Noah's Turn (14 page)

Noah took a beer from his fridge and thought he might write the scene that the TV producer wanted. But he had no energy for it. The idea of writing something for TV now seemed to him a profound waste of time. Even if it was what he and the producer had called a satire of our political system. As if a satire would change the world, Noah thought. That's the real joke. The notion of satire, which at one time had interested Noah as a political tool, now seemed naive; as if there was something to be said that could make a difference. There's nothing more pathetic than a naive satirist, he thought as he polished off his beer and cracked another, noticing it was his last.

It was two-thirty in the afternoon and a safe hour to call Andrea Scott without the risk of her husband answering. “Andrea isn't home,” the nanny said. “Would you like to leave a message?”

“No. It's about reupholstering a couch. I think we can get the material she wants. I'll call her cellphone.” Noah called her cell and got her in the middle of coffee downtown with two friends. He had seen women like
her in small groups, well-to-do housewives, drinking coffee at this hour in cafés attached to high-end clothing stores, and he had had no idea who they were or what they talked about. Now, at least, he had a clue. They were Andrea Scott. They had been to the mountaintop and there was nothing there except a heated pool. She told him she couldn't talk and would call him back tomorrow.

It was hot and he had no air conditioning. He finished off his last beer and decided to go down to the pub next door for a cold draft in an air-conditioned space.

The pub wasn't Noah's scene, although he wasn't sure he had one. It attracted any number of types, from old drunks to the wet T-shirt crowd. He hated that drinkers in this city didn't know their place. It was impossible to find an establishment with true character. People from all over invaded every pub and bar as if their choice depended more on parking than on the character of the room. It was depressing and at times made Noah want to move to Dublin, get a small flat in a half-decent
area and drink himself to death in the corner pub surrounded by regulars. A Brendan Behan without talent; not a bad way to go, he thought.

He sat at the window bar, which was half a dozen stools pushed up to a counter where the pub's front window opened onto the street. People walked by on the sidewalk within three or four feet of the customers. It was neither a sidewalk table nor a real bar. It was a concept. Noah didn't like concepts because he could imagine the conversation between the investors over the “selling point” of the window bar. He thought how so few things in the sprawling, developer-built city were truly indigenous. Most seemed born of a marketing scheme. Today, however, he lacked the energy to make a better choice, since the difference between all of life's choices seemed, in his present state of mind, like nothing more than a “city's best pizza” feature in a lifestyle magazine.

Sitting next to him at the window bar was a drinker of about seventy with a weathered face, a greying pony-tail, a plaid shirt and jeans and, in a small-town way, a worldly aura. This wasn't a guy, Noah guessed, who had been to Egypt or Ecuador or New Guinea, but the squint that framed his sharp blue eyes wasn't innocent. It gave the impression he had seen a certain amount. Maybe
Janice Joplin backstage on acid or a motel dice game that ended with a dead guy. After a bit of chat about the weather he revealed he had worked the Hibernia offshore oil rigs, had done time and had survived prostate cancer. “I'm a cancer survivor!” Noah could not understand the need some people had to associate one's self in this way with the disease—as if cancer was the devil and they had beaten him in the name of good. Hibernia also had no frickin' wife or frickin' kids. No frickin' mortgage either. He was now working at a car wash that handled mostly Mercedes, BMWs, Porsches and Lexuses. “Our brushes don't leave micro scratches on high-end paint jobs you pick up at most other washes. You don't see many Hummers no more in this financial climate and with global warming. That was a nineties, early-2000 vehicle. All about the size of your dick. Ate gas like there was no tomorra. A guy I worked with at the wash used to say they drive Hummers while Rome burns. My choice vehicle is the BMW 5 series. That is, for your dollar, the best vehicle on the road today.”

When Noah told him he didn't drive and had no licence, Hibernia snorted a laugh and shook his head. He took another long drink of his beer. “Not a bad idea in this financial climate and with global warming.”

Noah downed his cold pint and ordered another for each of them. Sensing that his drinking partner didn't offend easily, he asked him why he did time.

“Stupidity. That shoulda been the charge. Sheer frickin' stupidity. Nothin' to be proud of on that side of things except you pay for it. Then you got these frickin' businessmen, the CEOs, and they don't pay for shit. Society just gives ‘em the green light.”

“Do you drink here often?” Noah asked.

“Couple times a week. I take the bus south from the wash and pick up the subway on the corner to the east end. Bit of a rough area out there, but not so bad if you're my age. It's kids who get into the gangs. Maybe I shoulda been one of those social-work types with my experience but I don't have the patience to work with kids. Maybe it's because I never had any. And maybe because I never saw a big difference between the criminal and the supposed innocent man. In most situations I experienced it sure as hell ain't no difference of character.”

Hibernia was exactly what Noah needed in a drinking partner at this point. Push a button, get a conversation. No need to get involved. A lot like sex with a married woman, Noah thought.

It was after one in the morning, and Noah waited for Hibernia on a bleak commercial street corner under a bright plastic sign advertising “Girls Girls Girls.” This was Hibernia's turf.

Two stiletto-heeled hookers in micro skirts stood a few feet away on the curb smoking. Noah didn't even get the standard, laconic “Want a date?” from them and figured he must not look like a john. Johns cruise in cars, hotel rooms on wheels. For these girls, a blowjob, twenty dollars and one more rock of crack was their circle of life. Noah thought they should call this part of town “One More.” One more then I quit. One more then I clean up. One more then I go back to school. One more then I get a real job. One more then I go back home.

Hibernia came out of “Girls Girls Girls.” They went into a nearby alley, where they did half a gram of coke. High, and drug friendly, Noah said, “I've committed a crime. It wasn't small.”

“Don't want to hear about it.” Hibernia had another snort and passed the coke to Noah.

“Can I ask why?”

“‘Cause we're all alone in the world, my man.”

They finished off the coke in silence and returned to “Girls Girls Girls” for another beer.

They drank with two women Hibernia knew, one in her mid-twenties and one around forty. The conversation didn't get much beyond
American Idol
but there were some good laughs and impressions of the judges. Like the coke, the beer got paid for in a random, “This one's mine!” way. No phone numbers or email addresses were exchanged, and it was after four by the time Noah got home. He wanted more coke and was coming down hard, so he guzzled two beers in a row and fell asleep on the couch without taking off his clothes.

Noah woke the next morning feeling almost paralyzed. He remembered he had to be at the police station. The phone rang. It was the secretary from the English department where McEwen had taught his creative writing course. At the beginning of the semester McEwen had given her names he wanted as guest lecturers during the session. Noah's name had “Television Script Writing” next to it. The department wanted to finish the course
that McEwen had laid out and wondered whether Noah would be available on the course's last day, May 3rd, at 10:40, Room 200, the Gilchrist Building. His first thought was, would The Hobson Girl be there? His next was that McEwen had given him “Television Writing.” Aside from everything that had happened, Noah still read this as a backhanded acknowledgement and thought that in death McEwen was still a prick. He accepted.