THE GOLD FISH: The Action (3.2)

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Don’s faith had been rewarded. He was back in the black and customer demand was building faster than he could fulfill it. Not only did every Tom, Dick, and Harry at the car dealership want in on the football pools, but with each passing week, so did their various pals, brothers-in-law, bowling teammates, ex-Army buddies, etc, etc. There seemed to be no end of middle-aged, male Balti-morons interested in getting in on the action. And Don was at the center of it all!

Just this past week, Don had run out of little white sheets and had to arrange a rendezvous with Wolfman for more. And that wasn’t even the best part. Since the big loss in that last pre-season game when the Vikings had trounced the Oilers, all his private bets -- albeit relatively small -- had come up roses. Don’t ever let it be said that Donald Eugene Ward didn’t learn from past mistakes.

So he should have been feeling on top of the world. And he was. He really was. He only wished things weren’t quite so hectic. Not only was his amusement business booming, but his actual job was insane as well. The dealership had taken delivery of the highly anticipated 1973 model year LTD Brougham, and Don had to admit it was a peach. The ‘73 had all the regular LTD features from last year, but now included a high-back front bench seat with individual folding armrests (!), plush cut-pile carpeting on the floor and lower door panels, and color-keyed seat belts. It was, as his buddy Ron Brown claimed, one sweet ride. There wasn’t a doubt in the world that it would be a best seller. Especially since The Ford Motor Company was promoting the hell out of it with sexy tv and print ads.

Don had never seen the dealership so crowded and abuzz with activity, except maybe when new Mustangs were released. Of course, most of the showroom traffic was lookie-loos, but as any salesman knew, lookie-loos took as much time and energy as real customers, but rarely make themselves known until it’s too late. So between charming potential customers and collecting football pools all week, Don was running on empty. By the time Big Al shut the showroom doors that Saturday night, and Ron called first round, Don was only too ready to fill up on high-test vodka gimlets.

After all, didn’t he deserve a reward for his efforts? His hard work? His successes? He had earned it, goddamnit, and if ever there was a time to celebrate, he thought, this was it. Because yes indeedy, things were definitely looking up.

Of course, Don didn’t stop to consider that his heaviest drinking occurred when things were looking up and when they weren’t. He drank in triumph and in defeat. In relief and in disappointment. In boredom and in over-stimulation. The truth was Don drank whenever he had feelings of any kind. Good, bad, or indifferent.

But this insight didn’t occur to Don. Not then. And definitely not when he woke up on Sunday morning to a ringing phone, a pounding head, and a screaming back. All he thought of at that moment -- prayed for, in fact -- was that the goddamned phone would stop its incessant ringing and sleep would pull him deeper under its paralyzing, blissfully obliterating waves. And keep him there. For a few more minutes anyway.

:::

Barbie also heard the phone ringing, and she too tried to ignore it. There was no one she needed -- or wanted -- to talk to. Besides, someone else would answer it.

What she didn’t know was that her mother was at the grocery story with The Belle, Karen was over the Sullivan’s working with Shay on a project, and her father was sleeping it off. Okay, she did know about that last bit. After all, it was hardly a surprise. It’s what he did every Sunday morning.

But whatever, she was busy! With sore, blistered fingers, she was stitching a yellow sun rising up from behind a line of purple mountains on the back of a leatherette vest. It was for an 8th grader named Joel whose grand ambition was to become a park ranger out west somewhere. And once she was done with this piece, as Erin had taught her to call her projects, there were four different pairs of dungarees eagerly waiting their turn. It was all she could do to avoid their demanding gaze. Vests were easy, but stabbing a pointy needle forcefully up and down thick denim pants legs was another thing altogether.

The phone stopped ringing and Barbie sighed with relief. She hadn’t realized that she had been holding her breath, waiting for it to stop.

Phew. She knotted her thread, shook out her fingers, and took a moment to take stock. With the completion of the five projects -- sorry, pieces -- around her, the grand total in her ballerina jewelry box would reach $28. She was so close, she could taste it. All she had to do was keep going.

Newly energized, she threaded her needle with a fresh length of purple thread, and was just punching it through the sticky leatherette fabric when the phone started to ring again. “Shit,” she cried, and stabbed the needle straight into the tip of her finger. A bright red bead of blood pooled there.

She groaned and popped the finger into her mouth, before throwing the vest aside and going to answer the goddamned phone.

:::

“Dad. Daaaad. Wake up!”

Don opened one blood shot eye and gazed at Barbie uncomprehendingly. “Boo-boo, what?!” he groaned.

“The phone. It’s for you.” She held the phone receiver aloft in demonstration, one hand around its neck, the other covering the speaking end.

Don struggled to arrange the shifting puzzle pieces around him into some coherent order. To make sense of Barbie, the phone, and the disconnected images of cars, drinks, and little white papers that whirled through his brain. He knew instinctively that there was something pressing, something he needed to do. But what?

Barbie shook him again. “It’s that Wolfman guy. He said to tell you you’re running out of time.”

“Time?” asked Don.

“Before the first kick off, he said.”

At that phrase, the pieces clicked into place. Kick off. The start of a football game. Shit, thought Don. The pools! They had to be called in before the kick offs or all bets were off. Literally! Both eyes snapped open, and he twisted, searching for the clock radio partially blocked by Barbie’s body. But even that simple movement sent paroxysms of pain coursing through his body. He nearly sobbed. “What time is it?”

Barbie turned to look. “Quarter to twelve.” She held up the phone again, beseeching him. “Dad, he’s, um, waiting.”

“Okay, okay.” Don struggled upright, swung his legs off the bed, and grasping for the dresser beside him, hauled himself upwards. He pulled open the top drawer, then glanced at Barbie, who was watching him with the eyes of a hawk.

Shit, he thought, so much for privacy. But what choice did he have? He withdrew the stack of football pools stashed underneath his commemorative newspapers and stacks of clean jockey shorts and started towards Barbie.

Given the bedroom phone’s cord was short and didn’t reach his side of the king-sized bed, Don was forced to do that annoying tightrope walk to the other side. But whereas Joan was petite and nimble, Don was heavy, lumbering, and let’s face it, still drunk. His large feet tangled in the bedspread which lay puddled on the floor, and he stumbled into Joan’s dresser, sending various bottles of perfume and tubes of lipstick tinkling on the mirrored tray where they sat. Sweat broke out on his forehead as he paused to steady himself before continuing through. But as he reached Barbie and the phone, twin compulsions competed with equal and startling urgency: to vomit and/or to piss. The odds were even as to which one would be satisfied first, but it didn’t really matter. Both required getting to the bathroom. Stat.

Don shoved the papers towards Barbie. “Just... just read these to Wolfman.” And he lurched from the room. The bathroom door slammed a few seconds later.

Barbie looked at the papers in front of her. At the top of each sheet was a nickname, or so she thought. What else could Teddy Three-Nuts, Sugar Bear, Columbo, Booger, Kid Gloves, and Big Tiny be? Hold on, Teddy Three-Nuts? What the heck?

She shook her head to clear the thought -- maybe she didn’t want to know -- before examining the rest of the sheets. On each was a list of football team match ups, with numbers next to them. Like the Oakland Raiders vs. San Diego Chargers +3, San Fransisco 49’ers vs. New Orleans Saints +7, Kansas City Chiefs vs. Denver Broncos +3, etc... She had no idea what the numbers meant, but she suspected it wasn’t anything good. A regular phrase of her mother’s flashed in her brain: What the hell is that man going to get up to next?

Judging from how deep the papers had been buried in her father’s dresser drawer, whatever he was up to was clearly meant to be a secret and should not, under any circumstances, be shared with her mother. This realization occurred, by the way, without a second thought or a shred of guilt. After all, why would she willingly throw a hand grenade into her already turbulent and troublesome household? Don’t ever let it be said that Barbara Lynn Ward didn’t learn from past mistakes.

But maybe this time, she should also benefit.

An impatient “Hello!” erupted from the receiver.

Having come to a decision, Barbie muttered “just a sec” and set down the receiver.

She walked to the bathroom -- trying desperately not to hear whatever was going on inside -- and rapped sharply on the door.

“Dad!”

A groan. “Not now, Boo-boo.”

“What will you give me to read those papers?”

“Give you?”

“You know, pay me.”

Muttered curses.

“You got some nerve there, Missy. Kicking a guy when he’s down. But you’re thinking like a businesswoman. And I respect that. I’ll give you 50 cents.”

Barbie paused, relishing the businesswoman reference. That’s right, she thought, this whole venture may have started as a way to stuff a gold (pause) fish, but now, it was a business. A legitimate and thriving business. And if her father’s sketchy dealings with Wolfman were going to interrupt her business, he should have to pay.

“Two dollars.”

“Cheese and crackers!”

“Dad… it’s 7 minutes to 12. And Mr. Wolfman is waiting.”

Barbie had the upper hand, and Don knew it.

“For the love of God, alright! 2 dollars. Now go.”

Barbie strode back to the phone with a smug smile. She had topped the $30 mark.

Next → Devil’s Deals (3.3)