The Road Narrows As You Go (5 page)

No, uh, actually outside Cleveland.

At last something good's come from the mistake on the lake, said Frank.

What's that? Oh yes, of course, ha ha, yes.

Anybody who's ever tried to draw kid gloves on a rodent or a cape on a muscleman has lived here. San Francisco is a cartoonist's mecca, said Gabby as her finger sang around the rim of her wineglass.

When did you learn to draw? Frank leaned in close.

He looked genuinely curious, so she told him the story. Wendy said she'd drawn on her bassinet as a baby and by the time she was in the first grade she had started passing comics around behind Miss Reeve's back to get popular, single-panel gag strips about the lives of a warren of gophers. Frank thought that sounded cute and appropriate considering she still drew rodents. She took a Rapidograph pen from her purse and started drawing on her menu the kind of Snoopy-lookalike gopher she used to draw in elementary school. Gophers lasted her up to the sixth grade, when she switched briefly to horses and princes. Then in the ninth grade, it dawned on her that if she drew pictures of what her friends wanted to see, they would pay her for them.

Ah, business-minded, too? I love this, by the way, seeing you draw, amazing, he said. Go on. What kind of pictures did you friends buy from you?

So began Wendy's juvenile career in pornography. Oh yes you heard right. Thirteen, still a virgin, Wendy assured Frank and Gabby, she started to print her own naive concept of what went into a Tijuana bible. She stapled together little scandalous booklets of eight or more graphic Xeroxes brimming with clumsily drawn fantasies about what sex might be like, acted out by well-known cartoon characters. Tintin, Minnie, Yosemite Sam, Panacea, Cruella De Vil. She reduced the drawings to wallet-sized and sold close to a hundred in the span of a semester, plus she did a swift side business selling off originals. Wilma solo. Garfield and Odie
in flagrante delicto
. Fornicating X-Men. Spider-Man and Lois Lane entangled in a web of betrayal. Tarzan meets Wonder Woman and Vampirella for a ménage à trois. The Jetsons' maid Rosie in a drossy Hanna-Barbera
gangbang.
Choquant
,
Wendy! Si lubrique, tellement lascif, et
gross! in the words of her grade ten French teacher, a strict young blonde who wore leather skirts and strappy heels and confiscated a stack of Wendy's porns.

Frank was grinning. Gabby's eyes dilated wider and wider. Wendy was drawing on napkins some examples from this era of her work. I'm keeping these, please, said Frank. I'll pay handsomely.

She drew on commission, indifferent as to the cast, so the perviest kids could tip her upfront to see their choices go at it. She learned to draw a lot of different characters this way in a short amount of time and it was a fair little business while it lasted, Wendy admitted. Until she got expelled. That's when things went downhill, meaning delinquency, boys, and drugs. She lived in a one-bedroom apartment with her mother who meanwhile made an intermittent living as a stage manager for small, local theatre productions. Most of those paycheques went to cigarettes, observed the child Wendy, who never knew her father, a man her mother claimed had been a television actor in town for one night on a speaking engagement at a hydroelectric dam. It was her mom's gig to organize the crew, strike the stage, hire the lighting technicians, and so on. Wendy liked this story well enough to tell it now. But she left out the important part about that actor being Ronald Reagan and instead mentioned a grandfather with a kosher butchershop.

My father was a kosher butcher's accountant, Frank told her with flirtatious pride. He admitted a lot of her origin story sounded familiar, except instead of comics, for Frank it was high-stakes poker and a ten-thousand-dollar win that got him expelled and sent to a boarding school in Pennsylvania. Best thing that ever happened to him, for living in Pennsylvania focused Frank so that he was able to turn his teenage gambling problem into a mature and responsible career.

When the food arrived, Frank ordered more wine. And as they ate, Frank tried to explain in lay terms what he did for a living. Wendy polished off the other half of the muffuletta her editor ordered but was too
stuffed to contemplate, then sucked back a plate of
linguine alle vongole
all to herself. The table emptied a third bottle of the house Cabernet Sauvignon, and that did the trick. Opening up now to the situation in front of her thanks to it, the detailed visions of a grand future that sounded so definitive as Frank Fleecen described them, but purposefully vague in the overall, kept Wendy at a distance from the actual mechanics of how he would bring about their success, as if everything he said about his business was excitingly beyond their ability to grasp. Put it this way: Frank provided investment opportunities for middleclass entrepreneurs who wanted to go big.

Sounds super, said Wendy.

When Reagan gave that talk about the economy earlier this month, I remember his quote from the poet Carl Sandburg, said Frank.
The Republic is a dream. Nothing happens unless first a dream
. I guess I'm what you call an American dreamer.

Me, too, said Wendy. Plus I love President Reagan.

Me, too, said Frank and unconsciously clawed the table.

Gabby pinched her shoulders up near her ears. Isn't she the cat's meow? she said.

At this point, for no particular reason Wendy could see, Frank beckoned to the waiter and asked if the kitchen could provide him with one apple. Without a moment's hesitation, the waiter, no doubt a consummate professional, saw to the request.

Frank held the apple in one hand, took a bite, and said, Here's a typical bond rated triple A, your handsome and perfect glossy fresh orchard apple.

Wendy took it from his hand and bit into the flesh. Tastes okay to me.

Bemused, Frank continued: Over here's what a so-called junk bond is. He pointed to the bowl of
zabaglione
. Sure, now this has custard and apples and blueberries and other fruits and of course it is far more delicious, he said, but some of the fruit in this
zabaglione
started out too
bruised for the grocery, some were too ripe to eat on their own, and so on. Who wants a taste?

I'll try some, I love
zabaglione
, said Gabby and took the spoon from Frank's hand and after taking a scoop nearly swallowed the entire utensil without a gag. When she pulled the spoon out she said, Hmm, cinnamon and spices. So tell me, Frank, why am I eating a junk bond?

Flavours, more flavours is one thing. A bond is an apple. You buy a good apple or a bad apple. A high-yield bond is a mix, a
zabaglione
. It's a sauce theory of investment. My bond packages come in all kinds of flavours. And how many different ways can you think to package
zabaglione
? Frank asked them. Champagne flutes, bowls, jars, cans, tubes. Applesauce has a higher profit margin than apples. Applesauce has more options. I specialize in packaging the financial equivalent of applesaucegrade bonds up to
zabaglione
. What's your pipe dream for
Strays
, Wendy? he asked, because that's what I want to promise. And he touched her fingers at an opportune time when Gabby wasn't paying attention, as if to subtly remind Wendy that she was the hands-on centre of this deal.

Biggest of my biggest dreams? Phew, let me see …, Wendy looked back through her life to the beginning but she wasn't about to tell him she wanted to meet Ronald Reagan, and the image of Hick Elmdales kept interrupting the sequence until the two trains of thought seemed to be one. She ground her teeth. She said, Gee, you know, that's funny because my mother is Jewish, so am I, but not really, actually I'm a superstitious atheist. We never went to any synagogues or church, but Mom and I loved Christmas. Mom loved wrapping and unwrapping presents, pretending there was a Santa Claus, a Jesus, a manger, she loved the songs. In my lifetime she stage-managed three versions of
White Christmas
and four
A Christmas Carol
s. Christmas was the biggest day of the year for us. My daydreams all year long were about what I might get Christmas morning. I used to get to stay up late on Christmas Eve so we could watch Christmas
specials on television together. I always thought it would be fun to surprise Mom one December with my own cartoon Christmas special. I guess that Charlie Brown special made a big impression, gave me the idea to draw comic strips. So I guess what I would love someday is to make a
Strays
animated Christmas special.

Frank stared so hard at Wendy she felt ready to crack. Then he burst out in laughter. Gabrielle joined in, then took a long drink and shook her head. Her cheeks had gone red.

You want a Christmas cartoon for
Strays
, Frank said, okay, now
that
is perfect. Did you hear that, Gabrielle?

I did. I can't believe it but I did.

Now that is something I can promise you, Wendy, Frank said and snapped his fingers. You can bank on Christmas. Wall Street's favourite time of year.

I'm stunned. I couldn't have hoped for better, said Gabby.

There you go. A Christmas special, he said and laughed again. I love it. I more than love it. Christmas is big business, Wendy. My parents don't celebrate, they find it nauseating, but I do. I give presents at the office. Money, too, but actual gifts. I love it. Christmas gives me a tan. And you told me she was going to be tough to convince.

Hear this girl an hour ago, Frank, before I got her to come to dinner she was talking about quitting.
Now
she's pitching a Christmas cartoon. Gabby downed the glass of wine in front of her that was Frank's. Tell him, Wendy, how you wanted to quit and I convinced you not to.

Did you really want to quit? And do what?

I thought it was obvious. Fifty regional papers is a bust. No fans. Etcetera. Drawing skills of a savage.

I'm your fan. You're a
zabaglione
, said Frank. My favourite.

You want to add me to your applesauce, is that it?

That's right, he said, I do, except in the real world, those apples are people's dreams and their livelihoods are at stake. I find ways of connecting
people who can make each other's dreams come true. First thing every morning I read
Strays
in the
Spectator
. I love Buck, that dog's such a dreamer you can learn from him. And that rabbit reminds me of myself the way he turns a dime into a dollar.

Francis is a rascal.

One thing that helps me in pitch is an origin story. I love hearing about your childhood. Where did you get the idea for
Strays
?

I took a walk around Bernal Heights, she said. I love walks. I'm prone to wander.

A stray yourself.

Yes.

No, no, said Gabby. That's no help, is it? Tell him what you mean by
go for a walk
. What a flake. She doesn't mean like in some meditative way. The Wendy I know is a materialist, aren't you? You've never had a spiritual thought your entire life, have you?

Probably not, Wendy said. I like ghost stories, though.

She lives next door to a huge park full of stray pets. The whole cast of
Strays
.

Oh. I see. Frank turned to her for confirmation. True?

You know Bernal Heights? I live on the main floor of that five-storey hodgepodge apartment at the top of the hill. Looks like a fountain from Hieronymus Bosch or that big church it's taking a hundred years to build in Barcelona. Except dilapidated to hell. The peak is a big wonderful rolling shoe-shaped park reserved for a microwave tower and the local dogwalkers. There's a little forest around the antenna. But it's mostly couch grass and wild shrubweed, thistle, a few trees. It's very steep and chilly so I rarely see more than like a few others out on a bracing stroll or throwing the dog a ball. Windy. Fog blows in like icecubes and the next minute you bake under the sun, so it's a gamble what to wear. Plus I go at odd hours. Dusk and eventide. Dawns and predawns. I go when the foragers come out. All the city's lost pets live there. As soon as I moved to
the manor I started to see the dogs and cats who roamed the hill. Packs and solo. I followed them to the south face, into thickets. I found rabbits and snakes. Raccoons. Rats. Owls. Great urban wildlife sanctuary. Those parrots who roost at Telegraph Hill fly by frequently. It's because of the illegal dump spot. I'd find all these animals rooting around in the trash people leave behind at the dead-end of the gravel road on the south side of the hill. All my characters, I found them there in the trash. So now whenever I need a fresh idea I go a-walkin' on the south side of the hill and watch my critters.

That is a precious story. Frank put down his fork next to the bowl of
zabaglione
and clapped his hands. Have you seen these animals, Gabrielle? I have to.

Yes, I mean, no. I got a tour and saw the rabbit thistle and the dump but I didn't see any dogs or cats. It was midday.

Well, I can't wait to come for a predawn visit to see the real-life counterparts from your strip. The actual Buck, I can't wait. That's cute as hell. If I'm going to sell, sell, sell, I need my personal tour for my pitch.
But
a tip: you shouldn't share that location in future interviews or your
Strays
animal habitat will be trampled by all the new fans you get who come to see it on tours.

Oh, they always say popularity is a mixed blessing, Gabby mused happily and maybe without noticing, collected Frank's fork in order to taste a portion of his antipasto.

Odd time to notice the Rolex on Frank's wrist but it must have cost more than his entire suit, shoes and tie and all. What did Gabby say at coffee, a billion-dollar Rolex? No,
Rolodex
, but still, and—
don't look
— but what did that say about the synthetic wig, why didn't he spend some money on
that rug
instead? It made her wonder about this man's sense of priority, herself included.

The gist of what Wendy understood Frank Fleecen would do for her—licensing and merchandise would be folded right into the
investment loans he underwrote. This add-on improved the chance that the companies issuing Hexen Diamond Mistral bonds could repay. Especially if Gabby could increase readership and Wendy could keep them laughing. The circularity of this deal made her strip's popularity almost the inevitable outcome of total market saturation. Sure, a pet store franchise ought to use her characters, sure, a gas station should do a promotional mug. He regularly underwrote enormous mergers between restaurant chains and motel chains, paper and pasta factories, all of whom desperately needed something profitable to license or manufacture to pay back the loan (average twenty-two percent interest on a loan, fourteen percent return on a bond). Don't think junk, think high yield, think
zabaglione
bonds, applesauce bonds, think investments in America's future.