Intro.
Thank you for finding the Motel Americana Podcast. If you’re enjoying the show, please consider helping it to continue to run by clicking the support link at Motel Americana Podcast.com or by finding us on Patreon.
If you’re already familiar with the show, you’ll know that these stories are based upon the writings of Oscar Garret, a kid who lived at the Motel Americana in the 80’s and who bugged the rooms. The audio surveillance footage that Oscar captured clearly served as the source material for his semi-fictional writings, and those writings serve as the source material for the audio drama that’s presented here.
A full account of my encounter with Oscar and how I came into possession of his writings and audio footage can be found in episodes one and two. Wherever possible, I have integrated the original surveillance recordings into the narrative.
Which is the case with The Knee. Though this is the sixth episode to be released, it was actually the first I produced. It was the first because the text is so faithful to the verbal exchanges Oscar’s bugs captured, and so it was the easiest to sort through and assemble in a way that made any sort of narrative sense in the audio format.
Which smacks ironic because given the nature of the story you’re about to hear, making sense is just about the last phrase I’d have foreseen using in an introduction to it.
Why The Knee is the sixth episode to be released instead of the sixth bears some explanation.
At the tender age in the project’s development when I first cobbled it together, the whole business of transmogrifying a teenager’s arguably insane writings into podcast form was still just an idle experiment, a pawing at the possum, and when I assessed what I had on my hands in the working cut, and what it might portend for the rest of the works, I grinned– you can’t help but grin at The Knee really– then I shrugged and threw up my hands. Who, I thought, would put up with a tale such as this? And if the others proved to be more of the same? Forget it. I nearly hung a tag on the body’s toe, knee or no knee.
But fate had other plans for Oscar’s Frankenstein. Two nights after shoving the monster aside, an old college acquaintance paid me a surprise visit. He happened to be passing through town on his way to pick up his ex-girlfriend’s ex-junky ex-lover from a rehab center in New Mexico… as a favor to her. Or so he said. He had a predilection for tall tales, my acquaintance.
But on the other hand, he was the kind of guy who’d do something strange like that for the fun of it. For kicks, he’d say. The experience. A marvelous and bountiful adventure, he’d call it, an odd and lovely tale to impart upon his progeny.
Now what sort of progeny would sit still to have an account of such a journey imparted upon them, who knows. But all that notwithstanding, it didn’t take long for my companion and I to reach, as he liked to call it, the maximum intoxication threshold, at which point I decided to play for him, without explanation, the audio that shall follow herewith.
In my garage sitting on the yellow plaid fabric weave of a semi-rusted lawn chair, my capricious acquaintance listened to Oscar’s tale utterly impassive. He didn’t laugh. Not once. Nor did he sigh, roll his eyes, sneer, cringe, or tug gently on his own earlobe the way Bogart did when contemplating a complex problem in the old movies. My acquaintance did exactly nothing, and he did it without expression.
And when it was all over, with his eyes still fixated on an indeterminate point in the unpainted sheetrock ceiling, my acquaintance slowly… smiled. He smiled for a minute longer than it takes to run a country marathon, in fact, and he kept on smiling.
It was an unnerving smile. The smile of the insane. But more unnerving was that some moments later, just like that, without warning, the smile abruptly disappeared. My acquaintance then cast his full gaze upon me. He rose. He demanded I follow him, which I did, nervously.
Outside on the driveway while pacing under a pustule moon, as he’d later describe it, my acquaintance informed me of how important he felt it was that I continue to process Oscar’s notebooks. He told me that under no circumstances was I to stop transposing the contents of the cardboard box until every last drop of Oscar’s stories was squeezed out of it.
Sure, I told him. No problem.
But evidently less than enamored by my gusto, or lack thereof, my acquaintance grabbed me by the shirt and shook me back and forth with great and terrible violence sending my head flip-flopping all about, and instantly causing an intense wave of nausea to envelope me.
When he was through with the shaking, my acquaintance slapped me across the face with his forehand. And then again with the backhand on the return for good measure.
Listen to me, he said. You must do this. You must. It’s imperative that you complete what you’ve begun. You have an absurdist Rimbaud on your hands.
I opened my mouth to offer a reply, but he slapped it off my tongue with two quick strikes before it materialized.
Don’t tell me Rimbaud was an absurdist, he said, Just tell me you’ll finish this– if for no one else, then for the kid who wrote this stuff. He’s a young animal. A Van Gogh wandering his wheatfields with eyes blazing. The mad artist unspoiled by doubt and convention, the wild child we pray to God still resides somewhere within all of us buried under the scar tissue. Promise me. Promise me goddamn it!
I nodded with something like gravity and that was that. We returned to the business of becoming sloshed.
When I awoke the next morning my acquaintance was gone, off to New Mexico presumably… the hard drive containing my recording of Oscar’s story with him.
My acquaintance must’ve found a change of plans somewhere along the line of his drunken dreams. But I didn’t. I continued to process Oscar’s tales one after another as you’ve been hearing.
Then some months later I got word that a short film based on Oscar’s knee story had appeared on the D-Movie film festival circuit elbowing for screen time in the remotest corners of the entertainment business. I can only imagine the production of that film. I picture a scene equal parts Hunter S., DeSade and Bosch. My wily friend evidently demanded that his actors deliver their dialog precisely as it was spoken on Oscar’s surveillance recordings so that he could later dub the audio over their poor lip-syncing faces.
I shit you not.
And as unlikely as such an undertaking may seem, there is, in fact, proof of this enterprise. Go ahead and search The Knee, search Motel Americana short film, you’ll find it. Hell, I’ll save you the trouble. I’ll post it right here at motelamericanapodcast.com to prove it. You’ll see for yourself.
Anyway, long story short, I’m happy to say that at long last the audio my acquaintance absconded with has once again come into my possession.
The circumstances around how I tracked down my thieving acquaintance and wrestled the recording back out of him, trust me, another story altogether, and one that I may very well impart upon you at some point… but I’ve strayed much too far from the matter at hand already.
So without further ado, the first of the Motel Americana episodes to be recorded, the sixth to be released, and the thing itself, Oscar Garrett’s The Knee.
*
The Knee
Farberware lived in the motel on and off over the past few years, sometimes for as much as three week stretches at a time, and the kid behind the desk had at some point taken a liking to him, rendering negotiation of an early check in unnecessary. Still, Farberware pressed the kid. Look, he said, I don’t care if the room isn’t ready, technically speaking. A room like the ones you got here are never ready, technically speaking.
The kid shrugged his shoulders and told him, Technically speaking, I don’t give a shit. The usual?
Farberware rapped his knuckles on the surface of the counter and said, Hair of the dog, Lloyd, hair of the dog, though he was pretty sure the kid’s name was Oscar.
The kid, whatever his name, slid Farberware’s usual key across the desk and the gold brown sixty-six winked at him from the orange plastic key ring upon which it was engraved. Farberware spun the assembly around his middle finger twice, then turned. As he walked out of the lobby, the kid felt duty bound to inform his client that the room had been recently occupied by a performer traveling with the burlesque act that had just blown in and out of town. That he was some kind of clown. Literally.
But Farberware didn’t even break stride at this. True, upon entering the room he wasn’t particularly thrilled about the smell the performer had left behind. Nor the unmade bed, the moist towels strewn about the bathroom, and what might’ve been white clown make up, or perhaps cocaine, powdered in a thin film over the surface of the desk, but he ignored the tableau of filth and set right to work lustily and joyfully polishing a set of rare and expensive dominoes he’d procured by nefarious and better-left-unsaid means some years ago, but had pulled from a storage unit just that morning. He’d gotten about half the set back to near mint condition when the phone rang.
About a dozen or so of Fabrerware’s associates knew of his semi-permanent living arrangements at the Motel Americana and might’ve tried in a pinch to track him down there, but the voice on the other end of the line belonged to none of them. It said, Are you Lloyd Farberware?
Yeah, what’s it to you?
Were you related to a Louie Farberware?
Yeah, he was my uncle, what’s it to you?
Well, we found your Uncle Louie’s knee.
Picking up and rubbing a two-six combination with felt cloth, Farberware paused only briefly before deciding to entertain whatever it was the voice was proffering. That’s crazy, he said, We buried Uncle Louie four years ago.
Undeterred, the voice replied, Well, we found his knee.
Where?
In Jersey.
Obviously, Farberware thought. Well, what part of Jersey?
In Paterson.
Was it close to the river?
What river?
Oh, you know, the Paterson river, the one that’s in the William Carlos Williams poem.
Oh, you mean Paterson.
Yeah, the poem Paterson. Farberware refrained from adding dummy to this.
No, no, it wasn’t near that river.
Well, then where was it? Was it by the old church?
What old church?
You know, the old church on Main Street.
Uh, well, yeah, sort of.
There’s a great place there, Farberware mused, Where you can get pepperoni bagels, Right around the corner. You know if that place is still there?
Farberware could hear the voice struggling to maintain some semblance of professionalism. It said, Well, sir, actually, we’re calling about your Uncle’s knee.
Oh yes, So you found his knee.
Yes, we found his knee.
Uh, okay. So whaddya want me to do?
You’ve got to come down and pick it up.
I’ve got to come down to pick up my Uncle’s knee?
Yeah.
Well, can’t you just bury it?
No, not without your permission.
Farberware said, Well, you have my permission.
It’s not that easy, the voice told him. You see, you have to sign a paper.
What do you mean I have to sign a paper? Farberware demanded. What am I going to do with a knee? I don’t have time to come down and sign a piece of paper for a… for a fricking knee. Hey, is it his kneecap or his whole knee?
Without being quite aware he was doing it, Farberware began eating Chinese food out of a carton the previous clown tenant had left behind.
It’s sort of, uh, there’s part of his thigh on there, the voice informed him, And part of his shin.
Well, then why did you call it a knee?
What am I supposed to call it? It’s not a leg.
Through a mouthful of Chow Mei Fun, Farberware said, I would think that you people would have… you know, better names for things. You’re gonna call people up and tell ‘em you found a knee and really found half-a-leg? That’s crazy.
Well sir, I really don’t see that it matters.
You don’t see that it matters?! You don’t see that it matters?! You’re talking about my Uncle Louie, my flesh and blood—in both senses.
I’m sorry, sir, I apologize. We have half of your Uncle Louie’s leg. And we need you to come down to our station and sign some papers and take it with you.
Take it with me where?
It doesn’t matter where you take it.
What do you think I should do with it?
Well, most people would probably bury it.
Well, where would they bury it? I mean, can I just bury it in my backyard?
Actually, no, you can’t bury it in your backyard.
Why not?
Because that’s not an official burial site. You can’t just bury human beings anywhere you want to.
Well, why not?
I’m not sure. That’s really not my department.
So you’re telling me that I’ve got to come down there and pick up my Uncle Louie’s half-leg, and then I can’t bury it in my backyard… Can I throw it the garbage?
No, you can’t throw it in the garbage. That would be highly illegal.
All right, well, what am I gonna do with it then?
Well I suggest that you bury it in a graveyard.
Bury it in a graveyard? What are you talking about? Those plots run five, six hundred dollars.
Sir, I’m just giving you my opinion.
Do you think they would give me a discount, for, you know, half a leg instead of a body?
I’m not sure.
‘Cause I heard once that little people, you know, midgets and such, get gravesites for half off.
Uh, I’m really out of my area of expertise on this one.
You’ve got quite a sense of humor… where’s it at now?
It’s in the freezer.
In the freezer?
We have to keep the body parts there or else they’ll… well, I don’t really think we need to get into this.
No. Go ahead. I gotta hear this one.
Well, the body parts start to smell if we don’t put them in the freezer.
Let me ask you, do they all smell equally bad, or is one part known to smell the worst? Is there a worst smelling body part, you know, if you remove it from the body and let it sit around for a while?
Well, that would probably be the anus or the intestines. But I suppose the liver would smell pretty bad too.
Well, what about the soul?
The what?
The soul. And, you know, do you think he’s up there in heaven with only half a leg?
Sir, I have a few other calls to make today.
Actually, I bet God could make some pretty fine prosthetic body parts. He made a woman from a-
Sir, I really must go.
Well, what about you… do you want it?
Precisely ten miles away from the Motel Americana in the Municipal Department of Recovered Body Parts, the managing director’s day just got a little bit better. Making an effort to disguise his mirth, The Good Doctor, for he certainly was that, said, Me?
Yeah, you.
Well, um, actually… yeah, I might.
Wipe-picking grains of rice out of his beard, Farberware said, Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. If you take it, do I still have to come down and sign for it?
No… I think I can handle the paperwork, the Good Doctor chimed.
Okay, just one more thing.
Yes?
I want to know what you’re gonna use it for.
The Good Doctor slowly lowered his ear down toward the receiver making static sound effects with his mouth then said, I guess I would… probably…
The Good Doctor hung up the phone.
He picked it back up immediately. He spun the rotary dial exactly seven times. He said into the receiver, I got something that may interest you.
*
Annoyed by the distraction, Farberware put aside his domino cleaning task so he could clear his head. He showered. He decided to shave. As he scraped the six month old beard from his face, he stared at a man he was beginning to recognize less and less in the mirror. And when he began talking, though he was looking at the beardless stranger, it was to the dominoes he was addressing. He could just make them out on the table behind him in the reflection.
We’ve had good times, haven’t we? He called back. Remember that time with the Swede? The Swede.
Farberware chuckled over the memory.
He couldn’t break me, he said. He tried. Thought he had the tiles all lined up. Yes, he certainly tried. I killed off his double and they were heavy. Heavier than I would have guessed from a Swede. You know, I can’t say it was painful.
Farberware, puffed on a cigar, then set in on the other side of his face.
Twelve, thirteen hours, he said, I can’t say the time crawled by. It was just a blink. I felt like a conductor, a virtuoso. But listen to me… taking all the credit.
Farberware tilted a motel glass filled with whiskey at the dominoes over his shoulder then took a gulp.
There was something between us, he said. We made a good team. Coltrane had his favorite sax, right? Every artist has a kind of love affair with his instrument, his materials…
But a man can’t wander in the desert for too many years… I’m through with locusts and wild honey, my friend. A man has needs. Specific needs. Things he needs done and must do.
Farberware slapped water on his new face. He inspected himself.
Okay. It’s time, he said. I’ve got the whole thing lined up. Most people think that dominoes is a game of luck… but we know better, don’t we? This is it, my friend… Our final play. May you find good use, and soft fingers.
Farberware put on his best suit. His only suit.
*
Meanwhile, The Good Doctor stood with Farberware’s Uncle Louie’s slowly defrosting, plastic wrapped, half leg under his arm in room sixty of the Motel Americana, a mere three rooms, coincidentally, from where Farberware was bidding farewell to his dominoes.
In his line of work, the Good Doctor had heard plenty of stories, of course, but this was the first time he had to deal directly in any way whatsoever with operatives of the underground. He just wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.
Bruce, the smaller of the two operatives present, liked to take his time, though he didn’t stop pacing or smoking the whole time. He instructed the Good Doctor to, Just put it on the table.
The Good Doctor was uncertain. Don’t you want to see it?
Bruce chuckled. I’m lookin’ at you, and that’s enough. If I didn’t trust you, you wouldn’t even be here… Take some time to think about that reallll slow. Frightens a man, don’t it?
Bruce set his eyes upon the Good Doctor. Whether the glimmer of madness he saw in them was artificially constructed for effect or if it was the genuine article was irrelevant. Either way, it caused beads of sweat to spill from the pores across the Good Doctor’s forehead.
Bruce chortled. Then told Lenny, the bald behemoth in repose on the bed, to, Take the goods and put ‘em in the tub.
Lennie set aside the book he’d been reading, rose from the bed, and relieved the Good Doctor of his burden. The Good Doctor gulped and asked Bruce, Do you have the money?
Bruce fired back, Do I have the money? Do you have to ask?
Bruce slapped a smallish purple case onto the table. The Good Doctor approached it, popped open the clasps, and began thumbing through the bills inside.
You’re gonna count the money? Bruce demanded, He’s gonna count the money!? I didn’t examine the knee and now you’re gonna count the money. You people are amazing.
The Good Doctor continued counting and sweating, I don’t mean to offend you, he said, You know, I really don’t mind if you examine the knee.
What do you think, I’m some kind of bit player, some kind of small-timer. A chump?
Well, we’re making a rather large transaction here. In my line of work, meticulousness is a sign of a job well done.
Well, in my business, we follow a little thing called the Golden Rule. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. You sell me a bad knee, I break your good knee.
The Good Doctor counted faster. With all due respect, he said, That seems like a real waste of resources. I mean, if you took a few proactive steps, you could avoid the time it would take to track me down and break my kneecap. Additionally, these precautionary steps could prevent violence, retaliation, police records, legal fees, gangland slaying… let alone, and I hope you don’ mind my saying this, the perpetuation of some rather maudlin clichés.
Lenny, who’d just returned from the bathroom retook his position on the bed and opened his book to where he’d left off. The Good Doctor glanced over and recognized the title, something by Joyce that had prompted him to drop Advanced English Lit his sophomore year, but refrained from commenting. Lenny said, Perhaps that’s the point.
Bruce looked at his associate expectantly. If you take away the violence, Lenny continued, The mayhem, you eliminate drama, which is the lifeblood of myth. And, as you know, gangsterism is predicated upon myth. Look at somebody like legs Diamond, for example, the Catskills rum runner. At one point in his fabled career, when he was trying to make a name for himself, he hired his own press agent.
The Good Doctor, having finished counting the money, snapped shut the case and said, Suit yourself, I’m leaving. And fled from the room with the money as quickly as he could.
Bruce told his subordinate, You know, Lenny, you didn’t have to explain anything to that prick. He finds the body parts, but I drive the market. He digs up the body parts that I bury. Have you ever heard the expression, those who can’t, teach…?
Yeah, sure.
That’s what I’m talking about.
How much did we pay for that knee, boss?
We paid big-time money. You know why?
It took significant effort for Lenny not to roll his eyes. He said, Because we’re big time?
Bruce lit a cigar, regally. That’s right, he said. We make things happen. We grease the palm that spins the wheel. Hell, we are the wheel. He blew a ring of smoke into the room and said, Bring me my knee.
*
What followed thereafter was an intense, complex, and somewhat convoluted series of exchanges that lit up the phone lines of the black market body parts syndicate, the culmination of which prompted Bruce to punch into the phone a sequence of numbers that caused Farberware’s line to ring three rooms down.
Bruce said, Farberware you asshole, we’ve got your Uncle’s knee.
Farberware said, Christ.
Was he a rather corpulent man? Bruce demanded.
Corpulent?
Yeah, you know. Big. Large. Rotund.
Sort of. Yes, he was big.
Gigantic big of just big?
Okay, he was on the gigantic side.
Well that’s just great! Bruce screeched. God damn it, God damn it! He held the phone away from his face and spit out at his heavy, Lenny, he says his Uncle was big, gigantic big, a tub of god damn lard. Can you believe this?! Then through clenched teeth Bruce told Farberware, Now you listen to me, you little son of a bitch, no one told me your Uncle was gigantic.
Farberware said, He was an Italian from Jersey City. And before that, a Sicilian. It wasn’t his fault. I barely escaped the same fate. Luckily, my mother was German.
A German Sicilian, huh?
And Dutch, Farberware informed Bruce, Farberware is Dutch.
Your uncle couldn’t have been from Northern Italy or even Middle Italy, where the diets are a bit more reasonable? Fucking Sicilians. Gotta have meat with every meal. Cheese, butter. They gotta fry everything. I bet he ate like a pig. Sopresata, scungilli, breaded clams, octopus, stuffed squid, meat pies, capicola…
Farberware cut in saying, He couldn’t help it. His wife was an excellent cook.
Yeah, I bet she used to cook bacon in the morning and then fry burgers in bacon fat for lunch. Just admit it. Just say it.
Look, sir.
Admit that his wife used the bacon fat and the hamburger grease to cook sausages for dinner!
I don’t see how this concerns me, Farberware said. Who exactly am I talking to?
You don’t see how this concerns you? You don’t see how this concerns you? This was your Uncle Louie. Your own flesh and blood. Don’t you care about family? Tradition? Democracy?
Not really, Farberware replied. But I do what I have to. I attended the funeral, carried the casket. You know, my shoulder was sore for a goddamn week after that. If you don’t tell me who you are, this phone call is over.
My name is Bruce and that’s all you need to know. You need to stay focused on what’s important here. You say you buried your Uncle, but your Uncle is back. And I’m holding you personally responsible for the fact that the knee I’m holding looks more like a ham hock than a knee.
I thought I was half a leg.
It looks like a ham hock.
No, I don’t think that works.
You don’t think it works?
As an analogy. A hock is closer to the foot. I’m talking about the thing itself.
The thing itself! The thing itself has a bit of thigh meat and shin on it. So, yes, to call it by its proper name, I’d say it’s half a leg.
That’s what I thought.
Do me a favor, don’t think. Listen. There’s no way in hell I can use this thing. Maybe eight, nine years ago it would have been… passable. But Atkins changed everything.
Atkins. You man the guy who slipped on the ice and died?
You son of a bitchin’ bastard crap lord motherfucker. Bruce held the phone away from his mouth again. Lenny, he said, this guy’s crackin’ jokes about the doctor. Then he directed his disgusted at Farberware once again. Dr. Atkins, he said, revolutionized the dietary habits of this country. He changed the national waist line.
Did you just call me a crap lord? Farberware asked.
Among other things.
I’ve never heard that one. Hey, did you guys ever realize that your names are Lenny Bruce?
You fucking comedian, you listen to me and listen close. I’m holding you personally responsible for the fact that I just bought a bad knee. You’re going to set things right, junior.
Junior?
Bruce.
Junior?
Lenny! Bruce screamed. I’m gonna reach through the phone and strangle this guy. I’m gonna eat my own fist! Now you listen to me, Bruce spit into the phone, I just told my partner that I’m going to eat my own fist. That’s something you should understand. It’s a very Italian gesture, and it means I’m very angry. So, yeah, you’re going to come down here, pick up this knee, and give me back my goddamn money.
Hold on there, Lenny Bruce. You want me to come down there, wherever there is, and buy my Uncle’s knee from you? I can’t do it. Farberware shook his head and lowered his voice. Not today.
You ain’t buyin’ it junior… you’re giving me what I paid for it. Then you can do whatever you want with it. Today!
Let me ask you, how much dough we talking about?
Ten thousand dollars.
You’re out of your mind.
There’s another option, junior, and you won’t like it. You have a responsibility here, and I suggest you take care of it in a timely fashion.
Where am I going to get ten thousand dollars?
Not my problem.
Well, technically it is your problem. If I can’t give you this money, then you won’t have the money and you’ll be stuck with the knee and have to come up with another solution.
I’ve already mentioned that in a menacing and threatening way. Don’t make me do it again. Don’t make me bite my own hand.
But I still don’t understand why you’re calling me about this.
We can’t choose our families, junior. The ones that come before us, the ones that come from us. The sins of the father live on in the son.
But this guy was my Uncle, not my father.
Streams may not be rivers, but they all flow back to the same ocean.
You know most of what you’ve said to me today has been based on faulty logic and analogies.
I want you to listen for a second. Put your ear to the phone.
This puzzled Farberware since his ear, by the nature of phone conversations, was already to the phone.
Bruce held his end of the line close to the bundled body part on the table and nodded at Lenny who in turn punched the knee, hard.
Bruce said into the phone, There’s more where that came from.
Farberware was incredulous. Did you just punch the knee? he asked.
No, Bruce told him. My goon did, and he can do it again. We’ll be in touch, junior. You better call your accountant.
Bruce slammed the phone down.
Farberware took out a cigarette, looked over his sparkling dominoes, then fell onto the bed.
He didn’t wake until sometime later, when the phone rang again.
*
Excuse the interruption, but a brief footnote is in order here. In contrast to the previous exchanges between Farberware and The Good Doctor and Lenny Bruce respectively, I was unable to find any audio recording of the other side of the conversation Farberware is about to have with his mother in the following passage.
Nor did Oscar feel it necessary to fabricate Farberware’s mother’s dialog for the sake of aesthetic consistency. Perhaps there’s a simple answer, a technical malfunction in the surveillance equipment coupled with Oscar’s discipline and will to keep in strict adherence to the modus operandi he’d initially set for himself in regard to this particular story, the parameters of which mandated he refrain from literary embellishment wherever possible. Or perhaps Oscar just grew lazy. Regardless of the whys and wherefores, the official text of the following conversation reflects only Farberware’s half of the conversation.
*
Farberware’s eyes opened slowly. Then, suddenly acutely aware that he’d fallen asleep, he bolted upright.
Jesus Christ, he said.
He snapped up the phone and still dazed with slumber said into it, What time is it? Mom? Sorry, I’ve got to meet somebody and I fell asleep… Thanks for calling…. Been awhile… what!?
Farberware listened to his mother.
Slow down, he said. Are you kidding me? This is a joke, right? You’re like the third fucking… How much we talking? To be honest, today is really not the best day for this… I have a plan, mom. No, it’s not like the other plans. I’m talking about fresh start. I’m talking sunsets and tequila and perfect tans, mom. Can’t dad cover it? Well that figures…
Farberware glanced at the alarm clock. He was already late.
I know Louie was your brother. You think I don’t fucking know he was your brother? I’ve been explaining that all god damn day… I don’t have time to explain… I know he meant the world to you… Yes, I remember.
Mom? Mom?
The phone line had gone silent. He slammed down the receiver.
*
Moments later, Farberware carried the dominoes through the corridor of the recently added premiere suite wing of the motel and, with no small measure of trepidation, knocked on the door of room 106. A voice from within told him to enter.
Farberware entered a near pitch black room to meet his connection, a man known to everyone as Man Man. Man Man sat in the corner near the window smoking a cigarillo and from what Farberware could make out by the dim neon making its way through the drapery, Man Man was wearing some sort of Shakespearean garb replete with a ruff and embroidered epaulets.
Man Man clicked on a high powered flash light and shined it directly into Farberware’s face.
What the hell, Farberware said, That light is blinding me.
This is how it’s gonna be, Farberware. Get used to it. A quick flash in the eyes and then… darkness.
Man Man click off the flashlight.
What made you change your mind? He asked. I though you was gonna punk out, like your daddy.
Leave that asshole out of this.
Oh, but he’s very much in this. He guides your every move. What do you think you’re doing in this motel. People don’t just randomly end up in places like this. Some day, some day you’ll see that.
Man Man blasted the flashlight into Farberware’s eyes again.
Save the Freudian bullshit, Man Man, Farberware said, This money’s not going to help anybody, except maybe my mother.
Yummy.
What’d you just say?
I said yummy.
Yummy?
Yes. That woman is a sweet piece of huckleberry pie.
Huckleberry pie?
Mmmmm hmmm. With a little coffee and crème.
I don’t understand.
Ice cream on top. A newspaper.
Farberware heard nauseating sounds in the darkness.
Man Man, are you licking your fingers?
A little, Man Man said.
You know, Farberware said, That’s really disgusting, especially considering that ridiculous costume you’re wearing. What makes you think…
Man Man flicked on the lamp light and stood before Farberware. Puffy pants, black knee boots, and a cape completed the ensemble.
What? He demanded, That I can dress like this, talk like this, live like this?
Man Man sat again. Farberware, you asshole. You know I’m fabulously well to do. That justifies a certain degree of joie de vivere… not available to all classes of men. My stature, along with my fanciful predilections, I presume, is why you are here.
Farberware said, I came here to sell you my dominoes. You’ve wanted them, now you’ve got them. Ten thousand dollars. That’s my price.
Six and ten are two awfully different numerals. What happened? Stock market crash in Asia?
It’s ten now, Farberware told him. Nor reason. That’s it.
You drive a hard bargain. A bit too hard I’d say.
A ferocious growl came from within the bathroom causing Farberware to jolt violently.
What the fuck is that, he cried.
Man Man clicked the lamp off again and said, Tiger, tiger, burning bright, in the forests of the night…
Farberware pleaded, Seriously.
Man Man shined the flashlight up at his own face, making grotesque b-horror movie shadow shapes of his features.
It’s just a little thing, he said, I swear I have taught him to empathize with me. To feel my joy, my pain… when I’m being cheated…
Man Man threw the beam of light once again into Farberware’s eyes.
You wouldn’t cheat me now, would you… not after all we’ve been through?
Look, Man Man, I know all about what you can do to me. I know what you did to my father. You’re a powerful man, but I can’t take less.
You’ve got trouble written all across your face. What’s the matter, son?
In don’t really have time to get into it.
Well, negotiations take time. I thought we were just gettin’ started. I thought we might even… duel a bit. Just a little blood on our cuffs. You’d look a whole lot better with an eye patch.
Man Man pulled two swords from beside the chair and tossed one them in Farberware’s direction. It landed on the bed.
Farberware picked it up, but Man Man thought better of it. No, he said, this won’t do. I have something better.
Man Man threw a fencing helmet at Farberware. Put this on, he said.
Farberware equivocated. Look, Man Man.
Put! Man Man screamed, The helmet! On!
Farberware obeyed. All he saw now was black. Look, Man Man, he said. My mother’s in trouble. This money’s not for me anymore. It was gonna be my ticket to… I don’t know, a better life. I came here to sell you my dominoes and go away. Far away. But I got a call, like the fifth fucking call of the day. My mom… She just kept saying, Make things right, Lloyd. Make things right. She hasn’t called me Lloyd since I was a little kid. Something’s wrong.
Man Man blared the flashlight through the mesh weave of the helmet. And for once, he said, You want to help? This is priceless. The prodigal son returns.
Man Man held silence for gravity, then said, Let me see those fucking dominoes.
Farberware placed the case on the table and opened it. He said, They’re one of a kind, priceless.
Man Man said, I suggest you stop talking. You’ve named your price, which means they’re not priceless… Tooth or bone? he asked.
Both.
And the species is… extinct I presume?
A few of the animals survived the zoo fire, but they’re in no shape to save the species.
It would have been better for you if you lied about that.
I’m in no position to do anything but tell the truth.
I don’t trust people I can trust. So lie to me… make it interesting. Tickle my fancy. Nudge it. Go on.
They’re all males. Does that do the trick?
But the scientists… you can’t forget the scientists. They work for the fuckers I can not pay off. They can make a horse fuck a sparrow and a fruticake’ll come out. The dominoes… they’re bonded, I imagine.
Premium platinum base.
Tell me the story.
Farberware produced a small booklet from his breast pocket. He threw it to Man Man, who snapped it out of the air.
Right there, Farberware informed him. Notarized. Raymond Chandler’s very own hand. Six dominoes come with some of his bite marks in the corners…. When he was pondering a complicated move.
Dated? Man Man asked.
In gold. They go back a long way. Chandler was just the tip of the iceberg. He got them from someone who traded Poe for ‘em… a case of absinth, I believe.
Man Man clicked off the lamp and shined the light in Farberware’s face.
You throwing in breakfast? He asked.
Not on your life, Farberware told him.
Then Man Man sent the room plunging into darkness again.
*
Having unloaded the dominoes Farberware had but one transaction left that day. He knocked on 60 but didn’t wait for an invitation. He walked right in.
Bruce looked up from his hand of cards, and said, Ah, Chicharelli. Welcome.
It’s Farberware, thanks. Chicharelli was my Uncle’s name.
Of course. Louie Chicharelli. Fat Sicilian bastard. Bruce glanced at Farberware’s hand. Nice case, he said. Is it gonna make me happy?
I would guess, Farberware said.
Bruce said, Lenny, the knee.
Lenny pulled Farberware’s Uncle’s knee out of a 200 quart cooler.
Bruce said, Junior, the money.
Farberware handed the case over to Bruce and mused at the thing itself Lenny had placed on the table. So that’s my Uncle’s knee, he said. You know, I used to sit on that knee when I was a little kid. I just remembered that. Used to play a game called pony.
Save the nostalgia for the grandkids, junior. Uncle stories ain’t my thing. You think I’ve got all day for this.
There’s no reason to be rude, Farberware told him. The way I see it, I’m doing you a pretty big favor here.
Favor? Favor? Let’s get one thing straight. If anyone’s doing anyone a favor, it’s me. Doin’ you.
Farberware grimaced. It’s all semantics, he groaned, I’m so tired of semantics. All day long with semantics. I should never have picked up the phone.
I really don’t see how you can escape them, Lenny said.
Phones?
No, semantics. Even silence has some kind of rhetorical effect. It’s impossible not to contribute to some kind of meaning-making activity.
This annoyed Bruce. Semantics? Meaning? Listen to you two smart guys. Chicharelli, you better cut out the patronizing routine. This is more than what you say it is.
No, Farberware said, I think it’s exactly what I’ve said it is. You’re the one who’s been sloppy with language… you and Man Man and the rest of them. I’m living inside everyone else’s linguistic inaccuracies and I’m tired of it.
You know what? Deal’s off. I’m not doing business with a guy like you.
A guy like what?
You’re a bit mookie for my taste and I don’t deal with mookie. I’ll do business with white, black, Puerto Rican. Hell, I’ll even work with Muslims… but I don’t work with mookie.
Mookie? What’s that?
Boss, Lenny offered, That’s not really an insult. It might even be more of a compliment. It makes me think of Mookie Wilson, who’s a solid outfielder. Plays for the Mets. Switch hitter. Over four hundred ribbies. Three hundred plus stolen bases. Fan favorite.
Bruce kept his voice low enough so Farberware wouldn’t hear him say, I learned it in Scorcese’s Mean Streets.
Oh, Farberware cried, You meant to call me a Mook. That’s entirely different. Lenny’s right, the word totally loses its impact when you use its adjective form. Too close of a correlation to Mookie Wilson. He’s important, if for no other reason than the fact that trivia buffs revere him. He’s the answer to one of their go-to questions.
What question? demanded Bruce.
Who hit the grounder that went through Bill Buckner’s legs?
How the hell am I supposed to know?
Mookie Wilson, Farberware said.
He’s right, boss, Lenny offered.
So let me get this straight, Farberware asked. You meant to call me a mook, not mookie?
I guess.
Then you must have been asking for this?
What?
The Thurman Munson.
At which point, Farberware punched Bruce in the face. Farberware grabbed the knee from the table and attempted to flee, but Lenny had beaten him to the door. Farberware retreated back into the room and was forced to jump up onto the bed to avoid Bruce. Swinging his Uncle’s knee wildly around the room, he kept the black marketers at bay for some time before ultimately being tripped up. Then, weaponizing the knee, he caught Bruce under the chin, knocking him cold. When Lenny bent over his boss’ prone form, Farberware whacked him in the back of the neck.
Farberware fled from the motel for his mother’s house, the money in one hand, his Uncle’s half leg in the other.
