The Coaster (3 page)

“I'll have John call you.”

“Great. Or have him e-mail me.” I much prefer to deal with people I'm trying to avoid by e-mail. It's a lot easier to craft the perfect turndown of their invitation in an e-mail than it is on the phone. I can slow the game down. There's no quick thinking required.

Karen moved off and we made our way through the crowd.

***

Once I'm seated at dinner, I can easily converse with my tablemates, no matter who they are, but I'm terrible at making casual “cocktail hour” conversation. I'm reasonably comfortable among people I know well and people I don't know at all. I'm most uncomfortable among people I should know but really don't or can't remember. Like everyone at tonight's party.

The best minglers are the confident types who don't hyperventilate upon entering the joint. They casually go from one person to the next, knowing all the names and conjuring up the perfect comment for each encounter. They remember a connector for each new person. Maybe it's something about their kids or their job or a charity thing they are working on, but whatever it is, it's GOOD.

The frustrating thing about all these events is they never change. As she always does, my wife continued to greet and converse with people with whom I was only vaguely familiar. I stood, dumbly, behind and beside her, reading the “program” for the auction items as though it contained the escape route out of this hellhole. We encountered a fat middle-aged woman in what looked like a low-cut, flowered housecoat but was probably a designer gown that cost five thousand dollars. She topped it all off with dyed red hair, the kind people used to think was sexy when they talked about dating a redhead.

Sarah said, “Sheila, have you met my husband?”

Sarah turned to me. “Bob, this is Sheila Banks. She got us those excellent tickets when we took the kids to
Wicked.
” Then to Sheila, “Bob cried like a schoolgirl when he thought both witches were dead.”

I gave Sarah the evil eye and stuck out my hand. “Pleased to meet you.” When we're at these kinds of events, Sarah says or does things all night long that make me cringe, but criticizing her would be like a fan in the upper deck bitching about Peyton Manning.

I had no recollection of Sheila or the play. “The play was great, thanks!” By this point, I was actually sweating on the crown of my head. I could feel it start to pool and I feared a drip might cascade down my nose, causing someone to ask me if I was feeling all right. We moved on into the party, Sarah excited and talkative, me socially exhausted after ten minutes.

***

Reading from my scripted list of the first fifteen plays of the “game,” number one is always straight for the bar. But it's a Catch-22. I need immediate cocktails to get through the evening, but the line at the bar is a horror of acquaintances who might challenge me on any number of topics that I'm totally unequipped to respond to. I managed to untangle myself from Sarah and Sheila, who had no doubt been having a fascinating conversation of which I had heard not one word. At this point I would've crawled through broken glass for a scotch and water.

The guy at the end of the line looked kind of familiar from behind, but then everyone at these events looks the same. Custom tuxedoes in basic black, hundred-dollar haircuts or completely shaved heads, expensive watches. I couldn't even pick myself out of a group photo. He turned around and stuck out his hand.

“How are you, sir?” he said. The “sir” is an obvious clue that he doesn't know my name either.

Who the hell was this guy? I went into the storage room in my brain to search through the various file cabinets and drawers of my mind. The place was filled with stacks of manila file folders, haphazardly torn-out sheets from yellow legal pads, and post-it notes. I tossed the room like a drug dealer looking for his stolen coke. Finally, it came to me. He was from the club. Mark or Brad or one of those names that doesn't fit once you get over a certain age. And he was definitely over it.

“Not bad,” I said and shook his hand with my best approximation of a friendly smile. “Thought I'd find you near the bar.” Har har. I always find it's best to act like whoever you're talking to is a real booze hound, especially when you really
are
always at the bar. It turns the focus back on them and includes them as one of the fun guys in a room full of stiffs.

I recalled I had been in Mark/Brad's foursome a couple of years ago in one of those club tournaments where you're paired up randomly with other members. I made about a fifty-foot putt on the last hole that allowed us to finish in the money. And by “in the money” I mean a twenty-five-dollar gift certificate to the pro shop, which might buy you a sleeve of Titleists or a pair of socks but certainly not both. It was also a scramble where everybody plays each shot from the same spot, so I'd already seen the putt three times. People hole tons of putts during scrambles. You have to shoot like ten under par to win one. And it was still just blind luck. Nevertheless, I was doomed from that day forward to discuss it with Brad/Mark every time I saw him for the rest of our lives, mostly because we had nothing else to say to each other.

I waited for it.

“That was some putt you made on eighteen the last time we played.”

“Never up, never in,” I said, which is a golfing phrase about not leaving putts short that gets a snicker whenever you say it because it sounds dirty. Mark/Brad responded with the appropriate chuckle and I knew we would eventually repeat this conversation verbatim every afternoon during bingo at the Shady Acres Rest Home. By that time, it would rarely be up again for either of us, and almost certainly never in.

To change the subject from something to nothing, I asked, “What are you drinking?”

“Oh,” he smiled, “Bud Light.”

“Excellent. I'll buy.”

“Thanks,” he said with genuine gratitude and then realized it was an open bar. “I'll get you next time.” This is what passes for banter for the modern American male. It's like someone in your office who likes to say “Let me buy you a cup of coffee” as he pours you a mug out of the community pot. It was lame, but when in Rome…

“How's the family?” I asked to fill the void. Before he answered, I saw my old buddy Lang swimming near the bar and made a lunge for him like he was the last helicopter out of Saigon. I pulled Lang into line as Brad/Mark swallowed his reply and turned to place his order. I now had a life preserver to stand next to in the bar line and I wasn't going to let him do the polite thing and get us into a tiresome three-way conversation.

“I've got a serious legal question for you,” I said to Lang and then leaned in and whispered in a voice too low for anyone else to hear, “Just babble on about
res ipsa loquitur
and
habeas corpus
and shit until this guy gets his drink.” Lang, an attorney, can filibuster with the best of them and before we knew it we were at the front of the line. I ordered two shots of tequila and two scotch and waters.

I turned to Lang. “You want anything?” He just laughed.

It's not exactly the Algonquin Round Table around here, but I do what I can. I didn't specify a brand because at a function like this they only offer one choice and it's always plenty good enough for me.

Lang and I threw back our shots and wandered off into the party with our drinks. The night began to hit its stride and became tolerable like all the others. Alcohol and a safety pal always get the job done.

***

Dan Langham and I have been friends for over twenty years, since we met as incoming freshmen pledges in the Phi Fakea Namea fraternity house. Lang was one of those guys who would change his personality with every new fad. As a freshman, he was kind of a nerd at first, but when he came back for the second semester he was really into music. I think he had a couple of months where he was leading the fraternity Bible study (not a huge group) because he was dating a super-religious girl. For a while he was a granola-eating hippie/liberal, and now he makes Bill O'Reilly look like Sean Penn. We weren't really good friends, we just shared the bond of people who have been subjected to the same hazing rituals.

Then Lang graduated to his drinking stage. This was my one and only college stage, so fortunately when he finally decided to make the move, I was available to work closely with him. In pretty short order, he was a passable drinking companion. Not great—you wouldn't want it to be just you and him—but he helped fill out the group. Lang was what the baseball stats guys call replacement level. If you brought up the next guy in line from Triple A, he'd be about as good.

One of my guiding principles in life is that people don't fundamentally change, but Lang could do it. He had completely reinvented himself several times. I was impressed. Who wouldn't want to reinvent himself? I know I would.

Late in the evening, when the crowd was beginning to thin a little, Lang found me out on the balcony smoking a cigarette I had bummed from a waitress. In the old days there would have been twenty people out there. Tonight it was just me.

“You'll never guess who's here.”

“You're right. I won't.”

“Let me give you a hint.
Don't worry, that's a one-way window
.”

I almost spit out my drink. “Corny's here? And I've spent all night talking to upstanding citizens? What the hell is he doing here?”

“Let's go find out.”

***

Dave “Corny” Cornwallis was another fraternity brother. Most frat guys aren't really like the guys you see stealing the nerds' girlfriends in teen comedies, but Corny actually was. He was right out of central casting for Fraternity Asshole. He was the first guy I knew who did coke, who got into real fights, and who would gladly perform any sexual act in front of the whole house. One night Corny talked a girl into having sex in the laundry room in front of half the fraternity. He told her you could only see out the window, not in, and she believed him.

I followed Lang to a back bar that I hadn't known was there. How did I miss a whole bar? There was a group of three or four early-thirties
American Psycho
types surrounding a slightly older guy who had their rapt attention.

“And the woman says,
You're Thor? I'm tho thore I can hardly pith
.” Raucous laughter, drinks spilled, backs slapped, the whole nine yards. Corny joined in the laughter at his own joke. When he looked up, he spotted us and broke into a huge grin. “It's like a goddamn fraternity party in here! I'd give you losers the secret handshake if I could remember what it was.”

Corny separated himself from the crowd and joined Lang and me leaning on a stand-up table. We swapped old stories for a while and at some point, Lang said, “You know, Bob, Corny's doing some business with Sarah's dad.”

Corny was making big deals with
my
father-in-law? Shouldn't that be me? “Good for you, Corny. Who did you screw to get into that league?”

“That list is too long to enumerate, Bobby,” Corny said. “But it's not what you know, it's who you know, and the people I know swim in the same waters as Sam.”

“That doesn't explain how you get to swim with them. Why are you here tonight?”

“You gotta come down and kiss the ring before the business gets done.” Corny looked at his watch. “Listen, Bobby, I've got to run. There's a cocktail waitress at my hotel with my name on her. But I'll be back in town in a couple weeks. Let's get together and I'll tell you all about it.”

***

“Did you see Corny tonight?” I asked Sarah as we undressed for bed. I was out of my clothes like I was wearing a tear-away tuxedo. With a little help from me, Sarah managed to extricate herself from her gown, a job originally designed to be handled by a team of courtesans and ladies-in-waiting.

“No, but I heard he was there,” she said. “I wasn't really looking for a reunion with him. Frankly, I'm kind of embarrassed you still like to hang around him. He's such an asshole.”

“I wouldn't want to see him every day, but he's still a fun guy to run into. Hell, he told me he's working with your dad on something. He can't be
that
bad.”

“What could Daddy possibly be doing with him? We need to tell him to back away from whatever Corny is selling.”

“I don't want to screw Corny's deal up for him. Your father doesn't need any help from us. He knows what he's doing.”

***

The telephone rang early the next morning. Sarah answered from bed in an I'm-doing-a-poor-job-of-masking-that-I-was-just-awakened-from-REM-sleep voice.

“Hi, Mom.”

I pulled the pillow over my head so I couldn't hear what I assumed would be a recap of last night's activities, including analysis of my possibly inappropriate behavior. But there was none of that.

Sarah always has something to say, but she was eerily silent. Finally, she said.”How did it happen?” and then listened some more. By now I was on full alert and I tried to catch her eye but it was like she was catatonic. A blank stare.

“I'll be right there.” Sarah hung up the phone. She looked at me and said in a flat voice, “Daddy had a heart attack last night. Mom couldn't wake him up this morning. He's dead.”

I held my arms out and she fell into me, her chest heaving with great sobs of anguish. Despite the fact I need her more than she needs me, my manly instinct to protect her kicked in and I felt helpless. All I could do was whisper “I am so sorry” over and over until the spasms finally subsided.

Chapter Four

A young death is tragic. An old death is just the cycle of life. Nature makes an elderly death tolerable because it's simply the order of things. The body deteriorates, the memory goes. There's even occasional joy in reminiscing over a life well-lived. But there's no joy at the death of a child or a young parent. A human being could hardly go on if every death was as devastating as the death of a young person close to you. Sam's death was in between.

Sarah should have been able to slowly say goodbye to her father as he gradually aged. Sam worked his ass off his whole life. He deserved to enjoy the fruits of his labors in retirement and die peacefully in his sleep. And his daughter deserved a “he lived a good long life” send-off for her father. Hell, Sam was still more active and productive than I am in my prime.

The next week was a blur. Sam's death wasn't only a loss for our family, but the entire community. Every would-be power broker in town, minor and major, wanted to be seen expressing their condolences personally. We had so many comfort dishes of lasagna and tuna casserole in the refrigerator, we had to start giving them away. We were exhausted. It was the first time I've ever looked forward to a funeral. I was hoping Sarah and her mother could finally get out of the public eye and grieve in peace once it was over.

It seemed like half the community told Sarah they were praying for her. Should you tell someone you're praying for them even if you're really not? I realize it's supposed to make the other person feel better. But what if they're counting on that prayer? Some people really do organize groups and apparently believe prayer's benefits are cumulative, the more the better, like maybe it needs to be loud enough for God to hear, or there's some minimum caring threshold that you have to hurdle before God will listen to your prayers.
What a pathetic effort, St. Peter.
This guy could only get twenty-seven people to pray for his life? Let's give the miracle to someone else. If only a couple of those no-shows had come through…
That just makes no sense to me. Either God cares or He doesn't. It's not an
American Idol
vote. And in this case it was too late anyway. Sam was already dead.

It's not that I don't want to believe in something. It's that I don't understand how anyone does. Give me a sign, any sign. An oral history of a couple of “miracles” that happened two thousand years ago isn't going to cut it.

***

Sam's funeral was held in an enormous church of some denomination or another. Presbyterian, maybe. You'd think I'd be familiar with this particular church because my wife and I got married here twenty years ago, but that memory is a haze for me.

I hadn't seen the minister much since my wedding. His name was Jonathon Wright. His most interesting feature was his utter blandness, which I think is the main requirement for the job. If you had a lot of passion for something, you would never be a minister. They're not like priests, who have so much heavenly zeal they're willing to remain celibate—at least the heterosexual non-pedophiles are. A vow of celibacy takes a real commitment to God. But a minister is just a guy. He's married. He has missionary sex once a week like everybody else. The church is just a job to him. He could just as easily have been a teacher or a middle manager in a big company.

Wright had wire-framed glasses a little too big for current fashion, and brown hair parted on the side, a little too long for my tastes, like a guy trying to look youthful so he could relate to “the kids,” which he could not. He was too friendly in a mild and inoffensive way, the kind of person who won't leave you alone even though you have nothing to say to him. Frankly, Sam never liked him much and mentioned it every time his name came up. But there was no one else to handle a service of this magnitude.

The Rev was a little more animated than usual because this had to be a huge opportunity for him. Sam was a big deal in this town. The minister was like a D.A. who got a high-profile murder case or a local reporter who happened on the scene of a tragedy. He was going to milk this for all the publicity he could get. If people found out a bigwig like Sam went to church here, maybe some other high rollers who needed a few charitable write-offs would give it a try. The collection box doesn't fill itself every week.

Sarah's an only child, so for purposes of providing the minister something to say about a man he barely knew, the “family” was only the two of us and her mother. The three of us sat down on a couch in what I assumed was the nave, since most of my church knowledge comes from crossword puzzles. Sarah was between me and her mother. They were both holding tissues and sniffling, but not crying openly at the moment. Wright sat across from us and leaned forward.

“If there is anything any of us here at the church can do to help you at this difficult time, please don't hesitate to ask.” We nodded and he continued. “Now if you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a few questions to help me prepare my remarks. Do you have any favorite stories about Sam? Did he have any hobbies he was particularly passionate about? Did he have some distinctive personality traits I should mention?”

I hate it when the minister pretends he had a relationship with the deceased by sprinkling a few specifics he learned from the family into his generic sermon. It's no different from a hack comedian who uses the same jokes in every city but changes the name in the punch line to the local mayor or sports team. Why fake it? Who cares if you didn't know him? You're not fooling anybody. Just admit it and give your best funeral speech. But I didn't say that. I didn't say anything. I wanted whatever Sam's wife and daughter wanted.

***

As the service started, I left Sarah and her mother and went to the back of the church to meet up with the other pallbearers. It was a who's who of the titans of industry in our city. And me, the lucky son of a bitch who married the deceased's daughter. I was also the only one under seventy, so I was worried I might have to pretty much carry the damn thing all by myself. And this wasn't some cheap, easy-to-lift coffin. The funeral director recommended a solid mahogany model with a bunch of special features and assured us that Sarah's father would be comfortable. I wanted to say,
“You understand he's dead, right? He's not going to be living in there like
I Dream of Jeannie
. We're going to bury him in it underground.”
This coffin was nicer than my car.

Fortunately someone realized that five old men and one middle-aged man in country club shape were not going to be able to carry a coffin the size of a school bus. The coffin was sitting on some kind of wheeled contraption and we were able to guide it down to the front of the church with no trouble. I shook the hands of the other pallbearers, who each gave me a look that said “Goodbye, family fortune.” Or maybe the look said “I'm sorry for your loss.” I couldn't tell. I sat down in the front row next to Sarah and the kids.

The church was packed with mourners. Everyone who was anyone in our city was at this funeral, plus all the people angling to become someone. They even set up several extra rooms where people could watch the proceedings on video monitors. There had to be at least a thousand people in the church and I heard many more were turned away.

Reverend Wright approached the podium and began to speak. “Our Lord, we come into your presence this day to mourn the passing of Samuel Bennett, grandfather, father, brother, and husband. We are also gathered here today to give thanks for the life of Samuel Bennett, whose time on earth was a blessing to us all. We have come to honor a life well-lived, a life that has touched many and served even more. We come to be comforted in our sorrow and pray that your spirit would cover us with peace that passes understanding. We know that just as you walked with Samuel throughout his entire life, you are walking with him now in his new home, his true heavenly home. We are here today to celebrate the passage that Samuel has made into the greater wholeness, the loving arms of God.”

When I was a kid, a teenager who was a family friend killed himself over the Christmas holidays, the worst thing you could do to your parents unless you took a couple of siblings with you. But at the funeral, the minister suggested the deceased was happy now that he was spending Christmas with God. Excellent holiday message for the kids: suicide is the answer.

***

The minister gave way to Sam's oldest friend, Henry Miller, a golfing buddy and fellow pillar of our financial community. Miller was choking back the tears, but he was the kind of guy who could give an eloquent, off-the-cuff speech in his sleep, and he regaled the crowd with stories of Sam's generous spirit.

“Sam Bennett grew up poor, but he was raised to believe that if you worked hard enough and smart enough, you could achieve anything. And that's what he did. But he never forgot what it was like to be poor and he used all of his success to create for others the same kinds of opportunities he'd received. Sam's philanthropic efforts have raised literally tens of millions of dollars for…”

Sam truly was a great man. He started with nothing and look at all he accomplished. And I was born with the world at my feet and what have I ever done? How many lives have I touched? What would people say at my funeral?

Of course, when someone dies at my age, everyone always speculates about the reason. In my case, I'm sure they'd have a town meeting to discuss it.
Was he still smoking? He's always been overweight. Was it drugs? I'll bet it was drugs!

Sam's passing isn't a murder investigation. We don't need to find the identity of the killer. Just extend sympathies to the family and shut the fuck up.

Obviously, Sam was of a previous generation, but I'd been attending a lot of funerals lately, including people my age or even younger. The older you get, the more you encounter death on an increasingly regular basis. Every year your group gets smaller. Eventually you're either going to be dead or the only one left.