Plan, which I thought would be about high finance and real estate, but turns out to be about a potbellied stove and exposed beams and parquet flooring. The kitchen. His kitchen. And nothing but the kitchen. He’s ignoring the phone, which keeps ringing, and the looks from customers and Willomena who works the fountain when her mother is around to watch the kids.
“It’s just gonna be for Dizzy. He should have a service for that. I got more important things to do with my time. He brought me in to come up with killer ideas and imagination, like I’m doing right now. A hot knife through butter, I’m gonna be in this organization.”
The more important things amount to talking. This Pauly can do with the best of them. He’s talking, right, about what he’s going to do with that house when he gets it, and what he’s going to do in and around that house when it’s just right, and which bedroom is going to be mine and the hundred and fifty million thousand things he can do in that house to make Lilly happy. But in Pauly’s view it all—the house, the business, the future, everything—revolves around the masterpiece that will be that kitchen. Lilly would die for a kitchen like that, he says.
“You know, Oak,” Pauly says, and I can see the sincere dripping out of the corners of his eyes, sunglasses or no sunglasses, “I love to make her happy.”
And like, what the hell. How could you ever tell him the truth?
The phone rings again.
“Pauly, what if it’s not for Dizzy? What if it is Dizzy?”
It’s my own fault, but he pops off one of his awful instapoems, which he thinks are okay because he figures you get extra points for on-the-spotness, but I figure you don’t.
Dizzy #1
When opportunity rings
you best take what it brings
Don’t try to guess what is
cause it might look
like
Diz
It rings on, whether it is opportunity, Dizzy, or any combination thereof.
“Willow,” Pauly calls, and she slides on over to us. “Willow, honey it’s for you.”
She takes the phone. “It’s for me? Nobody ever calls for me. Damn.”
I wish he would just play this one straight. “Cut it out Pauly, take the call.”
“What? What? I can’t hardly understand you,” she says, wincing at the phone, pulling back and looking at it as if to understand it better. “Ya, he’s here. Where is here? Well here is the drugstore of course, where’d ya think? Hello? Hello?”
She hands Pauly back the phone.
“Was it Dizzy?” I ask, because Pauly is not concerned enough to do it. If he would only be concerned enough … so many times, so little effort, would save him so much trouble.
“Two more Cokes please, Miss Willomena?” Paul asks.
“Yes,” she says to Paul, then, “Yes,” to me. “I believe that’s who he said he was. And he said to keep your ass on that stool ’cause he’s on the way over.”
“Cool,” Paul says. “Then make it three Cokes. We’ll do a deal over a couple of cold ones right here.”
“Ah, maybe I better go,” I say. “You and your uncle might want to—”
“Still no stomach for the fast lane, huh?” Pauly says as I give up my stool.
Dizzy bursts in. He marches toward the counter so hard you can just about feel him pounding over the broad black-and-white tiles.
Pauly opens his arms.
Dizzy walks right up to him. Slaps him across the head. Not that hard, not punishing, but an attention-getter.
I grab Dizzy’s arm and he turns a meaty dark glare on me that nearly makes me let go and run. I do neither, though. I look at Paul, with the glasses now hanging diagonally across his pale soft face, one gray eye exposed in all its sad disbelief.
Willomena is placing two tall vase-shaped glasses on the counter. She backs quickly away.
“I bought you a Coke,” Paul whispers.
“I want to give you chances, Pauly,” he says, not unkindly but killer anyway, maybe because of the not-unkindness. “But you just don’t have a thing, nothing on the ball. I put you in charge for
“It’s just gonna be for Dizzy. He should have a service for that. I got more important things to do with my time. He brought me in to come up with killer ideas and imagination, like I’m doing right now. A hot knife through butter, I’m gonna be in this organization.”
The more important things amount to talking. This Pauly can do with the best of them. He’s talking, right, about what he’s going to do with that house when he gets it, and what he’s going to do in and around that house when it’s just right, and which bedroom is going to be mine and the hundred and fifty million thousand things he can do in that house to make Lilly happy. But in Pauly’s view it all—the house, the business, the future, everything—revolves around the masterpiece that will be that kitchen. Lilly would die for a kitchen like that, he says.
“You know, Oak,” Pauly says, and I can see the sincere dripping out of the corners of his eyes, sunglasses or no sunglasses, “I love to make her happy.”
And like, what the hell. How could you ever tell him the truth?
The phone rings again.
“Pauly, what if it’s not for Dizzy? What if it is Dizzy?”
It’s my own fault, but he pops off one of his awful instapoems, which he thinks are okay because he figures you get extra points for on-the-spotness, but I figure you don’t.
Dizzy #1
When opportunity rings
you best take what it brings
Don’t try to guess what is
cause it might look
like
Diz
It rings on, whether it is opportunity, Dizzy, or any combination thereof.
“Willow,” Pauly calls, and she slides on over to us. “Willow, honey it’s for you.”
She takes the phone. “It’s for me? Nobody ever calls for me. Damn.”
I wish he would just play this one straight. “Cut it out Pauly, take the call.”
“What? What? I can’t hardly understand you,” she says, wincing at the phone, pulling back and looking at it as if to understand it better. “Ya, he’s here. Where is here? Well here is the drugstore of course, where’d ya think? Hello? Hello?”
She hands Pauly back the phone.
“Was it Dizzy?” I ask, because Pauly is not concerned enough to do it. If he would only be concerned enough … so many times, so little effort, would save him so much trouble.
“Two more Cokes please, Miss Willomena?” Paul asks.
“Yes,” she says to Paul, then, “Yes,” to me. “I believe that’s who he said he was. And he said to keep your ass on that stool ’cause he’s on the way over.”
“Cool,” Paul says. “Then make it three Cokes. We’ll do a deal over a couple of cold ones right here.”
“Ah, maybe I better go,” I say. “You and your uncle might want to—”
“Still no stomach for the fast lane, huh?” Pauly says as I give up my stool.
Dizzy bursts in. He marches toward the counter so hard you can just about feel him pounding over the broad black-and-white tiles.
Pauly opens his arms.
Dizzy walks right up to him. Slaps him across the head. Not that hard, not punishing, but an attention-getter.
I grab Dizzy’s arm and he turns a meaty dark glare on me that nearly makes me let go and run. I do neither, though. I look at Paul, with the glasses now hanging diagonally across his pale soft face, one gray eye exposed in all its sad disbelief.
Willomena is placing two tall vase-shaped glasses on the counter. She backs quickly away.
“I bought you a Coke,” Paul whispers.
“I want to give you chances, Pauly,” he says, not unkindly but killer anyway, maybe because of the not-unkindness. “But you just don’t have a thing, nothing on the ball. I put you in charge for
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