He looks up. They all know the speech is over, but no one knows what to say. He stares at the faces, egging them toward a comment, baiting them with a smirk that gives off more sadness than self-satisfaction. And that’s why he knows none of them will bite. He lets the silence build for a second before he pulls his jacket from the Madonna’s arm, then he raises his hand toward his head, gives something like a weary salute, and turns to the exit.
He gets about five steps and Hazel lets out, “Okay. All right. You’ve made your point.”
He turns, stares at her.
She shrugs and says, “So what now?”
“That’s not up to me,” he says, not wanting to cash in too early, almost believing in his own willingness to walk out the door.
“Let’s say we’re willing to agree to make an effort. To open some discussions and see where it leads.”
“That’s a start,” he says, giving some approval with a nod.
“I thought that’s what we came here for in the first place.”
It comes from Wallace. Flynn would have bet at the start that it would be Wallace, good old mentor, last of the old regime, the dwarf with the vision, who’d give him a problem.
Flynn rolls with it. He says, “Then let’s not waste any more time.”
He redeposits the jacket on the arm, and establishes a new position sitting down on an abandoned old RCA TV, a big cherry cabinet model. The picture tube has been removed and someone has built a diorama inside — a stunning scene of natural disaster, a mud slide drowning a tiny town.
Flynn folds his hands in his lap and tries for a second wind.
“Now, the way I see it is we’ve got two opposing philosophies. Let’s start off by agreeing that there’s nothing wrong with this. It’s healthy, good for the whole body. Keeps us on our toes, keeps the blood flowing through the brain. I think we have to look at this almost from an Eastern perspective. Yin and Yang. A balance. Personally, I don’t see a problem.”
He runs his hand through his hair, thinks for a second, and gives up a risky smile toward Hazel.
“The problem,” emphasizing the word, “comes when we start to translate a philosophy from the head to the street, so to speak. When words become actions. Which, correct me if I’m wrong here, is what Hazel and her people would like to do.”
He pauses to give a chance for objection.
“I think Hazel would like to see some evolution. We’ve spent some time at the bar together and I don’t think I’m out of line saying that she smells some stagnation within the family. And this bothers her a great deal since the reason she became involved at the start was for the charge, the rush, you know, the thrill of being on the other side of the fence. But I shouldn’t speak for her. I’m putting words in her mouth. Hazel, just tell me, tell us, if you could, okay, why you first wandered into Wireless.”
She’s not prepared and Flynn knows it. It disarms her a little and all she can do is take the question on, try for a straight-forward answer.
“Jesus, I don’t, uh—”
Flynn jumps into the breach. “Repeat what you said last week. Remember when we were talking last week? Back near the pool tables?”
“Well, I, uh—”
“She said, ‘I hooked up with you people ’cause I thought you knew the truth.’ Right, Hazel?”
She gives this confused nod.
“And I asked her what the truth was, ’cause let’s admit it, I’m a little dim sometimes. And she said, ‘You see that their idea of order is just an illusion—”
Hazel interrupts with, “I said ‘just bullshit.’ Their idea of order is just bullshit.”
“Okay, my mistake, like I said.” He taps his forehead with his index finger. “Now, Wallace—” he shifts his behind slightly on the set until he’s angled toward the old boys—“what I want to ask you is, is there anything about that statement you disagree with?”
Wallace is silent, sucking nervously on a fat stogie.
Flynn continues before the lack of a response can seem like a challenge.
“You, Wallace, my mentor, the guy who charted my course from day one, the guy who showed me how to take apart and put back together my first mail-away crystal set.”
He slides off the RCA, shuffles over to Wallace while nodding to himself, and places a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder while grinning over at Hazel.
In a lowered voice: “The man who once said to a very green prankster, ‘The problem is there’s no logic or order to anything and everyone wants you to believe that there is.’”
Pause.
“Do you remember saying that, Wallace? One spring night, about twenty years back, I’d run from Galilee for the tenth time. We met in an aisle at that old store on Hollis — University Radio. We got to talking. And you brought me back to DeForest Road. You and your wife, Olga, showed some kindness to a kid without a home. Had him to dinner. She served Swedish meatballs, Wallace. The radio was tuned to old WSTR all through the meal. You were wearing a maroon sweater vest. You remember any of that, Wallace? Because I do. I remember every second of that dinner. Of that whole night. ’Cause my life changed that night, my friend.”
He tries to be casual as he takes his hand from Wallace’s shoulder and starts his stroll across the room toward the opposite team. He comes to a stop in front of Hazel, extends his two hands palms-up. She flinches, looks quickly at the person next to her, and, not knowing what else to do, puts her hands in his. He continues to talk in the same deep, self-loving voice of a professional storyteller.
“That night, the wonderful Swedish meatball dinner, the spatzle, the coffee afterward, and your words, Wallace,” though he’s staring into Hazel’s eyes, “especially your words. That was what was going through my mind three years ago. Back on the day I found a young woman, a little scared, rabbity, outside in the parking lot, trying to figure out how to go inside, what to say to Tjun at the door. She was a runaway. Remember that, Hazel? Remember the dinner I got you down at the Rib Room? I do. You had the chili and three plates of soda bread just out of the oven. And milk. It was pouring that night. You remember sleeping on my couch? I played you some old Bob and Ray tapes? Right?”
He drops his hands, steps back, says to the crowd in general, “Anybody see a little pattern there? Huh?”
He goes back to the RCA and takes a seat.
“Okay,” in a semirelaxed voice, “here’s the problem. I don’t want to lose my family. Pretty simply put, right? I’m not going to debate ideology. I’m not interested enough. I want one thing. I want to hold on to my past”—a hand gestures to Wallace—“and my future”—open palm out toward Hazel.
“So, you tell me, folks. Somebody find the balls to tell me. How do I do that? How do I hold on to a family that doesn’t want to exist anymore? ’Cause I’m owed at least that. I’ve held up my end. If you were part of this place,” voice rising to a yell and hand slapping down on top of the TV, “I gave you anything you asked for. Money. Time. Advice. More than one of you called me after midnight for bail. More than one of you have keys to my car in your pockets right now. If you decided you belonged here, that was enough for me.
“So, somebody tell me how I make it last.”
He folds his arms across his chest and waits for a response.
Hazel takes a breath that everyone can hear and says, “Look, I’m not looking to break things up. It’s just that some of us feel it’s time to advance a little—”
“That means blowing up transmitters,” Wallace yells.