JOE BERZINSKI LAY IN A hammock with his hand pressed to the sky and one eye closed, shielding the warm early autumn sun with his plump thumb.
He was a bit hung over and surly. The phone had rung at seven AM with no one to take responsibility at the other end. He hadn’t been able to fall back asleep. So he lay in his modest backyard, contemplating the sunlight that peeked around the silhouette of his fleshy thumb.
It was late morning and Berzinski didn’t have much energy. He had leafed through the newspaper without paying too much attention, had half a of cup of coffee that had been too strong and the better part of a stale donut.
No, he sighed quietly, surprised by the sound of his own voice. There’s nothing to do.
It was very quiet. Berzinski’s small three bedroom house was on a dead end street, far from the main road. It was one of the reasons he’d bought the house. Relatively speaking, it was remote. He’d shared the house with his wife who, one day it seemed, packed up most of her belongings and moved out. That was a puzzling episode to him.
She had announced her intentions one morning at the breakfast table. He was barely halfway through his bran muffin when (and this is only how he recalled it) she blurted it out.
I’m leaving you, Joe, she’d said without a trace of irony. He remembered those words, how she said them, how at first a wave of anxiety washed over him and then creeping nausea. He knew he’d heard her right, so he didn’t bother asking her to repeat herself.
It’s not your fault, she said. I’ve … I … you know … I just don’t think I should be a wife.
This is a fine thing, Berzinski had said. He had looked down and thought on it. Is it really because of the thing … you know?
The thing?
Kids. You don’t want kids.
Don’t be ridiculous, she had said.
His whole life seemed to fold in on him at that moment. He envisioned the next few weeks: Sarah packing the rest of her things and leaving him behind; him not being able to concentrate at work and eventually getting fired. He had painted these scenes again and again in his head. He fulfilled some of the less dire prophesies. But at least he still had a job.
He and Sarah had what is called in polite society an amicable separation, though he could see little amicability in it. Still, there were no temper tantrums and barely a harsh word passed between them. And looking back on it, he realized he didn’t lose any sleep, his hair remained pretty much intact (both in color and volume) and he never collapsed into a depressive heap on the hardwood floors of his house. He was just mystified by the events as they occurred. He’d stood and watched the entire episode unfold like a bystander, unable to interject or control the situation.
Since he’d been alone, he tried to make the most of his time. He wanted to shed a few pounds. Certainly, he was aware (without having to ever weigh himself) that he’d gained some heft. So much, in fact, that he found it impossible to nudge his gold wedding band past the lowest knuckle.
He wanted to take up golf again. Perhaps gardening. He read books and collected antique chairs from junk stores. Eventually, he thought, he would restore them, but they just piled up in his basement until there was barely any space left.
He thought about dating. It would be strange for him. He would have to reacquaint himself with the necessary skills and rules, as well as the subtle nuances, body language, the rhythm of conversation, how to listen attentively. It had been a while since he’d at least pretended to have some interest in what a woman was saying. How does one make acquaintances out of strangers?
That was the Past. Berzinski was now focused on the Present. The changes he’d been through, he thought, were learning experiences. Change is not bad, he told himself. It is not bad. But the Present was something else, altogether. Specifically, what to do today.
Berzinski lowered his hand and closed his eyes, then peeled them open to a squint, feeling his skin absorb the sun. All he saw was bright white, with a blue horizon spreading out from the dead, yellow-hot center. The phone rang and Berzinski considered letting the answering machine get it, but had a change of heart. Anything to stop the ringing.
Joseph, old man, Ken Carlson said. What are you up to? Are you awake?
Yes. Berzinski was in no mood for games.
Are you alone? Carlson asked. Berzinski could almost see the man winking salaciously.
Yes, Berzinski said.
Whoa. Sorry. Carlson paused, presumably waiting for a cue. Berzinski didn’t feed him one, but Carlson pressed on. Think we can get on the course today? he said.
I don’t, Berzinski said. It’s late.
Yeah, yeah. But they should be able to squeeze us in. You think? A twosome?
Berzinski thought on it for a bit. The phone line crackling. Carlson waiting for an answer. He wasn’t sure if he was in the mood for a game. Especially with Carlson. Carlson had a way of asking a lot of questions, which, it seemed to Berzinski, were often aimed toward disingenuous ends.
Carlson carried an air of innocence about him, but Berzinski saw a purpose behind it. He could see through the veneer a cynical and calculated method of deriving information from people. He didn’t blame or judge Carlson. It was just the way he was.
I’ll meet you on the course in an hour, Berzinski said.
YOU DATING? CARLSON ASKED, AS Berzinski pitched a few blades of grass to test the wind.
Not really.
This was always how it started. A few innocent questions. The next thing he knew, Berzinski would be giving the man his safety deposit key. No. He knew better. He’d do best to stick with one-word answers, when possible.
I know some nice women, Carlson said.
I know you do, Ken.
Seriously. Carlson was preparing to tee off. Professional. Attractive. Intelligent.
I’ll let you know. Hit the ball.
Carlson wound up and sliced the ball into the rough. He swore quietly and smiled, mocking himself.
Berzinski teed up and took a few practice swings. He felt stiff. His body was damp and felt tremulous from the inside out. He still had the feint taste of liquor on the back of his tongue. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea.
He took a swing and felt the gentle shock through his wrists and forearms as the club head smacked against the ball. It sailed straight up the fairway about two hundred yards, then took a sudden sharp left, as if avoiding another airborne object from the opposite direction.
Wow, Carlson said. Too bad she decided to take off like that. That would’ve been a nice shot.
Berzinski cursed himself and the two men walked off the tee box. Carlson was about thirty yards ahead of him on the other side of the fairway.
Berzinski approached his ball and noticed a light brown rabbit sitting about four feet away. He stopped, not wishing to disturb the animal, its neck bent, sniffing at the ground. The rabbit seemed to notice Berzinski, but paid him no mind. It twitched its nose and hopped a little closer to Berzinski’s ball.
Berzinski approached slowly. He stood not a foot away from the animal, which was either unafraid or oblivious. He approached slowly and the animal jerked up its head.
Oh, the rabbit said. It’s you.
Berzinski wasn’t taken aback in the slightest. He was now in the territory where dreams and logic intersect. He didn’t answer, but just looked at the rabbit.
Well, Joe? the rabbit said. Are you going to hit this ball?
Berzinski pondered it.
I recommend a three wood. At this point, I think you need something to give you enough distance, the rabbit said.
Thank you, Berzinski said, removing a wood from his bag. The rabbit stepped back. Berzinski took a few practice swings, breathed deeply and wound up. He smacked the ball a good one-hundred-seventy-five yards or so and it seemed to float for some time before descending onto the center of the fairway.
Nice shot, the rabbit said.
Berzinski signaled Carlson to shoot and started to move on.
Mind if I tag along? the rabbit asked.
Be my guest, Berzinski said. It’s your home, right?
The rabbit chuckled. The laugh sounded familiar. I still love you, it said.
Of course you do, Berzinski replied. Then why did you leave?
I told you. It’s got nothing to do with you. I discovered myself. I don’t want to be anybody’s wife, Joe.
Berzinski wheeled around. The rabbit had its little arms crossed and tapped its foot impetuously.
You discovered it kind of late, didn’t you? Berzinski said.
It happens, Joe.
Berzinski was within twenty yards of Carlson. Look, he said, when we get to the ball, pretend you don’t know me.
Fine, the rabbit said.
Where are you? Berzinski said to Carlson.
About thirty yards from the green.
The two men walked in silence. And the rabbit quietly hopped behind them.
BERZINSKI AND CARLSON WERE ON the ninth green, discussing whether to press on or to finish it there. Surprisingly, Berzinski was eager to play another nine. He’d been energized and was shooting in the low forties. Carlson was having a bad go of it. He was slicing and duffing beyond even his worst game and ended up twelve strokes over par.
The rabbit sat near Berzinski’s bag on the green’s fringe, sniffing and wrinkling its nose. Occasionally, it would stoop to munch on a few blades of grass. Berzinski peered at the animal from the corner of his eye as he took a few practice putts.
I wish that bitch would leave, he thought. The rabbit looked up at him, hurt.
I’m sorry, he said.
For what? Carlson said.
I … was … um … talking to myself.
The rabbit’s mouth curled up into something close to a human smile.
Berzinski focused on the ball and drew his putter back. He touched the ball, followed through, and the ball rolled and rolled and rolled. It picked up speed and kept moving. Berzinski watched it, somehow able to follow its path for almost a thousand yards, until it finally stopped.
Carlson was gone. In fact, the entire golf course was gone. And now it was just Berzinski and the rabbit, which had grown to about five feet tall and somehow looked menacing. Its incisors were longer and sharper. It seemed to be bearing a scowl.
Gee, the rabbit said. Now we’re alone. Its voice had changed, still female, but huskier.
I suppose we are, Berzinski said. Will I get my clubs back?
Don’t worry about your clubs, the rabbit said, advancing on him. It was now wearing an off-white negligee.
Jesus, Berzinski said, backing away. He squared off with the animal. Don’t come any closer.
Oh, come on. Joe. You know you want it.
Not from you.
No? The rabbit stopped. After a pause, it approached Berzinski, baring its two front teeth, which were by now enormous. Then from whom?
Berzinski tried to avoid the rabbit’s gaze, but was caught in its eyes. He was lost. He wanted the rabbit to vanish. The harder he tried to make it go away, the more it grew. It seemed to grow larger in direct proportion to each of Berzinski’s wishes that it not do so. It was now up to about seven feet tall.
Please, Berzinski said.
Please what? the rabbit said.
Please don’t be a rabbit.
A rabbi? it said.
“Rabbit. Rab. Bit. You know what I’m talking about.
Of course I do, sweetie, the rabbit said. How’s this?
And as soon as it had said the words, the animal was now a six-foot five-inch, two-hundred-twenty pound black drag queen, wearing the same negligee and heavy makeup.
It was too much for Berzinski. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t move. He stood frozen as the drag queen advanced on him. He noticed that he was standing in seven inches of snow, but somehow wasn’t the least bit cold. In fact, he was perspiring from heat.
Leave him alone, Sarah said. She was standing no more than three feet behind him.
Relax, girlfriend, the queen said. I wasn’t gonna hurt him.
Just back off, Sarah said.
The drag queen formed her thumbs and forefingers into a W and faded into the background. The snow was gone. Berzinski and Sarah found themselves surrounded by warm water, sand and palm trees.
Our honeymoon, Berzinski said.
What? Sarah said.
Our honeymoon. This is our honeymoon.
I don’t think so, Sarah said.
Well, it reminds me of our honeymoon, he said.
That may very well be, Joe. But just remember, it ends here.
BERZINSKI AWOKE AND PRESSED HIS thumb to the window to blot the morning sun. He glanced at the clock. It was six twenty-nine AM. The alarm would be going off in another five minutes. He closed his eyes again, anticipating the buzzing. It seemed like an eternity.
When the buzzer finally did go off, Berzinski smacked the snooze button, deluding himself that he would fall back asleep. And if he had indeed fallen back asleep, he reasoned that he wouldn’t feel any more rested. So he simply waited another ten minutes for the drone of the buzzer.
Berzinski swung his feet around and planted them on the floor. He rubbed his head and began rocking gently, gaining enough momentum to finally rise and make his way to the bathroom, scratching and yawning.
The first song of the day tried to establish itself in his head and he gave it a cursory once over before approving it. One of the default songs from his vast library. Something vaguely classical with a hint of Nineteen-Thirties Swing.
He looked in the mirror. His eyes were glassy and puffy. His head felt tight and pinched.
The image of the rabbit popped into his head and he couldn’t help but smile. That is, until the image of the large drag queen took over. These figures, the snow, the palm trees, practically all of them, played in his mind as he showered, shaved and brushed his teeth. They were working themselves through like toxins seeping out of his open pores, but Berzinski could make little sense of them.
As he walked to the bus stop, he saw the usual crew of cab drivers hanging out in front of the convenience store, sipping coffee, talking, arguing, reading newspapers.
What could he do but walk to the bus stop and wait for the A2, which would take him to the subway, which would drop him off near the office, where he would sit down and pick up almost exactly where he’d left off on Friday. Indeed, it occurred to him that repetition was almost a necessary, self-imposed punishment for a vague crime he wasn’t at all sure he’d committed.
Berzinski stood at the bus stop, pretending to read his newspaper. A filthy man in tattered clothing wandered up the street, muttering loudly to himself. Berzinski eyed the man cautiously, traces of sympathy bubbling up near his conscious. Poor bastard. Don’t let him get too close to me. Don’t let him talk to me. Don’t force me to interact with him in any way. Poor bastard.
Whatever god he’d prayed to answered him by steering the homeless man off toward the convenience store to panhandle. Berzinski pondered the seemingly random series of circumstances that separated his caste from homeless man’s. Was it by design that he was able to hold down his job? His sanity? His sense of worth?
The bus pulled up. Berzinski climbed the stairs, nearly fell into a seat and stared straight ahead. An Asian man picking his nose caught his eye. The man appeared to be in his fifties, a few strands of hair covering an otherwise bald head, and had several moles hanging from his fleshy face. When Berzinski caught sight of him, the small pudgy man was about one knuckle deep.
Go get it. Get up there. Go. Go!
The man was penetrating with a sausage-like index finger, his greasy thumb balanced on the edge of his nose for support. The more Berzinski focused on the Asian man, the deeper he seemed to climb, intent on reaching some phantom goal. It actually seemed as if Berzinski was indeed edging the guy on, like some sort of silent nose-picking coach.
Knowing it was an absolutely disgusting display, Berzinski was even more horrified that he could not seem to turn himself away.
Finally, the man gave up, examined his finger and looked disappointed with the lack of product for his work. Berzinski buried his face in the paper.
WHEN BERZINSKI GOT TO WORK, he sat tapping his desk with a pen, looking at the manila folder that lay not a foot away from his elbow. He’d have to get to it sooner or later. It simply said FILE.DOC #12773492 in bold print.
FILE.DOC #12773492: Sheffield’s Groceries. In business since 1933, Sheffield’s started as a Mom And Pop operation in upstate New York. It soon grew to a chain and by 1961, Pop Sheffield was a millionaire. More than two hundred stores covered the northern New York region, and soon Pop had branched out into dry goods. He put his money into nurseries, hardware stores and other specialty stores. Upon his retirement in 1971, Pop Sheffield left the store to his son Bernard, who was now fifty-six years of age.
Berzinski removed a black and white photograph of Bernard Sheffield from the folder and studied it. Bernard was a plain looking man with a brown mustache, smallish eyes and a balding pattern that began just at the hairline and stretched to near the very top of his head, giving him a soft, academic look. He seemed a bit on the pudgy side, Berzinski noticed. And short. But it was difficult to tell from the photo. The young Sheffield was smiling, but it looked forced.
The file was stuffed with articles, data and research on Sheffield’s Groceries. Berzinski removed a photocopied article from a local upstate New York newspaper with the headline Sheffield’s Celebrates 50th Anniversary. There was picture of dozens of employees surrounding an enormous white cake in front of Store Number One and a beaming Pop Sheffield holding a knife. The caption read Martin Sheffield, founder and owner of Sheffield’s Groceries, prepares to slice cake to celebrate the store’s 50th anniversary. Surrounding Sheffield are son Bernard, now president of Sheffield Inc., wife Dorothy and employees.
Berzinski had already read the article once. It contained little he could use, except a brief history, some personal facts about the Sheffields, which he already knew and a few details on the original store, which were at best superfluous.
Berzinski switched on his computer monitor and listened to the dull hum as it warmed up. He leafed through some more articles about Sheffield’s and sighed. He looked at the photograph. The angle at which it sat on his desk now gave the younger Sheffield a vague air of nefariousness. Perhaps it was the way his eyebrows appeared to be arched.
Berzinski pulled up FILE.DOC #12773492 on his computer and watched as his monitor brightened. A bold heading, centered at the top of the page read Sheffield’s Groceries, Inc. Beneath it was data on Company Holdings, Number Of Employees, Quarterly Revenue Figures and the like. This took up several pages.
As Berzinski scrolled down he yawned, searching for the right spot. He soon found what he was looking for: Assets FY1990 - 1996. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs and stared at the ceiling.
After a moment, Berzinski began to peck away at the keyboard, slowly at first, finding his rhythm, then lurching into the keys with almost rhapsodic harmony. He felt as if he were playing an instrument. He was in the midst of Accomplishing Something.
BY NOON, BERZINSKI HAD ADDED three pages to the Sheffield File. He glanced around his office, searching for a distraction. He retrieved a foam football from a nearby credenza, tossed it into the air a few times and sighed.
Berzinski decided that he felt pretty good, when he’d finally worked up the nut to admit it. He went to the kitchen, got a fresh cup of coffee and nearly smiled, almost serene.
Moments after returning to his office, there was a knock at the door. Berzinski said It’s open.
Neil Satterson poked his head in and asked Busy?
Not at all, Berzinski replied, sitting up. Come on in.
As Satterson entered, his eyes focused on the carpet, Berzinski said What’s up?
Not much, Satterson said reticently. He pulled up Berzinski’s side chair, settled in front of the desk and folded his hands in his lap.
I was just bored, Satterson said at length. Thought I’d pay you a little visit.
It happens, Berzinski said.
What?
Boredom, Berzinski replied.
Satterson fidgeted a bit, searching for a way to get comfortable. Berzinski put his feet back up on the desk. His legs were stretched tautly, as his brown brogans rested near a stack of papers.
What’s going on, Neil? Berzinski said.
Its slow, Joe.
It’ll pick up, Berzinski said. Probably sooner than you’d hope.
Satterson seemed about to snort a laugh but caught himself. His ruddy hands remained folded in his lap. He looked literally sheepish, his curly reddish blonde hair seemed to spring from his head like a sunburst, with a tight lock dangling just over his right eye. He looked as if he were ready to say something but changed his mind at the last second.
Berzinski picked up on the cue and glanced out the window. I don’t think it’s going to rain after all, he said to fill the silence.
Was it supposed to? Satterson said.
I thought I heard something about it, Berzinski said.
I don’t think you’ll find two weather forecasts in the country that can agree.
Berzinski smiled, pleased that the conversation had at least picked up pace if not substance.
I don’t really pay it much mind anyway, Berzinski said. As long as I know what the temperature is and if there’s going to be any precipitation.
Then, after what he considered a lengthy silence, Berzinski said You got plans for lunch, Neil?
No. Not really.
What say you and I go grab some eats, Berzinski said, letting his good mood radiate past his desk and practically into Satterson The Sheep.
The two men stepped out of the office, Berzinski pulling the door shut behind him as he let Satterson pass in front. They walked down the hall side by side, Berzinski occupied with ways to fill the silences.
CHAN’S HOUSE OF NOODLES WAS a brightly lit, boisterous restaurant, highlighted with flashes of neon scattered along the ivory walls. An occasional cluster of bamboo leaves shot out of large metal urns that were given a purposeful antique appearance, a technique popular at the time known as Distressing. Formica tables lined up symmetrically along the walls: a two-top then a four-top, another two-top and so on. Smoked glass dividers separated a few tables. It was a mixture of Nineteen-Eighties High-Tech Retro Deco and stripped-down Asian simplicity. It had a few simple, white-paddled ceiling fans and in the summer, there was a patio with six or seven tables out back. Waiters in immaculately pressed, white Nehru jackets and glimmering, straight black pants hustled back and forth from the bar carrying trays of porcelain glasses, pineapple cores, and coconut shells filled with rum, bourbon, and brandy-based drinks with names like Tidal Wave, Mercy At Honshei, and Kirasawa’s Revenge. (At this hour, however, most partook only of the virgin equivalents, blends of oriental fruit juices.) Some drinks had festively colored umbrellas jammed in them. The other drinks had a look of the exotic, too: blue martinis, jade colored highball glasses brimming with ice and foam.
The patrons at Chan’s ranged from rumpled lawyers to rugged architects in denim shirts and flowered ties to purposefully disaffected poseurs, who had perhaps too many one body-piercings, short bleached hair with defiant black roots poking up near the base of the skull, or the carefully displayed tattoo on the cleavage or shoulder. It was a good mix, just right for an hour or so of entertainment.
So what are you working on, Joe? Satterson said, spooning some ice from his water glass into his mouth.
Oh, Neil, Berzinski said. Let’s not talk about work.
They both knew that discussing any ongoing projects was out of the question. Company policy and a stack of trade laws forbade it. And occasionally someone did something to inadvertently post a reminder of those rules. Two years ago, Roger “Skip” Bailey opened his mouth when he shouldn’t have and got burned badly. It turned out he told someone who ended up going to a competing firm about a big project. The thing collapsed in on Bailey in a matter of weeks and he was eventually let go. It was a shame, but he hadn’t played by the rules.
How long have you been with the company, Neil? Berzinski said.
Four years, five months, three weeks and two days, Satterson said, stirring his ice water.
Berzinski resisted the temptation to say, But who’s counting?
And you? Satterson said.
About seven years, Berzinski said. Hard to believe.
Satterson looked at Berzinski sleepily. You know, he started, seeming to concentrate on little more than turning the spoon in his water glass without touching the sides. I’ve been thinking. About a new job. Maybe. Just thinking. You know? The last bit came out as if it were a sputtering engine gasping.
Berzinski blew out a long breath of air as he leaned back and rested an arm on the back of his chair.
Well, Neil, I’ll tell you, he said, leaning forward, elbows on the table, tucking his interlocking fingers under his chin. If you leave, just remember you’re special.
Satterson stopped stirring his glass and shot Berzinski a look that said You’re full of moose scat. He set down his spoon and continued looking at Berzinski quizzically.
Seriously, Berzinski continued. We’re the Tribal Elders. In the old days, back before we knew what to call ourselves, Homo Sapiens traveled in tribes or packs. We still do. But our tribal rules are much more complicated. More fluid, in some ways. Anyway. As I’m sure you’re well aware, these people still had echelons of authority. Different jobs for each member. Healers. Soothsayers. Predictors of Fortune. They’d be consulted before going into battle and so forth.
Berzinski took a sip of water. And sometimes, he said, they’d be consulted before letting new members into the tribe. There were also cases where two or more tribes would join together to fight a common enemy or gather larger hunting parties. Or whatever. These guys’ job was to basically check out the potential new members and make sure they fit in. They had to fit a certain criteria, have a certain belief and morality system that fit in with the other tribe’s. No lazy or selfish people. That kind of thing.
That, Berzinski said, is pretty much what we do, Neil. Spy on other tribes. That’s the business of competitive intelligence, in the parlance of the professionals.
Satterson sat very still for a moment then opened his mouth to speak. Seven years is a long time, isn’t it Joe?
