Tough

Worn Down by the months of arguments, hysterics, threats, pressures, by the endless meetings with lawyers and accountants, by the "What about the house?" and the "What about the car?," by his fruitless efforts to deal with the surrender program of his lawyers and the droning sanctimonies of his wife's psychiatrist (who had also been engaged by his wife to become the kids' psychiatrist) and the final cave-in before the falsely sympathetic judge, who praised him and told him he was a "total good father" and a "total good citizen" and, after all, "the house was for the children" and "the car was for the children" and "the money was for the children"--when it was all over, Mac Light spent a day getting drunk alone in his dismal, malodorous three-room apartment in Chelsea. So be it. He rested. He thought of nothing. He cried a little. He roused himself briefly and pictured the house he had designed and practically built by himself--the large windows, the wrap-around deck, the kids trying out their first roller skates on the deck, the fireplaces, the trees he had refused to have cut down, the bird feeder he had made, the chickadees and the red-headed woodpecker that arrived every single morning at eight for their gift of bread crumbs before he took off for the business. Also, briefly, he pictured a dinner-table scene that was now his ex-family table: trying to eat roast beef while listening to his now-ex-wife's whining sermon about the crooked butcher who had tried to slip inferior beef over on her. She was a great cook. She knew food, what was supposed to keep you alive, what was supposed to do you in, etc. Eating with her was dutiful. He had done it dutifully.

By late afternoon, he stood in the dusk, swaying in front of a window, staring at life going on in the apartment house across the street. A baby getting a bath in a basin on the stand at the window, fat adult arms grabbing him as the baby grabbed a rubber animal, the fat arms shaking the water drops off the baby, then encompassing the baby in a towel. Fade out. Another apartment, empty of furniture, newly renovated with newly installed French windows, with white-overalled painters working late. White walls in every room. Good taste. Looking things over was a woman, young and slender, wearing a gold-colored warm-up suit. A single. Mac sat down heavily on the floor, picked up his telephone and dialed the number of his only friend, Bertrand.

"What did you give her?" Bertrand asked immediately, his tone peculiarly accusatory, with double the intensity of Mac's now-ex-in-laws.

"Everything," Mac said. "The works. Even the kids. Now the psychiatrist will be free to do the complete brainwash of the kids. Those poor kids."

"Did you give her the house, too? The whole house?"

"The whole house. Poor kids. Eating with her alone. All alone in there with her."

"Did you give her the three thousand a month?"

"Four."

"I knew it," Bertrand said, almost with satisfaction. "I tried to tell you, you had to be tough."

"I tried. But those lawyers. They took both kids right (continued on page 260)Tough(continued from page 120) into the courtroom. Eight and ten years old. Her lawyers used everything. Her group--you know, the psychiatrist's group with all those embittered women--they sent her to those lawyers, and they were relentless. They were tough."

"You should have been tough, I mean tough," Bertrand said. "I was tough. I had to be tough. I even got the car."

Mac didn't say anything to Bertrand. His eyes closed, he breathed heavily into the mouthpiece.

"Hey, how do you feel?" Bertrand said after a moment of silence. "Listen, I mean, how do you feel?"

"Well--" Mac gave a choking cough at the telephone and hung up. Big help.

Late the next morning, around 11, he telephoned for a radio taxi. Twenty minutes, the dispatcher said. Time for Tropicana, oatmeal, Maxim. Dutiful habits die hard. Standing at the window, sipping the coffee, he checked on life across the way. The shades of the baby's room were drawn. Naptime. The newly renovated apartment had been moved into. Packing crates, an upright piano, inverted lamp shades, rolled-up rugs, cartons, back of sofa against back of armchair. What a mess. No people. No sign of any woman in a gold-colored warm-up suit. Only a large white cat and a golden retriever. Mac could see them running from room to room. Good luck to them. Time to go to work. The taxi from Chelsea to Long Island City cost $14. The hell with it. Business as usual. Lite Boxes, Inc. The business of making boxes, some of cardboard, some of wood, some of cardboard and wood. A solid business. He owned a five-story building, with his shop right on the premises. Fifty-six people, including a secretary, an engineer of sorts and a book-keeper, right on the premises, too. Not bad. His ex-wife, thank God, had not had much to do with the business since their marriage, before which she had been his bookkeeper. The business brought in enough to pay for the house, the car, the private schools, the camps, the country club, the remodeled kitchen, the psychiatrist, the group, going away, the lawyers, the alimony and the smelly apartment.

When Mac walked into the building, everybody was very nice to him, addressing him as "Boss" and seeming to understand what he had just been through. He felt more distant than ever from his employees. Usually, Mac stayed at the business until after five, after everybody else had left for the day. He liked locking up. Today, he couldn't stand sitting at his desk. He looked at his watch. Three-thirty. The kids would be getting home from school. Instead of going outside to ride their bikes on the side roads or to play in the woods, they would, for some screw-ball reason, be getting rushed into some scheduled painting-class program or to the psychiatrist. They had never responded when Mac had tried to get them interested in feeding the birds. One winter morning, when he had been in a great rush to get to the business, he had forgotten to give the birds their crumbs. That evening, when he got home, three chickadees and the red-headed woodpecker were sitting on the deck, still waiting for him. His wife had listened to the story with impatience. The kids hadn't even wanted to listen. Too bad.

His secretary had placed a stack of accumulated mail on his desk. He went through it slowly, marking instructions for replies on paper slips from his memo pad, Light's Lites, and clipping them to the letters. Deftly, he threw out pieces of mail he didn't want to answer--the pleas from charity organizations, the announcements about software and computers, a come-on to buy lakeland acreage in Missouri, a solicitation from a trade magazine for an ad. What was this? An invitation to a party being given that evening for one of his steady customers, Springer Toys, a company that bought at least $10,000 a year in boxes for the toys. For years, Springer had given him free toys for the kids. Mac threw the invitation into his wastebasket. Almost immediately, he retrieved it. A party given for, not by, Springer. Unusual. Mac read:

We Hope You can Join us on Board the S.S. Holmensfjord

For a Party Being Given for Our Client Springer Toys, Inc.

To Celebrate the Introduction of Jeevesobot

The Amazing Robot Servant

Cocktails, Buffet and Dancing

The invitation was from a public-relations firm with a Madison Avenue address, an R.S.V.P. number and the name of the PR representative in charge of the party: Connie. Mac telephoned. Connie's voice was high-pitched, bored. She told him to come early. He waited an hour and then took a taxi--$14 again--over to 49th Street and the Hudson River, where the S.S. Holmensfjord, a cruise ship, was docked.

Joe Springer, president of Springer Toys, was in the reception salon with his wife, his three 40ish sons and their wives, his sister, his brother-in-law and a couple of cousins, all officers or employees of the company. All of them were obviously very happy with one another. All of them were heavy-set, friendly and in love with their toys. Jeevesobot was on display in the salon--a butler robot sprinkled with lights and buttons and programmed to sweep, hammer, walk sideways, carry a tray and pour a drink. Springer was ecstatic about Jeevesobot's sales.

"He's a Cabbage Patch-type hot item, Mac, and he's only $24.95," Springer said. "He'll need plenty of boxes, Mac."

"I won't complain," Mac said.

"Connie's pointing the way, " Springer said. He put his arm around the young PR woman, who was looking at him and his relatives with measured approval. She was about 35, with eyelashes so heavy with black paint that she regarded Mac with half-closed eyes. She was more dressed up than anyone else at the party, with a very short--above the knees--black-silk dress with tiers of ruffles and a crazily low front exposing three fourths of her breasts. On her head, perched sideways, was a broad-brimmed Toulouse-Lautrec hat.

"We're doing a video featuring Jeevesobot," Connie said to Mac. "We're doing a book. And we're talking a comic strip. We're talkinga Saturday-morning TV cartoon."

"See what I mean?" Springer said joyously.

"This is the send-off," Connie said.

"That's what I mean," Springer said. "All this--" He waved at the adjoining salon: round tables seating six or ten, beautifully set for a feast, with Jeevesobot as the centerpiece on every table; three bars, each attended by white-jacketed stewards; a long buffet with bowls and platters of all sizes, filled with still-untouched mounds of nourishment; a five-piece dance orchestra, instruments poised at the ready, to one side of a circular marble dance floor in the center of the salon; and stacks and stacks of Jeevesobots waiting to come out of Mac's own Lite Boxes.

"Big names are coming," Connie said in her bored voice. "Vice-presidents of entertainment of all three networks. Video makers bidding for the video. Bjorn Borg is coming with his new girlfriend. A representative of Cardinal O'Connor. Educators. Pediatricians. Simon & Schuster. Borough president Andy Stein, with his wife, who's pregnant. He's here."

A waiter came over, offering glasses of champagne on a tray. Mac took a glass.

"And everybody goes home with a Jeevesobot," Springer said. "Two or three for people with kids." He winked at Mac.

"Well, actually--" Mac said.

"Do you like the environment?" Connie said, apparently not hearing Mac and seeming to ask the question of the buffet table or maybe of the stacked boxes. Mac tried to catch her eye. No success. Oh, well. In a way, that was restful. He snatched another glass of champagne from a passing tray.

"She means the ship," Springer said. "Nobody ever had a party given for them on this ship. This is a first."

"A first for you," Connie said. "A first for this ship. But not for me. I've given parties on the Intrepid, on the Sagafjord, on the Queen, on a lot. I give a lot of parties. Yesterday, I did Beto Tri Hi, the new video sound, in the Rainbow Room. Everybody went home with a video."

"Eat, drink and be merry," Springer said. "Excuse me. I want to say hello to our main pediatrician."

Mac tried to edge closer to the buffet. He was very hungry. What a spread. What a nice, quick way to get dinner over with. But Connie took his arm and steered him to a waiter with champagne. Mac took another glass.

"I want you to meet my Vital Video people," Connie told him. "In case you want to make a video about your boxes."

In a rush, Mac started telling Connie how he began making boxes as an offshoot of his father's lumber business, how he traveled to forest areas, timing the trips to include going away with his now-ex-wife and kids. He laughed nervously, telling Connie it was now all over with his ex-wife. He noticed, as he talked, that she never once looked at him. He couldn't even tell if she was listening to him. She seemed to be searching to find out who was there. The less she looked at him the faster he talked, telling her that he went to very interesting paper conventions and wood conventions in places like Scottsdale, Arizona, and Monterey, California, and Portland, Oregon, and even to Europe and Disney World.

Connie seemed to have spotted the people she was looking for.

"See you," she said to Mac. "I want you on my mailing list."

"Light is getting lit," Mac called out after her with a nervous laugh.

Without turning around, she waved the back of her hand to him.

What a relief. Now he could eat in peace. She was an interesting young woman, but she had her work to do. At the buffet, finishing his champagne, he started with open sandwiches, Norwegian style, of smoked salmon and baby shrimps. With another glass of champagne, he munched on sticks of celery, carrots and zucchini. Thank God he didn't have to talk to anybody. Swedish meatballs. Tiny breasts of what seemed to be fried chicken. He didn't have to smile or pretend to smile. One of the stewards was slicing a large roast beef. It looked wonderful. He remembered the roast-beef dinners at home, at his now-ex-home. He had never been able to taste the meat; he had just downed it. At this moment, he could taste what he was looking at without even taking it. There was also a tremendous salad bowl spilling over with just the kind of greenery he loved. With a plate of roast beef in one hand and a plate overflowing with salad in the other, he headed across the marble dance floor toward a round table to sit down. The salon was crowded now. The orchestra was playing The Anniversary Waltz. All of the Springers were dancing, all happily with one another. As Mac made his way past them, each and every Springer told him to enjoy himself.

Connie was sitting at a table with a young man who had on a maroon-velvet tuxedo-type jacket over a white turtleneck shirt and blue jeans. As Mac sat down, the young man left.

"He wants to do sixty seconds on Jeevesobot for E.T.," Connie said.

"Everybody likes the toy," Mac said. He could hear his voice off in what seemed like a distance.

"Yeah," Connie said. "I'm talking minutes. I'm talking two minutes."

"It's very nice to have a party for the toy," Mac said.

"We've got a great gimmick coming up," Connie said. "Some dancers are coming out wearing Jeevesobot costumes, pretending to be the robot, and they'll do a dance, sweeping, bowing, pouring drinks--everything in the dance format. Five dancers. No, six, because they have to have partners."

She went off in search of something. Mac tasted the roast beef. It had gotten a little cold, but it was still delicious. The salad, too, was delicious, with Italian dressing. Just right. One of the best meals of his life.

Springer came over and sat down. One happy fella. Mac almost resented the intrusion. He put down his fork.

"Andy Stein's wife is here," Springer said. "Paul Simon's brother is here."

The dancers dressed as Jeevesobots came out and danced. At the end of their dance, they poured wine for the people seated at tables--red or white. Mac had a couple of glasses of each. Then he went to the dessert table and returned to his seat carrying a huge slab of strawberry shortcake surrounded by multicolored petits fours. Then black coffee. Three cups of black coffee.

One of Springer's sons put him into a taxi, handing him two Jeevesobots as he left.

"One for each arm," the son said.

"How about one of the big, dancing live ones?" Mac said.

The next day, he quickly checked on life across the street while getting dressed. Shades drawn. Naptime again. In the newly renovated apartment, Mac saw the slender woman in the gold-colored warm-up suit. She was putting clothes into a bedroom closet. The dog was wandering around. The white cat was on the bed. Progress. Mac skipped breakfast. Out with dutiful habits. Out. Out.

He took a taxi to Lite Boxes. His secretary handed him a message: call connie. He called. Connie invited him to a party she was giving two nights later at Studio 54 in honor of Break Dancers Popcorn, a new brand being brought out by some rock group. Mac didn't catch their name. He told Connie he would be there. There would be popcorn, drinks, dinner and dancing, and Connie was giving everybody a present of a little popcorn machine in addition to Break Dancers Popcorn. The next night, Connie said, she was doing a big one at the Pierre, formal, for a model agency. Dinner at nine. And a week from tonight, she was giving a party in SoHo honoring a new kind of nonfattening beer, with elaborate foods to drink it down with. He considered calling his ex-wife to find out if the kids might be available to go with him to the popcorn party, but he didn't. Anyway, he didn't want to have to go out and pick up the kids at the house.

Everything was falling into place. Even those damn birds. By now, they would probably have found another feeder.