The Stranger
Page 10
“What about him?”
“We’re seeing him at his place.”
“Okay, good.”
“Should I bring the, uh, big guns?”
Part of Adam’s nuclear option. “Not yet,” Adam said. “Anything else?”
Gribbel leaned back. He threw his work boots up on the desk. “I got a gig tonight. You coming?”
Adam shook his head. Andy Gribbel played in a seventies cover band that played in some of the most prestigious dives in northern New Jersey. “Can’t.”
“No Eagles songs, I promise.”
“You never play the Eagles.”
“I ain’t a fan,” Gribbel said. “But we are debuting ‘Please Come to Boston.’ You remember that song?”
“Sure.”
“What do you think of it?”
“I ain’t a fan,” Adam said.
“Really? It’s a heartbreaker, man. You love the heartbreakers.”
“It isn’t a heartbreaker,” Adam said.
Gribbel sang: “Hey, ramblin’ boy, why don’t you settle down?”
“Probably because his girlfriend is annoying,” Adam said. “The guy keeps asking her to go with him to a new city. She keeps saying no over and over and starts whining about him staying in Tennessee.”
“That’s because she’s the number one fan of the man from Tennessee.”
“Maybe he doesn’t need a fan. Maybe he needs a life partner and a lover.”
Gribbel stroked his beard. “I see your point.”
“And all he says is ‘Please come to Boston for the springtime.’ The springtime. It’s not like he’s asking her to leave Tennessee forever. What’s her response? ‘She said no, boy.’ What kind of attitude is that? No discussion, no hearing him out—just no. So then he gently suggests Denver or even L.A. Same response. No, no, no. I mean, spread your wings, sister. Live a little.”
Gribbel smiled. “You’re nuts, man.”
“And,” Adam continued, feeling the rant rising up, “then she claims that in these massive cities—Boston, Denver, Los Angeles—that there ain’t nobody like her. Full of yourself much?”
“Adam?”
“What?”
“You may be overthinking it, my brother.”
Adam nodded. “True.”
“You overthink a lot of stuff, Adam.”
“That I do.”
“It’s why you’re the best attorney I know.”
“Thanks,” Adam said. “And no, you can’t leave work early for your gig.”
“Aw, come on. Don’t be that guy.”
“Sorry.”
“Adam?”
“What?”
“The guy in that song. The rambling boy who asks her to come to Boston?”
“What about him?”
“You got to be fair to the girl.”
“How so?”
“He tells his girl that she could sell her paintings on the sidewalk, outside the café where he hopes to be working soon.” Gribbel spread his hands. “I mean, what kind of financial planning is that?”
“Touché,” Adam said with a small smile. “Sounds like maybe they should just break up.”
“Nah. They got a good thing. You can hear it in his voice.”
Adam shrugged and headed into his office. The rant had been a welcome distraction. Now he was back in his own head again. Bad place to be. He made some calls, had two client meetings, checked in with the paralegals, made sure the right briefs had been followed. The world moves on, which is an outrage. Adam had learned that when he was fourteen years old and his father died of a sudden heart attack. He had sat in the big black car next to his mom and stared out the window and watched everyone else in the world living their lives. Kids still went to school. Parents still went to work. Cars honked their horns. The sun still shone. His dad was gone. And nothing changed.
Today he was being reminded yet again of the obvious: The world doesn’t give even the slightest damn about us or our petty problems. We never quite get that, do we? Our lives have been shattered—shouldn’t the rest of us take notice? But no. To the outside world, Adam looked the same, acted the same, felt the same. We get mad at someone for cutting us off in traffic or for taking too long to order at Starbucks or for not responding exactly as we see fit, and we have no idea that behind their facade, they may be dealing with some industrial-strength shit. Their lives may be in pieces. They may be in the midst of incalculable tragedy and turmoil, and they may be hanging on to their sanity by a thread.
But we don’t care. We don’t see. We just keep pushing.
He flipped radio stations on the way home, finally settling on mindless arguments on sports radio. The world was divisive and always fighting, so it was nice when people fought over something as meaningless as professional basketball.
When he reached his street, Adam was a little surprised to see Corinne’s Honda Odyssey in the driveway. The car dealer had called the color Dark Cherry Pearl with a straight face. On the back cargo door, there was an oval magnetic decal with the name of their town written in black, a seemingly perquisite automotive tribal tattoo in suburbia nowadays. There was also a round sticker with crossed lacrosse sticks that read PANTHER LACROSSE, the town’s mascot, and one with a giant green W for Willard Middle School, Ryan’s.
Corinne had gotten home from Atlantic City earlier than expected.
That threw off his timing a bit. He had rehearsed the upcoming confrontation in his head nonstop all day. It had been on a loop for hours now. He had tested out several approaches, but none had felt exactly right. He knew that there was no point in planning. Talking about what the stranger had told him—confronting her with what he now believed was the truth—would be pulling the proverbial pin from the proverbial grenade. You had no idea how anyone would react.
Would she deny it?
Maybe. There was still the possibility that there was an innocent explanation for all this. Adam was trying to remain open-minded, though it felt more like false hope than anything in the “don’t prejudge” camp. He parked next to her car in the driveway. They had a two-car garage, but there was old furniture and sports equipment and other trappings of consumption that had taken precedence. So he and Corinne parked in the driveway instead.
Adam got out of the car and started up the walk. The grass had a few too many brown spots. Corinne would notice and complain about that. She had trouble simply enjoying and letting be. She liked to correct and make right. Adam considered himself more live-and-let-live, but others might confuse the attitude with laziness. The Bauer family, who lived next door, had a front yard that looked ready to host a PGA event. Corinne couldn’t help but compare. Adam didn’t give a rat’s ass.
“We’re seeing him at his place.”
“Okay, good.”
“Should I bring the, uh, big guns?”
Part of Adam’s nuclear option. “Not yet,” Adam said. “Anything else?”
Gribbel leaned back. He threw his work boots up on the desk. “I got a gig tonight. You coming?”
Adam shook his head. Andy Gribbel played in a seventies cover band that played in some of the most prestigious dives in northern New Jersey. “Can’t.”
“No Eagles songs, I promise.”
“You never play the Eagles.”
“I ain’t a fan,” Gribbel said. “But we are debuting ‘Please Come to Boston.’ You remember that song?”
“Sure.”
“What do you think of it?”
“I ain’t a fan,” Adam said.
“Really? It’s a heartbreaker, man. You love the heartbreakers.”
“It isn’t a heartbreaker,” Adam said.
Gribbel sang: “Hey, ramblin’ boy, why don’t you settle down?”
“Probably because his girlfriend is annoying,” Adam said. “The guy keeps asking her to go with him to a new city. She keeps saying no over and over and starts whining about him staying in Tennessee.”
“That’s because she’s the number one fan of the man from Tennessee.”
“Maybe he doesn’t need a fan. Maybe he needs a life partner and a lover.”
Gribbel stroked his beard. “I see your point.”
“And all he says is ‘Please come to Boston for the springtime.’ The springtime. It’s not like he’s asking her to leave Tennessee forever. What’s her response? ‘She said no, boy.’ What kind of attitude is that? No discussion, no hearing him out—just no. So then he gently suggests Denver or even L.A. Same response. No, no, no. I mean, spread your wings, sister. Live a little.”
Gribbel smiled. “You’re nuts, man.”
“And,” Adam continued, feeling the rant rising up, “then she claims that in these massive cities—Boston, Denver, Los Angeles—that there ain’t nobody like her. Full of yourself much?”
“Adam?”
“What?”
“You may be overthinking it, my brother.”
Adam nodded. “True.”
“You overthink a lot of stuff, Adam.”
“That I do.”
“It’s why you’re the best attorney I know.”
“Thanks,” Adam said. “And no, you can’t leave work early for your gig.”
“Aw, come on. Don’t be that guy.”
“Sorry.”
“Adam?”
“What?”
“The guy in that song. The rambling boy who asks her to come to Boston?”
“What about him?”
“You got to be fair to the girl.”
“How so?”
“He tells his girl that she could sell her paintings on the sidewalk, outside the café where he hopes to be working soon.” Gribbel spread his hands. “I mean, what kind of financial planning is that?”
“Touché,” Adam said with a small smile. “Sounds like maybe they should just break up.”
“Nah. They got a good thing. You can hear it in his voice.”
Adam shrugged and headed into his office. The rant had been a welcome distraction. Now he was back in his own head again. Bad place to be. He made some calls, had two client meetings, checked in with the paralegals, made sure the right briefs had been followed. The world moves on, which is an outrage. Adam had learned that when he was fourteen years old and his father died of a sudden heart attack. He had sat in the big black car next to his mom and stared out the window and watched everyone else in the world living their lives. Kids still went to school. Parents still went to work. Cars honked their horns. The sun still shone. His dad was gone. And nothing changed.
Today he was being reminded yet again of the obvious: The world doesn’t give even the slightest damn about us or our petty problems. We never quite get that, do we? Our lives have been shattered—shouldn’t the rest of us take notice? But no. To the outside world, Adam looked the same, acted the same, felt the same. We get mad at someone for cutting us off in traffic or for taking too long to order at Starbucks or for not responding exactly as we see fit, and we have no idea that behind their facade, they may be dealing with some industrial-strength shit. Their lives may be in pieces. They may be in the midst of incalculable tragedy and turmoil, and they may be hanging on to their sanity by a thread.
But we don’t care. We don’t see. We just keep pushing.
He flipped radio stations on the way home, finally settling on mindless arguments on sports radio. The world was divisive and always fighting, so it was nice when people fought over something as meaningless as professional basketball.
When he reached his street, Adam was a little surprised to see Corinne’s Honda Odyssey in the driveway. The car dealer had called the color Dark Cherry Pearl with a straight face. On the back cargo door, there was an oval magnetic decal with the name of their town written in black, a seemingly perquisite automotive tribal tattoo in suburbia nowadays. There was also a round sticker with crossed lacrosse sticks that read PANTHER LACROSSE, the town’s mascot, and one with a giant green W for Willard Middle School, Ryan’s.
Corinne had gotten home from Atlantic City earlier than expected.
That threw off his timing a bit. He had rehearsed the upcoming confrontation in his head nonstop all day. It had been on a loop for hours now. He had tested out several approaches, but none had felt exactly right. He knew that there was no point in planning. Talking about what the stranger had told him—confronting her with what he now believed was the truth—would be pulling the proverbial pin from the proverbial grenade. You had no idea how anyone would react.
Would she deny it?
Maybe. There was still the possibility that there was an innocent explanation for all this. Adam was trying to remain open-minded, though it felt more like false hope than anything in the “don’t prejudge” camp. He parked next to her car in the driveway. They had a two-car garage, but there was old furniture and sports equipment and other trappings of consumption that had taken precedence. So he and Corinne parked in the driveway instead.
Adam got out of the car and started up the walk. The grass had a few too many brown spots. Corinne would notice and complain about that. She had trouble simply enjoying and letting be. She liked to correct and make right. Adam considered himself more live-and-let-live, but others might confuse the attitude with laziness. The Bauer family, who lived next door, had a front yard that looked ready to host a PGA event. Corinne couldn’t help but compare. Adam didn’t give a rat’s ass.
