A Necessary End (23 page)

Trevor starts laughing. “That guy is in deep shit. I would not want to be him.”

With what I know of Joy, no one would.

I
knew it was coming. I didn't meet last month's quota, and that's one of the deadly sins as far as Ray is concerned. I arrange my face into what I hope is a reasonable facsimile of caring.

“. . . even now,” he's saying, “you're barely listening.” The whiteboard behind him shows the inventory, with the sales that have been made this week; my name is scarce. “You've always been one of my best. ‘No one closes like Gabe,' I used to say. Now you can't close a fucking door.”

Ray's a transplant from Long Island. Like me, he's been in the Bay Area for years. When he's chewing someone out, his East Coast cadences return with a vengeance.

He doesn't like this part of the job, chewing people out. That's rare, in my experience. A lot of times guys get into management just for the privilege of gnawing on other guys' asses. Women might, too; I just haven't encountered any women managers. Selling cars is still largely an old-boys' network.

“Are you sick or something?” Ray asks. “You got cancer?”

I shake my head.

“See, cancer I can understand. But just failing to sell, failing to
scramble
at the end of the month—that I don't understand. Everyone else is finding a way, any way, to make a deal, but not you.” His eyes bore into mine. “You too good for the business all of a sudden?” He sounds oddly hurt. I'd say it's a new tactic, a manipulation, but Ray's never been that kind of manager either.

“It was one month,” I say. “I'll get my sales up.”

“So far”—he gestures toward the board—“it's not looking good.”

It's a week into the new month. It never looks good. Now's when we post our fewest sales and largest profit margin. I'm tempted to do the old car salesman's lament: The business isn't what it used to be, everyone's got an app telling them what we paid for the car; they come in like we're about to exploit them when really, it's the other way around. The customer is squeezing the life out of us. Our profit margin is lower than practically any other industry you can name, and yet, we're the ones with the bad rep. We're the snakes in the garden.

Sure, it's true, but Ray doesn't want to hear it. He's well aware. My job is to adapt and to work magic. Charm them so they don't see where we're eking out our profit, whether it's the trade-in or the financing; if it's the end of the month, take the hit and sell the cars at a loss, but you gotta post on the board. Only post. I forgot the cardinal rule, and now I've got to look into Ray's disappointed face.

“I'm on it,” I say. I don't like disappointing old men, especially Ray.

He doesn't seem satisfied, and I don't blame him.

I just can't seem to give a shit. Obviously, Adrienne and I need my income more than ever. Her six weeks of paid family leave are ending soon, and then she's got nothing coming in for the rest of the summer. We're hemorrhaging money, between Leah and the kid. I might be able to supplement with my poker winnings. I've been running hot lately.

But that's not the way to think about it. You can't count on winning, no matter how well you're playing. There's always a random element.
You can make all the right moves and still get unlucky. Some guy has four outs in the deck, and he hits on the river. It happens. I don't have the bankroll to ride out a string of bad luck.

“Something's wrong with you,” Ray says. “You want to talk about it?”

“Problems at home. Nothing I can't solve.”

“Adrienne's a good woman. She loves you.”

Ray hasn't seen her lately. He doesn't know about Michael. All he knows is that the end of the month came and went, and everyone else scrambled to make deals, and I couldn't muster the energy.

I used to like my job. There was adrenaline in the sale and a rewardingly profane camaraderie with the other guys, the kind that can only result from a unique algorithm of competition, testosterone, and empathy. We're all in the trenches together, we get it like no one else can, but we're not entirely on the same side. With the economy as it is, there aren't enough customers to go around, so sometimes, you've got to take some friendly fire.

But since the kid, I've been keeping to myself. I've got a secret and I don't want anyone trying to razz it out of me. If I stop to think, it hurts a little, that they don't seem to miss me more. Maybe Gloomy Gabe just isn't so approachable. Or maybe they don't miss the numbers I used to post. Less for me means more for them. The pie is not infinite.

I don't know if Ray's just being kind or if he's really failed to notice that my numbers have been decreasing incrementally for the past year. The adoption process has been sapping my strength, like Samson getting his hair cut an inch at a time. Now it's been hacked off, shorn by Michael. I'm practically bald.

“You sure you don't want to talk about it?” Ray says.

“Pretty sure.”

“You're telling me you're going to get it together? Can I quote you on that?” I nod and head for the door to the showroom. “Don't think I've forgotten about that black RX either.” My hand's on the
door, and I don't turn around. “That's rookie shit, Gabe. You're better than that.”

I open the door and walk into the showroom. I used to be better than that, than selling a car that's already been sold, than having to go back to my buyer and tell them I fucked up, I can get them a silver RX, let me just check the inventory, no, wait, we don't have that one either, just wait, I'll be right back . . . They didn't wait.

The talk with Ray should have energized me. He's putting me on notice, and I'm the breadwinner for a whole family. Adrienne, Leah, a kid . . . how did this happen? I still can't wrap my brain around it. It makes me feel like I'm in the densest San Francisco fog, and I hear voices in the distance, but I just can't follow them home.

I wander the lot. There's a young guy graduating college in a couple of weeks eyeing a car he's got no business owning and no intention of buying today or tomorrow, probably not for years. But I let him take up my time. In fact, I insist on it. At my behest, we take a long, long test drive, and then I get him into the dealership and over to my desk. I run numbers. I take them back and forth to Ray. The kid looks starry-eyed, shell-shocked. I know the feeling.

“I'm going to give you a great deal,” I say. “I'm going to take care of you.”

But he's not buying, and he doesn't know how to tell me. The thing is, I already know. I've known the whole time. He's the equivalent of shuffling papers on a desk. He's busywork.

“Go home,” I finally tell him. “Think it over. Talk to your parents.” He looks at me gratefully, a mouse set free from a trap, and goes.

“You couldn't close?” Ray asks when he stops by my desk.

“He's coming back tomorrow with his parents,” I say. “They're big money, I think. Dad's a corporate lawyer. It's going to be a graduation present.”

“All cash then? No financing?” Ray squints at me. “No trade-in?”

“Don't worry. I got this one, I'll make it good.” I smile confidently,
and just then, my cell rings. I glance down. “Adrienne.” I look at Ray meaningfully. He remembers our conversation,
problems at home,
and backs away.

“Hey, baby,” she says. When did her “baby” start to feel like an affectation or a trick?

“Hey, baby.” When did my “baby” start to feel like mimicry?

“How's your day going?” It sounds dutiful. She's playing the good wife.

I stare out at the lot, streamers spinning in the breeze like pinwheels, and think what to tell her.

She doesn't wait for my answer. “I'm having a crazy day here. You won't believe who showed up.” Then, to the kid, “You sweet wittle . . . ,” followed by a whole sequence of gobbledygook. I never thought she'd be one of
those
mothers. But he loves it, eats it up; it's the only thing he can keep down.

“Who showed up?” I finally break in.

“Trevor.”

“You've got to be shitting me.”

“No.”

“You told him to get off our property, right?”

She laughs, though I definitely wasn't joking. “What are we, the Hatfields and the McCoys? Should I have gotten my shotgun?”

“For Trevor, yeah, I'd say a shotgun's what he deserves.”

“If it weren't for him, we wouldn't have Michael.”

I'm not even touching that one.

“He doesn't seem that bad, actually. You should meet him.”

“You have
got
to be shitting me.”

“He's out with Leah right now. They're talking. They've been talking, Gabe. She's been calling him.”

I rub my temples, feeling a headache coming on. “This is not good.”

“No, it's great. He wants to take her back to Rhode Island with him. Not in eleven months. Right now.”

“He's not good people, Adrienne.”

“He can get her out of our lives sooner rather than later. That's what I care about.” Her tone turns harsh. “What is it you care about?”

I see Ray is standing inside his glass box, watching me.

“I can't be on the phone. Ray's on my ass for last month's numbers.”

“That doesn't sound like Ray.”

“You calling me a liar?” It comes out, unbidden.

She's quiet for a second. “Who are we becoming, Gabe? I don't think I like it.”

I didn't know she even thought about it. It's a start, at least. “I don't like it either.”

“Then let's get her out of our house, and we can go back to normal. Help me. Help Trevor.”

Was her wondering about us just a way to hit me with the sledgehammer? She's trying to subdue me. “What is it you're asking me to do?”

“Let him stay with us, on the couch. I told him all the ground rules. He'll stay out of our way. He agreed to everything.”

“Of course he did! That's how any master manipulator would play it.” I can't believe I even need to tell her that.

“It won't be more than a few days, a week tops.” She lowers her voice, like we're sharing an intimate moment. “Leah and Trevor have been talking three times a day. You should have seen her face when she came home and he was in our living room. She's completely in love with him.”

“Then she needs a shrink! She needs some self-esteem! That guy . . .” I see that Connor is staring at me from the showroom floor. Now I lower my voice, but it's not because of the friggin' intimacy. “I don't want that garbage in my house.”

“You're not understanding me,” she says crisply. “She wants Trevor, and he wants her. And I don't like the way she's been with Michael lately, like she's getting attached. So what we need to do is play Cupid to two young kids in love.” Her tone shifts, so that instead
of crunchy autumn leaves, it's melting snow. “There are worse jobs, right? It's a win-win.”

I'm not trying to be Leah's dad, but I know a lot more about Trevor than Adrienne does, and I care about Leah way more than Adrienne does. Leah's going off with some psychopath and leaving me behind with this woman that I barely know anymore—that's not how I'd define winning.

“If she goes, we become ourselves again,” Adrienne says. “That's what I want. Don't you want that, too?”

More than anything.

J
ust the sight of Trevor's tricked-out emo car makes me want to start throwing punches, especially since I can tell that's Leah's paint job. It seems pretty fucked up to drive around inside her canvas after the way he treated her during the pregnancy.

I have to force myself into my own house. I'm pissed off at all of them, really: at Trevor for being the asshole he is; at Leah for getting sucked back in, despite the asshole he is; at Adrienne for not caring what an asshole he is and exploiting the situation for personal gain. The good news is, I'm neutral on the kid.

Michael. That's his name, don't wear it out.

Suddenly, I can hear all the schoolyard taunts: “First day with the new feet,
Michael
?” “Is that your face or did your neck throw up,
Michael
?” “Retard!” All of that got leveled at pale, silent, perpetually tripping Michael. The real Michael. My Michael. I protected him, until I didn't anymore. Adrienne would say I couldn't, but she's hardly objective.

Adrienne meets me at the door, the kid—Michael, Michael, Michael—resting against her shoulder. He's somnolent and drooling. I can't ascertain the current state of his cradle cap through his monogrammed hat. That increases his attractiveness, for sure, though it doesn't make me want to reach for him. I can hear Leah laughing,
full-throated. I've never heard her laugh like that before. In the middle of the night, we had to keep it muted.

“Leah and Trevor are cooking for us,” Adrienne says. “Nice, right?” It's her public voice. Then she adds, much lower, “It's all going great. At this rate, they might elope by the weekend.”

She steps aside and I enter. The house doesn't feel like mine, doesn't smell like mine. It smells like friggin' canned tuna and oregano. I fight the urge to retch, though I know it's not just the food.

Leah's in the kitchen with Trevor. I'm debating whether to go in, just get it over with, when they come out into the dining room. Leah's got a huge smile on her face and she says to me, “Hey, Gabe! This is Trevor.”

Everything about Trevor is skinny: from his thin, lank hair to his long face to his half-inch belt to the tight jeans he's wearing. He's got
bangs,
for shit's sake. If I look like him, may a sniper shoot me dead.

“Hey, man,” Trevor says. His grin is so wide, it's practically a leer. “Thanks for letting me crash. Your house is awesome.” He gestures at the oversized wall canvas behind him, the one Adrienne and I pressed our naked bodies against. Funny how you can stop seeing things, how the profoundly erotic can become mundane over time.