Nice

by Holdefer, Charles

• ISBN13: 9781579620387
• ISBN10: 1579620388
• Format: Hardcover
• Copyright: 2001-04-01
• Publisher: Permanent Pr Pub Co

Summary

A tale of a man too nice for his own good.

Excerpts

Chapter One

The coin fell with a chink .

    "Hey thanks, mister," he said, looking up with bloodshot eyes.

    "Take care."

    Jerry Renfrow, alias Mr Nice Guy, walked homeward at a brisk pace, enjoying the sunshine on his face, the cupped palm of the sky and reflections off cars and signs and storefronts, his lungs swelling with spring air. What a day! Everybody, it seemed, was out tasting the afternoon. Glorious! Those who weren't squatting stuporously or lying on the pavement went about their business with springy steps as if readying for a race. At that instant he decided that he would change into his favorite celery-colored shorts and new sneakers and go for a trot in the park through its famed Woland Gardens.

" The future's gonna be (he began to sing),

Home-made, Home-made ..."

    Upon reaching his building, he bounded up the stairs, three flights, and, whistling, strode into the apartment where the breeze tossed a curtain at the open window and he saw his wife spread-eagled on the couch, her chin on a bony shoulder, bobbing, and a look of distant concentration in her eye ...

    Her fingers clasped air, her breaths came in puffs.

    Then her gaze slowly focused on him: her eyes grew wide. She drummed her fist on the slim, happily rocking back.

    "Huhh?"

    The rocking stopped. A ruddy face with round, smooth cheeks looked at him. Now the face caved in with alarm.

    "Excuse me," said Mr Nice Guy, hurrying past while the young man scurried off in search of his pants.

    Suddenly breathless from the stairs, he went to the kitchen and groped in a special bottom drawer. But he didn't find what he was seeking. He grunted, his jaw working spasmodically, then remembered the top shelf of the cupboard. He reached high, waggled his fingers hopefully in a wicker basket, and came down with chicolo balls of mintgreen and bruisy plum. These he fingered into his mouth, one at a time, chewing meditatively as he looked around the kitchen. He decided to tidy up. On the countertop, the spine of an ice-cube tray lay in a tepid puddle, alongside lime rinds and a bottle of gin. He took a sponge and wiped the counter clean, put the bottle back under the sink and refilled the ice-cube tray, carefully sliding it into the freezer compartment without sloshing. He hated sloshing.

    "Jerry?"

    He turned around, where Barbara stood at the kitchen doorway, tying the string belt of her kimono.

    "I'm sorry, baby. You came in so suddenly. Of course I wasn't expecting you. I'm so embarrassed. I'm sorry."

    Mr Nice Guy rinsed out the sponge, then began to twist it dry.

    "I hadn't planned to return early but they recessed us at the courthouse. Of course I had no idea, Raba. What bad timing!"

    Barbara disappeared into the living room for a moment, then returned with a white carton, holding it out to him. "There's pizza here if you want some."

    He looked at her. "Honey, I'm sorry for interrupting. I bet you didn't even get to come."

    She opened the carton, a smell of basil and tomatoes wafting up as she reached inside and pulled him out a wedge, gooey strands of cheese stretching and resisting as she tuned them upwards till they broke, and presented him the slice.

    "Here sweetheart. Well no, I didn't, but that's all right."

    He blew on the pizza before biting it. "Drag, though," he said, chewing, traces of sauce in the corners of his mouth.

    She kissed him. "It was just an accident, Jerry. He got scared badly. He was in such a hurry. I didn't even have time to pay him for the pizza."

    She extracted a piece for herself and put the carton on the counter as she climbed up onto a stool.

    "Well, next time I come home early," he told her, "I'll ring first."

    When she sat on the stool, a gap appeared in the front of her kimono, shadowy and pink. She reached out and tenderly touched his cheek, shaking her head, whispering, "Listen, you're the only one I really want." After having run his tongue around his lips and wiped off his tomatoed fingers on a napkin, Mr Nice Guy responded by sliding his hand inside the gap. The gentle movement of his wrist made the opening larger till her belt came loose and the kimono fell open, her breasts and belly rounding the air. She leaned closer. "I'm still all tingly, Jerry."

    The phone rang.

    "Oh, gee whiz," he said. His hand stopped, he looked at her. Another ring, and he moved away to answer.

    "Let it go," she told him, catching her balance, "we can let it go."

   "Sorry, honey, but that could be my jury foreman. We're on call for instructions."

    He plucked the receiver off the wall. "Yesss?"

    Before the voice on the other end uttered a syllable, he knew that it was most definitely not the jury foreman. Over the line came high-pitched dog yapping, piercing squeals and whining. Then the rush of words:

    "Jer, come on now, tell me the truth, just when are we gonna move on this deal? Me and the puppies can't hold out much longer. We're going apeshit. They're tearing the hell out of everything! They even eat linoleum! My couch is chewed down to the frame, man. Don't let me down!"

    "Garson, you have to give me two more weeks."

    The reply exploded out of the telephone receiver--Mr Nice Guy held it away from his ear.

    " Two weeks! What am I supposed to do with them for two weeks ? Walk them in the park twenty at a time? I can't believe what you're saying. You' re jerkin' me around, man, that's what you're doing--"

    "Now Garson," began Mr Nice Guy, as Barbara sighed and hopped down from the stool, reached into the carton for another slice of pizza, "these are exceptional circumstances. I have jury duty and there's no way to get out of it. Believe me! Why would I lie to you? This delay is costing me. Listen, I'll send you another 500 dollars, the check will go out today, I promise. That's more than enough for expenses. You can keep anything you don't spend."

    "Six hundred, Jerry. Zap me with six hundred volts."

    "All right then, six hundred."

    "This is a favor Jer, you know that. You owe me big time now. Be informed that I am officially bummed to the max."

    Mr Nice Guy consoled him in his best soothing telephone voice (both his mother and Barbara agreed, he could be masterful at this) till eventually Garson calmed down, though the dogs still wowed-wowed in the background. Finally he hung up the phone and turned to Barbara.

    "Sorry, darling. Would you like to go to the bedroom? There are more conveniences."

    She smiled, but before she could answer the doorbell rang.

    "Oh, what now?" he exclaimed.

    He trotted to answer the front door. When he opened it, the young man stepped back immediately, edging toward the stairwell.

    "What is it?" asked Mr Nice Guy.

    "I--uh--the keys to my motor scooter are on the coffee table. I got to have them. The scooter doesn't belong to me."

    Mr Nice Guy went back and fetched the keys while the youth waited outside the door. He handed them across the threshold.

    "There you go. And the pizza--how much do we owe you?"

Copyright © 2001 Charles Holdefer. All rights reserved.