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The Inheritance
August 26, 2008, 5:57PM
I’m constructing a rickety tower out of overdue bills at the kitchen table when my attorney calls to remind me of our appointment. He sounds nervous, warning me not to be surprised when I hear the ‘somewhat bizarre’ conditions of my father’s will. I hang up and pour myself a bowl of cereal.
Dan’s slippers smack the hardwood as he pads out of his bedroom, all skinny white legs, pink sleeping scars, and bad breath. He straddles one of our mismatched kitchen chairs, stares at a spot behind my left ear, and sings a tune that I recognize but can’t quite place. The lyrics could be the Lord’s Prayer or maybe one of those oft-ignored flight attendant spiels, I don’t know. But his choice of language confirms the obvious?today is Friday. (Dan assigns a different language to each day of the week – Japanese on Mondays, Latin on Tuesdays, and so on. Yesterday we nearly came to blows when I reminded him that British is an accent, not an official language.) As I shovel a spoonful of Cocoa Pebbles into my mouth I’m vaguely aware of Dan scratching his inner thigh and his milky eyes boring into the top of my head. Direct eye contact with most any mammal makes Dan queasy. When I finally slurp down the last soggy bite, he motions toward my empty bowl and says, “You mind?”
“You do realize that the cabinets are full of clean bowls?”
“Yeah yeah, I know. But I want that one.”
“Whatever.” I slide it toward him, upsetting my tower of bills. Small puddles of soiled milk slosh and glisten in the coved corners of the bowl. Dan fills it to overflowing then extends his hand toward me.
“Give me your spoon.”
“No. No way, man. That’s disgusting.”
“Come on, give it to me.”
“Get your own.”
“But you already warmed it up.”
Arguing with Dan is pointless so I seize the opportunity to deal. “Alright Roomy, I’ll give you my spoon if you promise to stop microwaving your shoes.”
“You know I’ve got poor circulation.” As proof he places a big blue-veined foot on the table. “Go ahead, feel it. It’s practically frozen.”
Mulched chocolaty flakes percolate in my esophagus. Still, I have to admit that his foot does look cold. I double my resolve. “Forget it man, get your own?”
His hand springs forward and grabs the spoon like Grasshopper snatching the pebble from his Confucius-spouting sensei. I’m about to unload months of pent up frustration – including my long-held suspicions that Dan has somehow calibrated his bowels to exploit the residual heat of my own trips to the throne?when the phone rings.
It’s the hotel’s Administrative Assistant demanding that I report to the manager’s office within the hour. I feign drowsiness and assure her that I’ll be there as soon as I can, knowing full well that I’m just prolonging the inevitable.
As I drop the phone into its cradle I recognize Dan’s refrain – the Beatle’s Today Is Your Birthday, sung in fluent Hebrew.
***
My skin is still splotchy pink and moist from the blistering shower. I towel off and squint at the foggy mirror, pretending that my distorted silhouette is an alien spy from another dimension. Then another spooky silhouette appears and I sense Dan brushing by me, naked save for his soap-on-a-rope garland. He disappears behind the shower curtain and throttles the water to full-blast. After bellowing his way through a full-body yawn, he yells, “Geri’s here. And I think she brought pictures.”
Geri Tarkanian is my current girlfriend. And unlike her namesake, she does not chew on towels. She is, however, pregnant. Very pregnant, about-to-burst pregnant, avoid-the-speed-bumps pregnant. And it’s not mine.
Platonically speaking, she thinks Dan is cute, convinced that his social retardation and his slovenly ways are a cry for help. She’s a professional dog trainer by day. At night, she makes her own clothing out of discarded parachutes and flags and sails and such. As I slip into my best cargo pants, ostensibly fashioned out of an official Desert Storm US Army tarp, it dawns on me that Geri is here for a reason.
I find her on the couch, shrouded in a jumpsuit collage of Asian flags, licking ice cream off her finger and watching war footage on CNN.
“You know we have spoons.”
“I know,” she says, not taking her eyes off the set. “I already looked. But I was afraid that Dan had warmed them up.”
“Um, looks like I can’t go to that birthing class with you after all.”
“Figures,” she says, eyes still on the set. “How come?”
“Emergency meeting at work.” It’s killing me not to tell her about my appointment with the attorney. But a promise?even to myself?is still a promise.
“How sweet. I’ll bet it’s a surprise birthday party.”
“I’m pretty sure my boss wants to fire me.”
“Oh, why go all the way downtown for that? Can’t he just phone it in?”
“He enjoys watching people squirm.”
The somber coverage gives way to a giddy bald man hawking the latest technology in oven cleaners. One last finger full of ice cream disappears into Geri’s mouth with a loud sucking noise and she regards me with a flash of scorn, then sympathy, then a blank stare.
She stands, stretches, and pulls a long strip of black-and-white photos from her purse. “I brought you a little present,” she says. “Not your real present. Just, you know, a present.”
Geri still has difficulty talking about her condition. For one thing, she’s vain. And her taut, basketball belly has robbed her of what she considers her strongest asset – her willowy supermodel figure. She keeps a prioritized list in her purse that includes her smoky voice (tobacco-less), her obscene talent for long division, and her rich doting aunt in the late stages of Alzheimer’s. Also, she feels guilty, having cheated on me and all. But we don’t talk about that. And every time I restate my offer to marry her, she tells me to shut up, then tries to change the subject before she gets all weepy.
I study the ultrasound pictures, the giant melon head, the afterthought of his spindly arms and legs and fingers, the rugged feeding tube. In one of the pictures his spine looks like it’s grinning at me. She sidles up next to me, the mushroom head of her navel pressing into my side, and points at a wispy bit of nothing protruding from between junior’s legs. “It’s a boy,” she says with more pride than necessary. “See? Right there?”
I’m not comfortable commenting on junior’s wee-wee. “You know this isn’t really your kid,” I say, the thought sliding off my tongue before I can corral it. “The picture, I mean.”
“What?” She snatches the picture and inspects it, offended, looking for clues that aren’t there. “What are you talking about?”
“This whole ultrasound thing is a crock. There’s only like a dozen or so of these pictures in circulation. The doctors just recycle them around.”
“I think you’ve been experimenting with Dan’s homemade pharmaceuticals.”
“He’s right, you know.” Dan materializes in the hallway, draped in a natty electric blanket, the extension cord trailing behind like a long orange tail. Without looking up he dumps spoonfuls of Nestle’s into a tall glass of milk. Over the din of his clacking spoon, he continues. “Why spend all that money on expensive, medical-grade photography equipment? The endorphin level of expectant parents inflicts a deluding effect on the rational part of the prospective parents’ brains. In essence, they’ll believe pretty much anything you tell them.”
“Let’s see, would that make you the kettle or the pot? ” Geri says, rolling her eyes. Then she yanks the picture from my grasp and waddles out of the house. I decide against asking her for a lift into town.
I shut the door and turn to see Dan kneel in front of the sofa. He places his stubbled cheek on the cushion that Geri just vacated, smiles, and mouths the word, “warm.”
***
From my seat on the bus I’m taking inventory of my life up to this point, wrestling with questions about who I am and what I’m doing here on this giant spinning dirt clod. What I decide is that everything up to now has been a dress rehearsal, prep work, like I’ve just been marking time for exactly 7,664 days (give or take a few for leap years). Yesterday was a low point for sure. But despite having lost my temper, my car, and quite possibly my job, I’m in decent spirits. If things go according to planned I’m about to inherit a pile of money. And as of yet, nobody knows. Not Geri or Dan or any of my coworkers?only Baxter Billingham, attorney at law.
Dad was not a rich man?he sold concrete mix?so the amount remains a mystery. But I’ve allowed my mind to flirt with figures like thirty grand. Forty grand? Dare I dream higher?
No.
Dreaming just ratchets up my expectations. And I have little tolerance for disappointment. I should be thrilled to inherit enough to replace the Yugo or catch up on the rent and utilities, but the fact is I’m not. I have allowed my gratitude muscle to atrophy.
I enter the hotel lobby and do my best to avoid the stares. With one ill-fated swing I seem to have opened an irreparable rift between the staff. The chambermaids and front desk clerks regard me with awe and gratitude, as if they’re about to commission a commemorative bust in my honor. However the middle managers and assorted other butt-kissers look stoked, ready to avenge Ms. Clancy’s honor.
I make my way to the office of Vance J. Sherman, general manager of the historic Hermitage Hotel, an uptight, prissy, toad of a man. On the nights I can’t sleep at my desk, I write and anonymously distribute satirical memos about office policy and sign them General Sherman. An Ethiopian security guard named Charles was recently fired for accidentally calling Vance J. that to his face. I felt so guilty that I staked out Charles’ apartment for a week?kind of an unofficial suicide watch until his wife reported me as a peeping tom.
General Sherman doesn’t get up when I enter. Instead he motions toward a leather chair that reeks of subordination, oversized and slung low. He steeples his fingers and lands a stern, plaintive gaze somewhere over my left shoulder. I’m tempted to turn around, but instead I say, “Can you believe how unseasonably warm it’s gotten? I mean, it’s downright sweltering out there.”
“I believe you understand the nature or our little meeting here today. So I won’t beat around the bush. You’ve left me no choice but to fire you.”
“With all due respect, you still have a choice. As my favorite Canadian says, ‘If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice’.”
“I don’t believe Shakespeare was Canadian.”
I stop, confused. He forges on.
“You broke Ms. Clancy’s nose. And I suspect she will be filing criminal charges. What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t thinking. I was reacting.”
“Reacting to what, exactly?”
“How many grievances have I filed against Clifford? It’s no secret he’s always hitting on me. Ask anyone. You know, making kissing noises and giving me unsolicited shoulder massages. It’s creepy. But when he grabbed my butt the other day?I don’t know?I just lost it and took a swing. But I had no idea his reflexes were so good.” I thought I saw a flicker of a smile in Vance J’s eyes. “Clifford ducked and I guess I caught Nancy Clancy on my follow through.”
Composure intact, he says, “She prefers Ms. Clancy. Or simply Nancy.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“And you know she has cancer.”
“Well I didn’t give it to her.”
After a lengthy internal debate, Vance J. gets up, closes his door, and begins pacing behind me. I brace myself for a beating that never comes. Finally he sits down beside me in the other guest chair.
“I had hoped that you might respond with at least a modicum of contrition. I find your obstinance neither helpful nor amusing.”
“Is that Canadian?”
“Excuse me?
“I think you meant to say ‘obstinacy’ As in, I’m a pain in the butt.”
“Yes, well, whatever. The point is, you need my help. And since I awoke in a generous mood this morning, I’m going to offer you a deal.”
Speaking in some hypothetical third-person, he proceeds to lay out a scenario where I can continue to perform my night auditing duties ‘off campus’. I’m presuming he’ll pay me under the table somehow. I should have seen this coming. Night audit is a crap job?third shift, entry-level accounting that wreaks havoc on sleeping patterns, a real death penalty for any kind of social life. The proposed arrangement will continue until the hotel can find a suitable replacement (read: any loser who can add, subtract, and pass a drug test). And, oh-by-the-way, he’ll let me train the new guy if they ever find him.
I must have telegraphed my reluctance. He leans in close enough for me to smell his last meal. “If you agree to help me out here, I think I can reasonably assure you that Ms. Clancy will not file assault charges.”
“Really? You can do that?”
“Trust me. Ms. Clancy will do as I instruct her. Her?shall we say?dependencies will keep her in line. She’s in no position to argue.”
“Care to elaborate on those dependencies, General?”
“Let me remind you that you are in no position to bargain here. And you will show me my proper respect.”
“Where’s the file where you keep all the grievances?”
General Sherman feigns an innocent look and offers an exaggerated shrug.
“Good thing I kept copies then. And I almost forgot, do you have any messages for Nancy Clancy?” I remove the tape recorder from an oversized pocket of my cargo pants. “I plan to make a copy for her.”
***
Squinting is no match for the morning glare, which makes my eyes ache until they water. I sense that I’ll be early for the meeting, but I gave up wearing watches years ago when I learned that I’m part of a small minority whose personal biology wreaks havoc on watch batteries. It has something to do with the iron in my blood, or the way it flows through my wrists, or maybe my overall magnetism or something. Either way, I have some time to kill. And speaking of batteries, I’d better get some for the tape recorder in case I actually need to record something later.
Radio Shack is deserted, save for a couple of geeks with neckties and nametags debating reality. The younger, pimpled one insists that hygiene, body fat, and 401k’s will soon lose all relevance as virtual experience eclipses, then eventually eliminates the natural world. “The technology’s already there, man. May as well kiss your kids goodbye.” His coworker looks dubious, yet tacitly terrified by this prospect. Finally he interrupts and claims that his God would never let that happen.
I consider joining the debate but realize that I don’t have a strong enough opinion either way. Instead I approach the Shack Men and tell them I’d like to buy this pack of batteries, but first I must have their home addresses and telephone numbers. When they refuse, I ask again. And again. And again. And I keep asking until the manager emerges from the back of the store. “We dropped that policy years ago,” he says.
“Yeah, I think I remember hearing about that. But you never had to pay for your sins, did you?”
He tells me to beat it or he’s calling security.
***
The four-block walk from the hotel to Durham, Dengle, & Billingham has pasted my undershirt to my lower back and rubbed a blister on my left heel. According to the gap-toothed readout on the bank’s giant revolving clock, I’m still fifteen minutes early. Not wanting to appear too eager I debate whether or not to go in search of a bottle of cream soda. But a sign from God redirects my path. Harold Freeman?yes, the same Harold Freeman from Huff Lane Elementary that I used to swindle lunch money from on a daily basis?has just emerged from a barber shop and is heading right for me. On a whim a few weeks ago I used the computer at work to figure out how much I would owe Harold (factoring in compound interest for twelve years) if he ever came calling. The total spooked me, annihilating any chance of sleeping at my desk that night. And now here he is, after a decade of obscurity, walking toward me on the eve of my prosperity.
I push through the smoky glass door, announce my presence to the receptionist, then hold my breath until Harold passes by on the sidewalk. I peruse the latest copy of Yachting Today magazine until Baxter Billingham appears, grinning. He extends his right arm and tries to break my dry hand with his clammy one.
“You’re early,” he says and winks at the lovely receptionist who swivels her neck and shoulders seductively, then flashes a smile that lands somewhere between demure and pornographic. Baxter motions for me to follow him into an enormous office trimmed in chic self-promotion. He wishes me a happy birthday, assures me twice that it’s really great to see me, and offers me a beverage. I doubt they’d have cream soda so I tell him that a root beer would be fantastic. He chuckles like I’m just kidding and turns his attention to a manila folder.
As he studies the documents I marvel at just how much he looks like a Baxter Billingham. It’s uncanny. The man and his name are a perfect match and my head buzzes with chicken-or-the-egg riddles. His voice is smooth and uppity, like a voice-over on public television. He reeks of too much cologne and last night’s garlic. And his flabby, bruised-fruit lips make a wet popping sound while he reads to himself. I try to imagine him and my father in college, rooming together, scheming how to “score chicks,” walking and talking tough. But it doesn’t compute.
“Okay, what say we get started?” he says, lacing his fingers together like a woven basket. “Did you bring your paperwork?”
I retrieve a blank check and last year’s tax information from a zippered pant pocket and hand it to Baxter, embarrassment nipping at the edges of my soul. Big deal, right? I make less than fourteen grand per year.
Baxter frowns as he reads. But it looks affected, like he’s just attended a seminar on portentous frowns. He’s sending some kind of signal that I have little patience for.
“Is there something wrong?” I ask.
“No, no. Not wrong, exactly.” He runs his finger down a column and nods to himself again. “I think the word is ‘complicated.’”
That sounds like my father, a man who spent his life hitchhiking the roads less traveled. He was famous for his genius IQ, his penchant for making the mundane complicated, and his acute inability to make sound decisions. Oftentimes, simple tasks like changing batteries or hanging up a pair of dress pants, turned into an elaborate scavenger hunt. The age of the telemarketer would have bankrupted my dad.
“Okay, Mr. B. Lay it on me. I can take it, whatever it is.”
“Well, let’s cover the good news first. Your father’s entire estate?a very liquid estate, mind you?is worth about eight-and-a-half million US dollars.”
“That certainly is good news,” I say, disgusted by the sound of myself chuckling. I’m not, by nature, a chuckler. Suddenly, my heart is thumping like a pony in a closet. So I try to channel my father, a perennial, if not tenacious frowner. But it’s no use?I cannot make the idiot-grin leave my face. The thought of all that money makes the world tip forward.
“But let me see if I can make some sense of the stipulations. In laymen’s terms, of course. Before you get your hopes up, there will be no lump sum payout. It looks here like he intends for you to receive a maximum of $157,407.41 for the next fifty-four years, payable in one installment in January of each year.”
My heart rate approaches normal again. But I still feel like I swallowed a slow-leaking helium balloon.
“The problem is…well, the best I can figure anyway, is that your father wanted to discourage any kind of welfare mentality. You will not receive the one hundred fifty-seven thousand and change. Rather, you will only receive a sum that matches your current salary. And the rest will be given to charity?your choice, of course.”
“Hold up. I’m not following you.”
“Let’s see,” he says, smoothing out the wrinkles in my W-2. “You made $13,423.59 last year, correct?”
I shrug, then nod.
“So, from your father’s inheritance, you will only receive $13, 423.59 in the coming calendar year, with the rest going to charity. The idea is that if you earn more you get more. And anything over the one-hundred fifty thousand mark entitles you to the full inheritance amount each January.”
“That sounds like Pop.”
“There is another, shall we say, loophole here. There are certain stipulations enumerated here that, if met by midnight tonight, would allow you to access nearly a half-million dollars as early as next week. If, and only if, the following criteria are met.”
“I’m ready.”
“Okay, but the will also stipulates that once you choose to exercise this loophole there’s no turning back. In other words, as soon as I lay out said criteria, you are bound and committed to them or you’ll forfeit the half-million and simply revert to the original plan. So, are you sure you’re up for this?”
“How hard could it be?”
Baxter smiles at me, non-committal.
“This must be what it feels like to be on a reality TV show. Go ahead. I’m ready.”
I affix my signature to the batch of forms and slide them back across the smooth blotter. Baxter then makes me produce my driver’s license to prove that the scrawling wavy line is indeed my legal signature. With the legalities dispensed of, my new attorney proceeds to enumerate stipulations in my father’s own words: 1) Finish college. You don’t finish, you don’t get the money. 2) Use some of it to help somebody start a business. Then, watch what happens and see if you can’t learn something. 3) Sponsor a child. 4) Make amends with at least one person you’ve hurt. 5) If she’s still alive, call your mother and tell her you love her. 6) If you don’t already have a kid, get a dog. Life’s not all about you and what you want. 7) Find God.
My mother’s face appears on the movie screen in my brain, reminding me of her favorite self-description: “If Julie Andrews had a plump little sister, that’d be me.” I tell her that I love her again, and as usual, she winks at me. We do this a few times a day. But her face then morphs into the child version of Harold Freeman’s and a familiar sensation tugs at the pant leg of my soul. Genuine sadness? Selfish regret over blown opportunities? Some of both?
“Obviously you cannot finish college by midnight tonight. However, you must prove beyond a reasonable doubt that you are actively pursuing the completion of the aforementioned stipulations.”
I want to ask if he talks to his kids like that. Instead, I say, “Is that it?”
“No, there’s a postscript.”
“A what?”
“You know, a P.S.” He makes clawing quotation marks in the air with his fingers. “Like at the end of a letter.”
I nod my understanding.
“It says, ‘I love you, son’.”
That may be the single weirdest thing I’ve ever heard.
***
The surrealism just keeps on coming. After Baxter Billingham informed me that I had less than twelve hours to complete my father’s provisos, I decided to call for reinforcements. I dial Geri’s number, rehearsing lame apologies for standing her up earlier.
“Hello?”
It takes a second for the voice to register. “Dan? Is that you?”
Dan remains mute, adhering to his policy of refusing to answer what he deems a ridiculous question.
“Sorry, man. I thought I dialed Geri’s number. Anyway, I need your help. Can you meet me downtown, say, like in twenty minutes?”
“Yes, you did. And no, I can’t. Hang on, I’ll get Geri.”
“Wait. What?” This is confusing, even for Dan-speak. “You can’t what?”
“Can’t help you. Not right now anyway. I’m kinda in the middle of something. Let me get?”
“Wait, wait! Help me out and I swear, I’ll…I’ll give you $100,000 to launch your computer business.”
“Oh, alright then. Hang on a sec and I’ll get Geri.”
After some odd scraping noises and the sound of muffled voices, Geri comes on the line. “I’m not speaking to you.”
“You just did.”
“Shut up. What do you want, anyway?”
“I need your help. Can you come downtown and pick me up? Like now? I’ve got some pretty urgent, um, errands to run. Ooh, and bring Dan with you.”
I brace myself for some smartass remark. Instead, she groans, then sucks in air like she’s preparing to dive for coins on the bottom of a pool. After fifteen seconds or so, she releases a gush of air and says, “Alright, but you’re gonna owe me.”
***
“No, no, no.” I see Dan’s head shaking in the rearview of Geri’s Taurus like an oversized bobble-head doll. “This is no good. There has not been a bona fide God-sighting on a college campus in decades. You’re wasting your time.”
“I thinks he’s right,” Geri says, holding her giant tummy as if it’s made of thin porcelain.
“This is not the finding God part. There’s a few practical matters to take care of first.”
I squeeze between two battered Volvos in the faculty parking lot of the local community college. Sweaty student landscapers are toiling to spruce up the forsaken grounds, but they haven’t much to work with. It occurs to me that it would be like offering breath mints to a dog. I leave the car idling away as I hurry into the admissions office and ask for the requisite paperwork to get myself enrolled in college. When I return, Dan is peering into the window of one of the Volvos, using his hands as a visor. Geri’s either dead or napping.
I tap Dan on his bony shoulder and he spins around, hands up in defense of Lord knows what. “Oh, it’s just you.”
“See anything you like in there?”
Dan shrugs, looking sheepish and guilty and a bit devilish, as if he’s plotting a return visit for a little breaking-and-entering.
“Hey Dan, tell me something. You like Geri, don’t you?”
He grins. “What’s not to like?”
“But I mean, you know like like?
Now Dan looks confused, like it’s a trick question, like if he answers incorrectly he’ll put his hundred grand at risk.
Then Geri says, “You know I can hear you guys.”
We climb back into the car and head toward east for no good reason. “Dan did you bring your gizmo?”
He holds up his clunky homemade computer thingy.
“Fin
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