There's Something I Want You to Do (19 page)

—

All night Benny fought the beast of jealous rage, and he drank. Four a.m. found him in a whiskey stupor, lying on the floor in his apartment, cursing Nan and contemplating creative bedlam.

By morning, he had acquired an atom-smashing headache. His brain was a particle accelerator, throwing off broken pieces of thought. He emptied the savings account meant to pay off his student loans, transporting the cash out of the bank in a brown grocery bag he’d brought with him. The oversaturated sunlight blazed down on his hair, and his car’s interior smelled like a bakery oven. Back at home, cash in hand, he wrote a letter to the dean of admissions of the architecture school he had planned to attend in September, saying that he would
not
be arriving this fall, or ever. Then he called Dennis.

“Nan broke up with me,” he announced.

“No kidding. How come?” his friend asked.

“This guy. She says she…I dunno. She fell in love with him or something. Law school guy. Love bloomed in the lecture hall. His name’s Thor, if you can believe it.”

“Too bad.”

“Also he’s a triathlete.”

“A triple threat. How could you possibly compete with that?”

“Couldn’t,” Benny said. “I’m going to take all my money and gamble it away.”

“That’s a really good idea. An
excellent
idea. Where you going?”

“Phelps Lake. One of those Indian casinos. Hey, you want me to visit you first? This morning? How’re you feeling?” Benny hadn’t been over to the hospital for two days now.

“Naw. Go up to the casino and gamble all your money away and then call me or just come down here and give me the full rundown about how you’re totally broke and ruined.”

Benny’s idea is that he’s keeping his friend alive by sending out stories from the battlefield. Before he got sick, Dennis was a real player. In any particular room, if Dennis hadn’t made a pass at an attractive woman, it was just an oversight. He had coached Benny in the complicated norms of seduction, separation, and betrayal.

Accordingly, Benny had loaded himself and his life savings into his rusting and dented Corolla and driven eighty-seven miles north on the interstate, past the antiabortion billboards and the federal prison in Sandstone, and now here he is, wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and sandals, a recent college grad playing blackjack at a casino staffed by Native Americans. He’s bleary and hungover and soul-sick. The trouble is, he’s on a lucky streak and has won three hundred dollars, and he just keeps winning. A curse is on him: he cannot lose. More people are gathering around to watch this desperate, bloodshot young man, and they’re stupefied by his behavior. What they regard as a blessing, he believes is a catastrophe: look at the expression of dismay on his face as his winnings accumulate! Once in a while, the gates of the City of Ruination are closed to visitors. He knocks; he cannot get in.

—

Behind him, the casino zombies are living it up. Air thick with cigarette smoke and fetid hopelessness circulates dully around him, and the blinging electronic music from slot machines projects a kind of hypnotically induced amusement-park ruckus. Having won again on a double down, Benny backs up from the blackjack table and decides to survey the main floor. He will call Dennis later.

Ghouls smoking cigarettes drop tokens into the slots. The machines continue to sing their manic little robot ditties. Here and there, officials survey the operation, pretending that they are merely there to help. It’s a low-rent casino, and the patrons are more humble than you might expect—sha
bbily dressed, glowering, half-mad with unrecoverable losses. An old couple, holding on to each other for stability, newly broke, shuffle past Benny and nod in a stubbornly friendly way to him, this being Minnesota. She’s wearing a cap that says
SAY HI TO GRANDMA!
and his cap says
GONE FISHIN’!
A red-haired middle-aged woman at a slot machine to Benny’s right labors away at losing money, and on her T-shirt are the words
WHOA IS ME!

Behind him, a man speaks to a woman, probably his wife. They’re both wearing wedding rings. “He looked like a faggot undertaker,” the man says in a thick Minnesota accent, “and I know I’m half-right.”

That does it. The spell breaks. The romance of self-destruction can only go on for so long, and it can’t go on here among these politely unpleasant people. This isn’t Las Vegas, a professionally designed entryway to Hell, where experienced Technicolor devils have been in comfortable residence for decades tossing Mom and Pop down into the pit. It’s just lowly Phelps Lake, where small lives become slightly smaller. Time for Benny to go back to his life, to return to the cities, and drop in on Dennis.

He seems to have sobered up. His headache has gone away. He checks his watch.

Now he’s standing near the entryway door, close to the last-chance slots, and is about to return to his car with his winnings when a man wearing a green tie over a white shirt approaches him with his hand out as if in greeting. The man’s thinning hair is arranged in a halfhearted comb-over, and his eyeglasses sit on his nose at a tilt, the right lens lower than the left. He looks, it is fair to say, like a survivor of a plane crash dressed up to go on a talk show. On the approaching face is a Mr. Potato Head expression of rigid bonhomie.

“Hello, there. I saw you looking at me,” the man says, shaking Benny’s hand, “from across the crowded room, and you were wondering who I was. Who is that man, you were thinking.”

“No,” Benny says sourly. “I wasn’t thinking that at all.”

“It often happens,” the man says, as his hand continues to shake Benny’s. “People see me and it’s like, ‘I know that guy. Who
is
that guy? Is he famous?’ ”

“I didn’t think that.”

“Well, you will. I have one of those recognizable faces.”

“I don’t recognize it,” Benny says. “Please stop shaking my hand.”

“Will do,” the man says cheerfully. “Do you recognize me now?”

“No.”

“You could say I’m the greeter here.” Finished with shaking, his hand returns to the man’s side. “You could say that I’m the spirit of fun. Ha
ha
! I like for everybody to have the best possible time here at the Gray Wolf.”

“I have to go,” Benny tells him. “I have to get back.”

“What’s your hurry?” the man asks. “By the way, I’m Nathaniel Farber.” Again the hand comes out, and, unthinkingly, Benny takes it. The shaking recommences. “I was in pictures.” He waits. “The
movies,
” he says, to clarify.

“Pleased to meet you.” Benny pulls his hand away abruptly. “I have to go.”

“Sometimes people say, ‘Not
the
Nate Farber!’ Usually they say that. Or they cry out with recognition.”

“I must be the exception that proves the rule.”

“They say, ‘I saw you in
Moon over Havana
. And I saw you in
Too Many Cats!
You were so funny!’ ”

“Are those movies?”

“Major studio productions. One at Warner’s, the other at Metro. Of course, that was some years ago.” Fleetingly, the rictus dies on the face of the showbiz veteran. “What’s your name, young fella?”

“Benny.”

“And what brings you to our Gray Wolf Casino, Benny?”

“I was trying to lose my life savings. I was upset.”

“And did you succeed, Benny?”

“I did not. I won a few hundred dollars.”

“Goes to show, Benny, how unpredictable the future can be. The stars, dear Brutus, are not in ourselves. Would you like my autograph?”

“No, thank you.” Nathaniel Farber’s breath, floating like a soap bubble in Benny’s direction, smells of mouthwash tainted with vodka.

“Are you leaving? Please stay. We here at the Gray Wolf feel that you haven’t yet enjoyed yourself to the outer limit.”

“Actually, I have an appointment, sort of, with someone in Minneapolis.”

“A sort-of appointment? I never heard of such a thing.”

“You have now.”

“Who is she?”

“He. Not ‘she.’ He. His name’s Dennis. He used to teach film at the university before he got sick. He’ll know who you are. Excuse me, but I have to go.”

“Why doesn’t he teach film now?” Nathaniel Farber asks.

“He’s dying,” Benny tells him. “But I’ll tell him all about you anyway.”

—

On the way back, he runs into a rainstorm. The car shakes from side to side from the force of the crosswinds. Overhead, the clouds have a horror-movie look. On the freeway, cars coming in the opposite direction have their headlights on, and their windshield wipers are oscillating at high speed. Inside the cars, the drivers have the stricken I-was-there faces of trauma survivors. Soon enraged supercharged raindrops mixed with BB-size hail pelt the front windshield like liquid bullets, the impact sounding metallic as the projectiles hit the glass more forcibly with each mile, until the windows fog up, and Benny pulls over to a rest stop, where he waits out the storm.

—

“Guess who I saw at the Gray Wolf Casino?” Benny asks upon entering Dennis’s hospital room. “Nathaniel Farber. The old actor. They hired him as an official greeter up there.” He sits down next to the hospital bed, facing away from his friend, who does not like to be looked at in his present condition.

“No kidding.
Moon over Havana
. Billy Wilder used him once. He played a health inspector. Our grandparents’ generation—he always reminded me of Gene Raymond. Just a minute, just a minute,” Dennis says, staring at the TV set hanging from the ceiling. “
Storage Wars
is on. I gotta see what’s in the locker.” The gap in conversation allows Benny to examine his friend’s face, which has grown gaunt. His eyes have that staring look. He wears a maroon-and-gold stocking cap.

“I won a few hundred dollars up there,” Benny says. “I couldn’t lose. By the way, where’s your mom?”

“Downstairs in the cafeteria. She likes the hubbub. It’s a contrast to here.”

“How long will she be in Minneapolis?”

When Dennis doesn’t reply, Benny turns to him and sees that his friend has fallen asleep, probably from the morphine. Or perhaps he’s had a pain spasm. Benny reaches over and shuts off the TV set.

“Hold my hand,” Dennis says, his eyes still closed. Benny takes Dennis’s hand in his own, and they sit there for a moment in silence.

“Can you believe that she left me? For a law student?” Benny asks.

“Can you fucking believe
this
? I’m dying,” Dennis says, with his eyes still closed. “I talked to my oncologist yesterday. He had just looked at the new X-rays. He said, and I quote, ‘Dennis, if I told you your cancer hadn’t spread, it’d be like saying that shit doesn’t stink.’ ” He sighs. “He needs to practice his bedside manner. What happened to tact? Tell me again about what she said to you last night.”

Benny tells him the story again: Nan’s new guy, Thor, the runner, dedicated to practicing poverty law once he passes the Minnesota bar, has replaced Benny in her affections. Dennis’s hand feels cold and dry in his own. Once again he seems to fall asleep. “I can’t even think about architecture,” Benny tells Dennis. “All I can think about is her. She’s got me in her grip.” Dennis nods. “Buddy, is there anything I can do for you?”

“Get the nurse,” Dennis says. “I need more morphine. Like right now. Pronto.”

Benny releases Dennis’s hand and walks down to the nurses’ station and tells the woman—Lucille, her name is—who’s in charge of his friend that his friend is in pain again and needs more morphine immediately. Lucille says she’ll be down in ten minutes, and Benny returns to room 530.

“You’ve been losing weight,” Dennis says dreamily, before coughing uncontroll
ably. “So have I.”

“I’ve been running. I gotta try to look good.”

“You’re going to end up like Nathaniel Farber, that line of thinking.”

“Why?”

“Any man over the age of thirty-five who isn’t overweight is a narcissist.”

“That’s kind of oversimpli
fied.”