“He was just woofing,” I said. “Honestly. That’s him. He gets boisterous.”
Seth didn’t look appreciative of my effort to defend him. It was possible he didn’t know what boisterous meant and was wondering if I was accusing him of something embarrassing.
“There you go,” BJ said, still holding the forty-ounce bat at chest level. “No harm, no foul,” switching sports in an effort to reach for the appropriate idiom. “I think you tough guys should call it a night.”
I believed his tough guys comment was sarcastic.
“Hey,” Sam said, “why don’t we all shake hands?”
He was trying to be civilized about it; maybe after we all made up, he was going to try to sell them some life insurance.
“C’mon,” he said, seemingly undeterred that no one had taken him up on his suggestion. “What do you say?”
Not much. The guy who’d punched Seth in the face snorted derisively, turned his back, and simply strolled away.
Sam flushed and turned to the other guy, tendering his slightly wilting olive branch. Still no takers. The guy shook his head as if Sam were a moron child, then followed his buddy down the lane.
It was about then that I saw him.
I was watching the two guys make their way down the alley, to collect the ladies Seth had grievously offended, I suppose. A few men patted them on the shoulders, whispered words of encouragement at their retreating backs.
I knew one of them.
The last time I saw this person, he was holding a plumbing tool in his hand. Or not a plumbing tool. Maybe just something to punch a hole in the wall and pry off a phone-jack cover. Staring at me with those muted features, as if he’d somehow missed his final trimester as a fetus. I could swear he was smiling.
I felt slightly nauseated.
I didn’t step forward, or step back, or yell police.
I turned to Seth as if eliciting silent support. When I turned back, the plumber was gone.
I know. It sounds as if I were hallucinating.
I wasn’t.
He was there, then he wasn’t there, just long enough to smile in my direction and disappear.
I hustled over to a table where two middle-aged couples in matching bowling shirts were snacking on greasy fries and chili dogs.
“The guy who was just standing here-did you see where he went?” I asked them.
They looked wary. Also confused. What guy who was just where, their faces said.
“Who?” One of the women finally asked.
“The man who was standing by your table…”
“You mean the man you were fighting with?” the woman said. “He’s over there.”
“No. Not him. The guy who whispered something to him when he walked by.”
“Whispered something to who?” one of the men asked. He looked kind of eager for me to take BJ’s suggestion and leave the bowling alley. Or at least leave them alone.
“Look, I’m a reporter for the paper here… I just want to know who that guy…”
“We don’t know what guy you’re talking about.” The woman again, looking almost sorry for me.
I stopped, scanned the alley. Most people had resumed bowling after the night’s entertainment break, something they would talk to their coworkers about over morning coffee. And then he picked up a bowling ball and…
I dashed into the men’s bathroom. A high school kid was busy admiring his tongue ring in the mirror. That’s it.
When I finally made it outside, the plumber wasn’t there, either.
Just the remnants of my bowling team.
Seth was telling Sam and Marv how he was going to get even with the pussy who’d sucker-punched him in the face.
Just you wait, he promised. It’s a done deal.
SIXTEEN
After my story about the moving homecoming of Lowell Beaumont passed muster, after it earned me a verbal hug from he-who-must-be-pleased, not to mention scattered praise from the peanut gallery of copy-desk drudges, I did it again.
I wrote a piece about an American soldier of fortune who sold his services to the highest bidder-including a Taliban warlord-leaving him in the awkward position of battling his own countrymen.
The piece was alarming, dramatic, and even sad.
It just wasn’t in any way, shape, or form true.
I’d never met this soldier of fortune.
He was an amalgam of different people I’d talked to, read about, or possibly dreamed up.
No matter.
It went over like a charm.
Other pieces followed, one after another, a dizzying anthology of truly creative writing.
A group of out-of-work Hollywood actors who loaned themselves out to the Russian mob for various cons, impersonating everyone from computer-parts salespeople to temple cantors.
A Republican evangelical think tank that asked what Jesus would do on every major policy issue.
A game of Auto Tag sweeping the nation’s highways-cars tapping each other’s bumpers at eighty miles per hour, till the loser crashed and burned.
A secret society of pyromaniacs who traded videos of their greatest hits-forest fires, block burnings, gas station flash fires-over the Web.
There was something exhilarating about it, of course.
Creating stories out of thin air. Giving them the black-and-white imprimatur of fact. Telling bigger and bigger fibs and holding my breath till I saw if I’d gotten away with it. It was like betting the house on every turn of the wheel.
It was, in a way, addictive.
So was the resultant praise and clamor for more of them. Even the jealousy it kicked up among my peers was addictive.
After all, they were jealous of me.
Of course, one of those jealous reporters ended up taking me out to Keats and pumping me full of Patrón tequila. All the while pumping me for something far more valuable-the fascinating details concerning my series of scintillating scoops. Especially my latest one-red-hot and read all about it-the abortion clinic-bombing pediatrician. As I remember, he spent a lot of time that night scrounging for details: how did I meet this doctor? Where? How did I figure out the doctor was feeding me anagrams-for his place of birth, his city of residence?
Okay. Maybe my drinking partner wasn’t jealous-maybe he was simply being diligent, protecting his chosen profession from what he perceived as a dangerous polluter.
He tipped off a certain editor, of course.
I should’ve known when he requested my notes.
Not that it hadn’t happened before. I’d become remarkably adept at conjuring up voluminous notes whenever they were needed.
Sometimes they were. Someone-real as opposed to made up-would complain that what I wrote never happened, that they’d never been interviewed by me, never laid eyes on me, never even heard of me. It didn’t hurt that I’d portrayed the majority of these people in an unflattering light. It was fairly easy to attribute their motives to anger, to the simple desire to discredit their muckraking accuser. Of course he says he never heard of me, I’d say, dismissing their accusations as if they were hardly worth the trouble. What would you do if I’d just exposed you in the paper?
It helped that we live in a plausible denial world.
Just pick up today’s news. Everyone denies everything.