“Yes,” Burroughs said. “Acetaminophen is the active ingredient in Tylenol.”
V
GATES
ONE WAY TO THINK OF IT
“SO, HAPPY ENDING THEN,” my dad said.
“You think so?” I said.
We were sitting at the bar in Blimey’s Tavern. When I’d returned from the compound, I’d swallowed six Tylenol and shown Clyde the check, which he’d thought was a prank, so I showed him the contract, at which point he said that I had to tell him everything, and insisted I do so on the way to Blimey’s, where we’d find his lawyer friend and get some advice. His lawyer friend hadn’t gotten there yet, nor had I told Clyde, by any means, everything, but I’d spent the whole walk—and a good ten minutes in the tavern itself—conveying the highlights.
“Sure I think so,” he said. “Of course I think so. I mean, maybe you didn’t hit the best guy to hit, but you couldn’t. How could you? His bodyguard’s there. His son’s right next to him. You gonna clobber the man in front of his son? Even I wouldn’t do that. Plus you got that bangle on. Desk between the two of you. Maybe, too, a little lingering sentimentality. And the check, son. The check. Come on. That’s real money for you. That’s life-changing money. And to do some writing? The thing you love to do? You can’t just throw that kind of money away. That kind of work. No. Sometimes you can’t hit the best guy to hit. Sometimes you gotta hit another guy instead. The one at hand. Nearest one you can reach. That’s just how it is. That’s how it is without that kind of money at stake. But with that kind of money at stake? You hit another guy instead and you take the money. You did the right thing.” He slapped the bar with finality, and said so again: “You did the right thing.”
“Another?” said the bartender.
“Jill,” Clyde said, “you think I’d slap the bar to get your attention? I’m not that kind of jerk. I was only expressing a general-type enthusiasm for the universe. My handsome son here just had himself a peach of a day. Mind you, though, I am on vacation, I like this Scotch”—he threw back what remained in his glass—“and you’re standing right in front of me, trying to give me more of it, so therefore, I will, in fact, have another.”
“And for the handsome son?” Jill asked me, pouring.
“Handsome son can’t drink tonight,” my father said. “He’s got a concussion.”
“That doesn’t sound very peachy,” she said.
“Maybe you lack imagination,” Clyde said.
“What’s with your dad?” Jill the bartender said. “Half the time he’s in here, he acts like he’s in love with me. Other half he flirts.”
“Where’s Biggie?” Clyde said. “We need his advice.”
“Beats me,” Jill said. “I only just got here.”
A few stools away sat a man in a boater at whom my father’d nodded when we first came in. He said, “Biggie’s been out of town for a couple of days. Florida. Or maybe New York. California. I can’t remember. I think he said he’d be back today, though. Should be coming in later.”
“Who,” said my father, “in the hell asked you, Herb? Who asked you for a treatise on Biggie’s travel plans? What qualifies you to make confident predictions regarding Biggie’s ETA?”
“Go fuck yourself, Clyde.”
“Come on over,” said my father. “Next round’s on my son. Had a peach of a day. Herb’s from Boston, Billy. So he always has a hat on. Inside, outside. Always in a hat.”
“Where the fuck do you come up with this nonsense?” Herb said, tottering over with his half-filled pint.
“So you’re not from Boston?” my father said.
“Hat’s got fuck-all to do with Boston.”
“Herb’s from Boston, Bill, so he’s always saying ‘fuck.’ Kinda sounds like fack.”
“That I cannot say isn’t true,” Herb told me. “However. I wear the hat for professional reasons. Gotta dress for the part.”
“Herb’s from Boston,” said my father, “so he became a private eye.”
“I do not get this line of ribbing,” Herb said.
“Ribbing,” said my father. “Line of ribbing?” said my father. “Is that what they call it in Boston? Is that Bostonese for being called an asswipe at a tavern?”
“And now you’re calling me a fucken asswipe now,” said Herb.
“Every time you sport a new hat,” said my father, “I find myself thinking, ‘Herb: asswipe.’ ”
“It’s not a new hat. I haven’t worn it in a while because the summer’s been mild enough for my porkpie. Then today’s ninety-plus, so I broke out the boater.”
“ ‘Boston asswipe,’ I find myself thinking.”
“See,” Herb said to me, “I know that he won’t stop saying Boston and asswipe until I start laughing, but I don’t feel like laughing. I’m just not in the mood. Not to say I’m in a bad mood. I’m in more of a calm mood. I’m feeling thoughtful this evening. Thoughtful and calm and positive of outlook. Expansive, even. I feel like I’ve got a kind of bird’s-eye view of let’s call them the more subtle social dynamics, and what I’m seeing right now is that what’s nice about your father is the same thing that’s so fucking aggravating about your father. It’s how patient he is. How dedicated to whatever whim he finds himself possessed by. His whims become missions. You understand what I mean? He didn’t come in here thinking, ‘I will say Boston and asswipe til I get Herb to laugh.’ It only just occurred to him as something to do. Just a minute ago. It was just a whim. But now he’s committed. I’m not in any kind of mood to laugh at him saying Boston and asswipe, but he’ll say Boston and asswipe til I get in the mood. And the thought of that, I’m finding, has begun to put me in the mood. I’ll be there soon, I bet. With patience. With patience, I’ll soon be in the mood to laugh at Boston, to laugh at asswipe. At that point, it’ll be hard to fault him for aggravating me. He, with his patience and dedication, will have put me in the mood to laugh, and me, on the road to that mood, I’ll have discovered—am right fucking now, discovering—my own capacity for patience.”
“Are you really a private eye?” I said. “Like you find missing persons?”
“Private browneye,” my father said, “the Boston asswipe.”
Herb handed me a business card.