering lips. “Shouldn't you be with your mom?”
“Sarah dropped me off a little while ago. Seaweed for her, dodge-ball for me.”
Seconds pass by.
“Oh,” Salinger says.
More seconds pass by.
“You didn't answer my question.”
Salinger scrapes all his fingernails against both of his sideburns. From the crowd he overhears whispers and snickers.
“Well, that Nathan Lane collaboration fizzled, so I came here to do a side-project...”
As he trails off, he notices the Japanese tourist recording them. Salinger gets inspired to bullshit some more.
“Did you get that last shot, Hideo? The one of me cracking my knuckles, staring straight ahead?”
The man falsely called Hideo frowns. He peers out from behind the camera lens.
“Understand very little English...”
To this, Salinger claps his hands in celebration.
“Beautiful! We got it. Okay. Let's take five, people.”
Salinger struts over to a rat-faced onlooker and shakes his unsuspecting hand. He winks at the stranger and slips him the five-spot he got from Kickbush.
“Pleasure working with you, Daniel. I see big things for you in show business.”
The guy pockets the cash and plays along.
“Uh, thanks, Mister...”
“Salinger.”
“Right. Salamander.”
This desperate charade is interrupted by Brinkerhaus. He grins wolfishly as he strolls over to the Boys and Girls Club, shaking his head the whole way there.
“Oh, Jeffrey, Jeffrey, Jeffrey. Your daughter is the apple of your sunshine, and yet you deceive her so chronically.”
“You stay out of this,” Salinger hisses.
Undeterred, Brinkerhaus kneels before Emily.
“Little one, do you
really wish to know why your daddy is here today?”
She neither shakes her head nor nods as she takes a step back. With a devilish twitch of his eyebrows, Brinkerhaus puts his hand on her shoulder.
“
Well. I shall tell you nevertheless.”
With a surge of rage, Salinger steps between the two. His fists are clenched, readied.
“Get away from her.”
Brinkerhaus rises to his feet, towers over his adversary.
“You wish to shelter her forever, but such a thing cannot be done.”
Salinger initiates the shoving, which is returned by Brinkerhaus and his lanky reach. Salinger reels backward, keeps his footing, and charges forward. He swats past outstretched arms and lands a right-cross against the gaunt jawbone of Sven Brinkerhaus.
“Asshole,” Salinger says.
He turns instinctively to Emily as the German stoops to one knee.
“Don't swear.”
Brinkerhaus capitalizes with a full-circle spin of his right leg; he strikes Salinger's ankle and sweeps him off his feet. Salinger's elbows crack against the concrete. He howls and gnashes his teeth. Brinkerhaus pounces, goes horizontal for a moment, and flails a punch on his decent. Salinger jerks his head to the side. The punch grazes his cheek and pounds the sidewalk.
“Shei§e-Kopf!”
Salinger rolls atop the cussing German, vices him in a headlock.
Meanwhile, a pedestrian approaches from down the street. One arm braced in a sling, this morning he walks with newfound purpose. He has found his smile, at long last, but it is a wicked one. He walks with a limp that has been with him since yesterday.
Emily screams protests that get lost in the chaos. The spectators left over from the wet t-shirt contest have found the main event worthwhile. They drown out the girl's objections with the same hooting and hollering they gave Kitty. Brinkerhaus struggles to get to his feet and rams an elbow into his opponent's ribcage. Salinger snarls and almost loses grip of the hold.
“I met your father in Los Angeles!” Brinkerhaus shouts to Emily. “At an audition!”
Salinger regains his grip, wrenches his rival away from her. They do an about-face in tandem, Brinkerhaus with his head grafted to Salinger's side, the men looking like conjoined twins out to destroy each other.
They see Stanley Ool coming at the exact same time. Their faces go slack. Four eyes pop out. Terror makes the two men one and the same. Salinger relinquishes the headlock. Stanley Ool holds a gun in his good hand and aims it at Salinger's chest.
“Friggin' bums!” Ool shouts.
The horror gives way to an eerie calm as Salinger shifts his gaze to his Emily. She's looking back at him and he feels gratitude in that moment. He feels at peace finally. He has his perfect line memorized.
“I'm sorry,” he says.
Ool squeezes the trigger. Salinger winces. And that's the end of his moment of clarity.
No shot is fired. Salinger's is slow to realize this. His wince slowly un-scrunches. He opens his eyes and sees Ool peering down the barrel of the gun.
“Huh. Darn thing must be jammed.”
With a look of impotent longing, his eyes dart from Salinger to Brinkerhaus. Ool turns to the spectators.
“Say, do any of you happen to have a switchblade?”
They all shake their heads no and mutter apologies.
“Shucks.”
From across the street, Kickbush approaches the scene. He's shaking his head, too, out of pity.
“What a disgrace,” Kickbush says.
He snatches the gun from Ool's hand and inspects it. Ool puts up no fight. He hangs his head.
“Can't say I'm surprised,” Kickbush says. “Made in Armenia? You gotta be shittin' me. If you want a real firearm, follow me to AK-47 Heaven.”
He sympathetically drapes an arm around the psycho's neck and ushers him into the gun shop. Salinger is the next to shake his head.
“That man just tried to kill us,” he calls to Kickbush. “And now you're trying to sell him a gun.”
The military man pauses at the threshold of his business, pushes Ool inside. He flashes his stained-teeth smile.
“Relax. If he really is dangerous, he'll have to wait a whole week.”
Salinger puckers his lips as if munching a lemon. He then nods, unsurprised by everything by now.
“I quit,” he says.
Kickbush spits, gazes down, and considers things. He winds up nodding, too.
“Maybe it's for the best. Hell, I couldn't afford that health care plan, anyway.”
Brinkerhaus raises his hand eagerly.
“Are you hiring? I left my resumé at the Motel 6!”
“Perfect!” Kickbush replies. “Bring it in and the job's yours.” He shuts the door behind him.
With that the German leaps for joy. He points at Salinger and taunts him for the last time.
“My triumph!”
Brinkerhaus runs wildly in the direction of the nearest Motel 6. Salinger doesn't bother watching him pass out of view. He turns to Emily. She runs to him. They throw their arms around each other with a love so strong that it squeezes tears out of them. The crowd around them disperses. Everything bad feels like it has gone away until Salinger opens his eyes. Life comes back. He starts to worry again, but he knows what to do next.
“Let's go home,” he says.
He grabs her hand and they walk very slowly side-by-side.
“Didn't you drive here?”
“Yeah. We'll hoof it. I parked too close to maniacs with guns.”
“Why did you say you were sorry? I mean, it was better than 'eat your vegetables,' but...did you really think that was the last thing I wanted to hear from you?”
They continue their stroll down State Street. Salinger has a ginger gait in his step, but he holds no grudge against his bruises. It's hardly a nice day, but the Sun stands a chance of breaking through a gap in the dark, massive clouds above them.
“I have hunch what you're hinting at, Em. You're right. But before we get to the sappy stuff, I have to tell you a story. OK?”
“OK.”
“Before your time, in the mid-'90s, there was a show on cable-TV called
Renegade. And even though it was awful—like all of us—I had to start
somewhere...”
