She’s already feeling shaky, but she reaches for the coffee beans anyway. She wants the ritual. Boiling the water, grinding the beans, setting the timer, pushing down the French press. Everything is a little bit off this morning. She can’t count on herself—her mood. This irritates her. Yesterday, everything had seemed possible; she could smell success. This morning the air smells like shit. She can’t figure out where it’s coming from. She checks all her shoes and gives up. She remembers she is out of toilet paper and considers jumping in the car, but the timer goes off. Just one sip. One bite of toast. She decides raspberry jam is better eaten alone, sans toast. She sits down to type, reveling in her gooey fingers. She has acquired a keyboard condom (that’s what he called it), which allows her to type and eat without messing up the keyboard. It seems like a very good thing, protecting her most valuable asset. Her mind wanders back to the toilet paper. Organic or Kmart variety. She also needs vinegar. She thinks about how she is going to acquire ‘business attire’ that fits over an eight-month pregnancy suit. She muses over how this became her problem. She thought commercials had wardrobe people. Suddenly, a wave of fatigue. Maybe a ten-minute nap…Her eyes land on the cover of a 1940′s Spiritual she has tacked into the wall: “Fix me, Jesus” in bright red letters, by Hall Johnson. Then to the left, “I Wish That I’d Been Satisfied With Mary.” She can’t make out the composer from the couch, only the outline of a blonde coquettish Mary emanating ‘come hither.’ The juxtaposition is confusing, like her most recent fortune cookie: Luck is helping.
She forces herself out the door. It’s one hundred and ten degrees and the streets are empty. Even desert people know when to stay inside. But she is not exactly a desert person…yet. Though the idea of a day spent in the dark watching Mulholland Drive and eating Egg-McMuffins sounds really appealing. She stops to reconsider. “No! Go.” She enunciates out loud as an act of resistance. “Mission, mission, must accomplish mission.” Top lock turns right, bottom lock goes left. She has to remind herself every time. She drops her keys. “Shit.” Bending down in a pregnant suit is becoming increasingly difficult. She is starting to sweat. She propels herself onto the hot sidewalk anyway and runs through the text from the motivational article she printed off the internet: “Perseverance and determination alone are omnipotent.” Calvin Coolidge or someone. She tacked the write-up opposite the toilet, knowing it would yield multiple opportunities to impress this new way of thinking.
She has never visited the complex one block south. The apartments have always struck her as a little sketchy. Too many balconies parading lazy boys and other ‘indoor furniture.’ Not to mention the conglomerate of scary ferns. She lives in an upgraded unit with painted cupboards and new appliances. She feels sure she made the right decision. But today, she intends to knock firmly on apartment six of the non-upgraded complex and confront this Goldberg Fields—the man who paid his electricity bill with her credit card. She has rehearsed the conversation nightly for the past week, testing various stances in front of the mirror. She also came up with an accompanying articulation—low, monotone and unfaltering. Unemotional. She played it back to be sure. This is business and she can’t afford to cry. Presently, she can’t remember the significance of Wednesday morning…
She trudges up her driveway and turns left. A gust of hot air engulfs her. She ponders suffocation and does a quick calculation: twenty more steps and then shade. This kind of weather requires mental manipulation and reward. She opens the gate and makes her way toward apartment six. She is now sweating profusely and her heart is pounding. She imagines a muscled black man in a ribbed tank opening the door: “What do you want?” He has a gun tucked into his jeans. She considers calling her mother and uttering some last words. She shakes off the ridiculous make-believe and knocks. Nothing. She knocks again. This time she hears something…a muffled grunting, and what sounds like whirring wheels. The door opens. Words tumble out: “Um…hi…I’m looking for Goldberg Fields.”
“Shitballs,” she exclaims.
He isn’t black or dangerous looking. Nor is he wearing the ribbed tank top she had imagined. And there is no sign of a gun. In fact, he is more of a she. Or it is hard to tell. But the clothing suggests female. Her brain quickly sifts through the ambiguity and makes a decision, as a brain is wont to do—desiring clarity, categories. She is wearing red dangly earrings, which stand out against her pasty white skin and a flowered blouse buttoned up snugly at the neck. Surprising in this heat. Also surprising is the matte finish of her skin; in fact, she seems entirely unaffected by the temperature. (Conversely, Laser can feel her foundation starting to trickle and pool at all the facial crevices.) The creature’s hair is a cheap looking blonde and barely covering the scalp. The sound of whirring wheels is coming from her wheelchair, a high tech piece of equipment which she maneuvers adeptly.
She half expects the man…woman to pop up out of the chair and yell: “Freaky D-Day” or “Fuckiatchi!”—something obscure and theatrical. She is reminded of all the weird theatre movements she studied in university and that one class in particular, where the eager presenters had thrown a bucket of urine at the unsuspecting onlookers—a re-enactment of Dadaism. A bucket of piss would not be out of place here.
And what is she here for again? She suddenly feels faint. She reaches for her bottle of water. “Can I help you?” The she-male utters in a husky voice. She appears entirely at ease, despite the fact that a sweating pregnant woman is standing at her front door, having thus muttered a mere two syllables: ‘Shitballs.’ Perhaps this is a vision—a desert vision. Unlikely, but not impossible. Though the dryness in her throat suggests otherwise. “Ah…yeah…ah…” Laser stammers, dumping the contents of her bag on the concrete. She needs a sip of water bad, but she grabbed the green slouchy bag—the one that absorbs contents into its slouchy skin. Mental note: throw the fucking bag away.
“I just wanted to ask you about something—”
Dizzy, dizzy, black.
Light.
Black.
When she comes to, she finds herself face to kneecaps with the creature. The she-male looks concerned and is hovering at an uncomfortably close distance. Beside her wheelchair is a bucket of washcloths. Laser notices the multiple damp wash cloths littered over her own body. So many wash cloths. It’s weird, but she is grateful. The apartment is not air conditioned.
Her mind is foggy, but she begins to see. She overheated and fainted. The she-male brought out her store of wash cloths to revive her. Kind. She considers putting this defrauding business behind her and calling it a day. She makes a move to sit up, but her body has turned to lead and doesn’t comply. Fine then. She can take a hint. As soon as she regains control of her limbs, she will put into motion this dreaded confrontation. No running away. Anyway, her therapist will be disappointed if she doesn’t act out what they have been practicing for the last three sessions.
Her eyes scan the section of the living room she can see without having to move her head. She lands on a large whiteboard with the words, THE RULES OF GOLDBERG, printed perfectly in capital letters. Laser also notes the music playing—Frank Sinatra’s, My Way. It appears to be on repeat. Goldberg’s theme song? Curious. More curious, Laser suddenly realizes, is how she made it over to the couch in the first place. She decides to speak. The creature seems unwilling to break the ice and the silence is, frankly, freaking Laser out.
“Are you Goldberg Fields?” The words burst out of Laser’s mouth. She has never been good with gentle lead-ins in conversation.
“I sure am,” the creature replies just as directly. Nothing seems to faze this Goldberg. Perhaps this isn’t the first time one of her fraud victims has come calling. “My parents were hippies,” she says.
“Oh.” Laser is confused by the hippie comment. She still feels a little off-kilter and extraneous bits of information are distracting. “Um…thanks for the wash cloths. It’s really hot out today.”
“Yes, you fainted at the front door. And I must say, I almost fainted myself trying to get you over to the couch. Fortunately, I can get in and out of this thing.” Goldberg strokes the arm of her wheelchair and then gives it a quick buzz frontward and backward. Is she showing off?
“That’s handy,” Laser mutters. This Goldberg is a master manipulator. That much is clear.
“Not much into air conditioning?” she can’t help but ask. The coolness of the washcloths has dissipated and they’re starting to feel like blankets.
“No, I’m not. This heat suits me just fine. It’s you young folk that don’t hold up. Would you like something to eat or a glass of juice? Perk you up for sure.” She has already whizzed into what Laser can only presume to be the kitchen, leaving her no time to protest. Though Laser has already made up her mind to not ingest any concoction coming out of this apartment.
Her eyes are heavy. She closes them for a second. When she opens them, Goldberg is standing over her with a tall glass of green liquid.
“Juice?” Goldberg offers almost eerily.
Laser is suddenly frightened. She faints. Again. The last thing she sees is the white board, THE RULES OF GOLDBERG starting to spin…
This time she sits up with a jolt.
“Goldberg,” she calls into the hot apartment air.
“Yes?” Goldberg pokes her head out of the kitchen, revealing a coral nightie and big panda slippers. She appears to have slipped into something more comfortable while Laser was busy fainting. Her legs are hairy, but she has perfectly shaped breasts. She walks over to the white board and begins to scribble.
“Are you a credit card thief?” Laser blurts out. She grabs a magazine to shield her pregnant belly from the retaliation that is sure to come from so bold a question. One doesn’t tend to broach criminals with such frankness. Like, you don’t walk up to a drug-dealer and query: “Are you selling drugs?” That would be idiotic.
“Shitballs! I’ve been discovered!” Goldberg exclaims. Though Laser doesn’t detect anything resembling worry in her voice…not to mention the fact, that she said ‘shitballs.’ Laser says ‘shitballs.’ She heard it in a movie once and adopted the phrase immediately. It is disconcerting hearing the expression in a mouth other than her own.
“What if I am?” Goldberg asks pointedly.
“Well go ahead, I just wanted to know.” Laser retreats. She’s never been a good fencer. Her sport in university was bowling. Not by choice.
“In that case, yes. Yes. YES! Goldberg Fields is a fraud artist. One of the best. Any more questions?”
Laser can’t help it. She starts to cry. She hears herself say: “But why me?”
“Listen, Laser,” Goldberg says firmly. “If you’re going to keep fainting, we’re not going to get anywhere.”
Laser can’t help but agree. She nods and forces herself into a seated position.
Shitballs! Why is she trying to accommodate her captor? She has always been ‘way too nice. More for her therapist. How long has she been lying on this couch anyway? She looks around for a clock, but all she sees is an assortment of duck art, and mantra after mantra written in different fonts. She hears Kyle’s mockery echoing, “self-help crap!”…but she can’t help but be inspired. The easiest moment IS now. That’s true. And, the infamous question: “What do I need to do to call my life a success?” Yes! She is plagued by that same question.
“So, I’m thinking you should join my team,” she hears Goldberg say. She seems to have noted Laser’s interest in the slogans. “I’m thinking you have what it takes. What do YOU think, Laser?
Before Laser can even digest the proposition, Goldberg has pulled out a binder.
“My life’s work,” she says gravely, stroking the binder with her large hands. “I always start with the rules.”
Always? Laser is confused. Is she being initiated into some sort of…cult? She has to fight the urge to faint again. It’s starting to feel good, the sudden escape from uncomfortable reality. Why hasn’t she employed this technique before. It would be so effective with her doosh bag husband. “Fuck you, Kyle,” followed by a dramatic fall to the floor. Kyle would be overwhelmed by remorse, and soothe her head wounds with soft kisses.
Gross!
“Rule number one: Never get caught! Right?” Goldberg breaks into a howl, “Right, Laser? Right? I think you’re going to catch on real quick.” She slaps Laser’s thigh with a sort of…glee.
Laser nods again.
Shitballs! What is her problem? Can’t she act even a little tough? Consider playing hard to get?
“And by the way, Laser-Bean, I didn’t choose you. Your credit card receipt found me when I was sorting through your dumpster. You should be more careful, you know! But now that you’re here…I’m thinking you’re just right. And the belly’s a nice touch.” Goldberg breaks into another howl.
For some reason Goldberg’s admission comes as a blow. Laser was not specifically targeted. She was not intentionally defrauded. It was a random act of thievery. Indiscriminate criminality. Unplanned. A haphazard choice. She is deflated.
Somehow being chosen had felt kind of good.
