Frippery

 “Narcotics bust, huh?” My father’s signature phrase, accompanied by his incredulous grin, signaled his habitual sarcasm, whether there had been a drug bust or not.

The victim of his sarcasm would try to navigate the situation with their joke, a delicate dance of wit and survival. But in the end, you were either pulling the strings or left dangling. It was clear to me early on: I was always left dangling.

Like all police officers, Fred never backed down. He meticulously followed the plan, giving people enough rope to hang themselves and watching with those cold, calculating eyes to see what happened.

“The narcotics are at the lab,” he’d say. Let’s not discuss this in front of the kids, okay?” His voice was always calm, but his eyes hinted at something darker. “We can talk about it later.”

My father called it neighbors being friendly. Mowing the grass, planting seeds, trimming trees—someone was bound to come by. It was a time of easy pickings, where Sunday-perfect people with impeccable ties and knee-length skirts tolerated all sorts of things. But when Fred dropped by, he was the accent piece, the unpredictable element that disrupted their pristine lives.

In the movies, the man doesn’t look up from his coffee when the woman breaks down. That was Fred. He could smile through an A-bomb. It could go off down the street, and he’d miss everything you said for what he would say next.

Reflecting on this, I realize it wasn’t just Fred. It was my father, too—his constant need to be the center of attention, the promoter of the latest entertainment. His dismissiveness was my worst nightmare.

Fred Fox knew where all the bodies were buried. He’d laugh hard when telling jokes, which always had a ring of truth. It would keep me up at night.

It's adults-only stuff, though when I was 16, I got to be the bartender in my blue suit at their block party. It was the closest thing I ever did to being an adult in their presence.

It made me think about how, when I was 6 years old, I was prattling away about how I would love to drink alcohol and smoke. So then I was given drinks and a cigarette! Had to drink it all and smoke all of it. It was anything for a laugh; It was like I was the joke I never got.

They painted a pretty picture, and I happened to be in it. I don’t know why. Maybe they felt sorry for me, or maybe they didn’t. See, that was the thing. People never get this. You feel like screaming it from the rooftops! In the end, you don't feel anything at all. You've put on a spectacle for so long.

It is perfectly unexplainable. Fred wasn’t my father. He was a friend, though not my friend. I would try to talk to him. He’d pat me on the head and then tell another story like how they caught some drunk at the Eastern Passage, where sea-going boats blew their fog horns, drifting through the night like corpses that never saw or heard anything.

To discourage public drunkenness, Fred and his cop buddy dragged a drunk by his heels down a gravel alleyway until he “saw red.”

Who did the seeing was the part I never understood. Was it the drunk or Fred, or was that just an expression?

When I was older, my buddy punched me and called me a “dope” when I told him this story. It hurt so much, but I never let on.

“What is your problem, dummy!” he said. “He saw his blood!”

“Whose blood?”

He punched me again. “The drunk saw his own blood!”

#

I'm so bored, daydreaming like this, rehashing the old daze as if it would make any difference. I could read reams of psych mags and recognize myself on practically every page! What good would that do? Especially since work was so slow. Hardly any action.

I had seen the memo: Incredibly beautiful Samantha, the office manager, asking the whole real estate team for a favor. Now, she was coming around to everyone's desks.

"Hey there, Ivan the Terrible! You're my favorite Russian—though you never rush, do you?" Her perfume and long hair created a bubble around me, intoxicating and distracting.

She never even asked me. She just assumed I would go! Like I had no choice, "Go to this address." She handed me a slip of paper that escaped my grasp and fluttered down on my desk. Then she snatched it up, practically putting an arm around me. I'm thinking, Squeeze me tighter, please! But that was only for a moment.

"Itt...um could be in-teresting...for yhou! she said, hamming it up with a Russian accent. Make mark in film noir style!"A film crew iss dere. They making um how you say...documentary on people upbringing and family life. Oh, you saw memo, noh? My brother desperate get people interviewing!"

Everyone laughed. It was the best joke of the day.

Then she stood upright again and looked at everyone, suddenly so innocent. "Who would talk that way?" she chided, to more laughter and returning to her usual voice she said, "Say hi to my brother! Maybe he'll give you some business. I hear the film crew is looking for cheap, long-term accommodation. Larkspur apartments come to mind now that they're kicking their leases to the curb for their next renoviction!"

What a fool I had been wanting to go out with her! I decided. Besides, with the war on, I had to watch myself everywhere I went, hoping people would think I was Ukrainian.

#

I arrived at where the film crew was and thought, it must be documentaries on the cheap, no real estate agent required. They were shooting in the Larkspur party room on the first floor! And as far as needing a real estate agent to negotiate short-term apartment rentals, forget it. I didn't even bring it up.

"You are?" A bored woman at the door said, clipboard at hand.

I had to think up a name. Anything that would annoy Samantha.

"Mr. Inn."

"First name?"

"You can call me Dun!"

She didn't even look up.

#

I'm ushered into the studio.

I thought a camera was coming in for a close-up, but were they just fooling around? They're not ready yet.

“So, how did that make you feel?” I imagined the cameraman saying.

“I’m not dun yet!” I replied aloud. I looked around, but no one heard me.

Finally, they are ready. I made a joke.

“Lights! Camera! Action!” I sniggered. No one laughed.

“Thank you for coming in to see us, Mr. Dun Inn. The interviewer stopped for a moment and looked down at his clipboard. "That must be a joke! What’s your real name again?”

“Jake Spoon!” I said, grinning.

“Naw!” The interviewer grinned too.

“Troy Western!”

“He’s a goofball, huh?” said my interviewer, talking to the cameraman. “What would you like me to call you for this interview?”

“What? It doesn’t matter what name I use?”

“Ok. Give us your real name!”

“John Smith.”

“John, can you describe your upbringing?”

I thought for a moment, feeling such rage creep up inside me.

“Actually, no," I replied.

“Why not?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Why doesn’t it matter?”

“That’s a good question.”

The interviewer motioned to the cameraman to pause, making a quick chop motion with his hand.

“So why don't you answer it!” He said, beginning to be exasperated.

I sighed. “I had a father who never listened to me. Nothing I said or did ever mattered. And he had friends who acted the same way.”

“Go on…”

“Well, that is it!”

The producer or director came over with her clipboard and pulled the interviewer aside. She shrugged her shoulders.

“Thanks for your time!” he says.

"So you're Samantha's brother?" I say. "I should punch you in the nose!"

He looked at me strangely. "Yeah, hey, we're running late. Do you mind?"

"Actually, noh, never mind! Never mind, ever! I goh now!" I replied, using my thickest Russian accent.

I then flipped the bird at the lady at the door and quit my job.