Free Middle Men by Jim Gavin Page B

family she was house-sitting for.
    â€œThe Cavanaughs,” she said, her eyes wide with excitement. “She’s actually mansion -sitting!”
    It was a cloudy day. I fell asleep on the bus out to Warwick and went too far. When I woke up the bus was stopped outside an old fort. Tourists walked along the stone ramparts, looking out across the Atlantic. I found an information kiosk that gave a history of the island. In 1503, a Spanish ship had discovered Bermuda, by accident, when it shattered on a reef. I imagined one of these filthy Spaniards, standing alone on the beach, holding a spyglass and dagger.
    Back in Warwick, I walked up a street that curled into green hills. I passed a horse stable and, farther along, a golfcourse. The secretary had given me the Cavanaughs’ address, but I didn’t need it. Next to the black iron gates their name was embossed in stone. Through the bars I saw a peach-colored mansion. I couldn’t knock. Instead, I pushed a red button on the intercom.
    â€œBrian,” she said, with that note of resignation in her voice.
    I looked around. There was a camera on the fence. I waved.
    â€œCan I come in?”
    â€œI don’t really have a choice, do I?”
    â€œMy plane ticket cost seven hundred dollars.”
    The gate slowly opened. At the front door Karen took my bag. Walking down the hall a ghost passed over us and we started to kiss, but it didn’t last long. She put me in a nice, comfortable guest room with a giant queen bed. From my window I could see white sailboats anchored in the sound. She worked the next few days, while I slept and hung around the house. We had sex once. Her Vespa was broken, but I asked her to take a picture of me sitting on it, so I could show the guys. On my last night there was a full moon and we walked on the beach. I have never been, nor will I ever be, in a more romantic setting. It was complete hell. Back at home she played piano for a few hours, working up a sweat in the humid air, and later we both fell asleep on the couch watching TV. In the morning it was raining and all the buses were running late. After I asked her a few times, she finally loaned me cab fare to the airport. We never talked again and I never paid her back.

Elephant Doors
    O n tape days, before his escort to the soundstage, Max Lavoy liked to entertain his writing staff with anecdotes from Belgian history. One morning in late spring, with the game scripts spread before him and a can of Diet Rite in his hand, he said:
    â€œGodfrey de Bouillon, the leader of the First Crusade, was, of course, a Walloon.”
    Adam Cullen, the new production assistant, thought this might be the end, but from there Max did five solid minutes on the royal patronyms of Lower Lorraine. The writers offered up practiced smiles of delight and gratitude, while trying, in subtle ways, to signal Adam, who was circling the table with a box of donuts.
    â€œLast summer in Namur I bought a tapestry with de Bouillon’s coat of arms. Argent, a cross potent between four crosslets . . .”
    Adam listened in awe. The content of Max’s speech meant nothing to him, absolutely nothing, but he envied the man’s chops, his ability to just go on and on, with total conviction that his audience cared.
    One of the head writers, Doug Holliday, risked a glance away from Max and caught Adam’s eye.
    â€œSprinkles,” he whispered.
    Aurora borealis, George Washington, the Magna Carta . . . Doug had spent fifteen years down here in the research library, writing questions for the longest-running quiz show in television history. Like the rest of the staff, his dark eyes and sallow skin testified to a ghoulish mastery of the banal.
    Adam reached into the box, looking for a sprinkled donut, but then he heard Max break off.
    â€œWhat’s that, Doug?”
    It was quiet. The air became prickly and hot, and though he had only been an official member of the staff for