Soupy Sez

 

SOUPY SEZ

 

         Marco Conway climbed the stairs to his floor, muscles screaming with the effort. It wasn’t fair. He was only seventy-two. Even ordinary tasks exhausted him these days. Walking to the convenience store for the paper. Bending over to tie his shoes. Getting old sucked donkey dongs.

As he huffed and puffed to the third-floor landing, something caught his eye. A rectangle of cardboard about the size of a playing card fluttered in the corner, kited by the air conditioner wind. There was a picture on one side and lettering on the other. He stooped, picked it up, and slid it into his shirt pocket. Some people, he thought. Can’t even be bothered to pick up their litter. He’d ash can it when he got to his place.

         There was an elevator but he refused to use it. That was giving up—giving in. He’d never been that kind of guy. Never allowed himself to admit weakness. Marco had always gone about his business, day in and day out, and shoved aside anything or anyone who got in his way. Get ’er done as that fat redneck comedian used to say.

         Marco made it to his floor, and groaned with the effort as he pulled on the handle to the compression-braked door. It made a hissing sound as he yanked and he felt a needlepoint of pain in his lower back. Aging. It wasn’t for sissies. On the other hand, it beat the alternative.

         He slid through the narrow opening he’d created and began the trek toward his apartment. “Fourth floor,” he announced. “Cosmetics, home appliances, women’s underwear, assisted living.” He snickered at the department store elevator joke. Just as well nobody heard me, he thought. I doubt anyone else would have gotten it. Or thought it was particularly funny.

         Shuffling down the hallway, he peeked into an open doorway. An elderly lady sat on a love seat, transfixed by something on television.

         “Mrs. Federico. How are you doing?” He stopped, stuck his head in and waited for her response.

         She looked at him blankly, as if struggling to remember who he was. But then her eyes lit up and she trilled. “Come in, handsome. Have a cup of tea. Or something stronger maybe?” She patted the seat beside her. “Come. Sit.”

         He thought about stopping. She’d made it clear she might welcome his spending some time in her bed. And she wasn’t a bad-looking old broad.

He needed to watch what he called people. Broad, apparently was politically incorrect.

“We could talk,” she crooned.

Bad idea, he thought. One thing would lead to another and that would make things really complicated and uncomfortable. Plus, despite the fact Lilian had been dead four years, he would feel disloyal.

         “Another time, Sal,” he called out and turned back to the hall. “I’ve got company coming. Gotta get ready.”

         “Whenever you want, Howard. Whenever you want.” She turned back to her program.

         Howard? Howard? Really? Did he look like a Howard? But he forgave her. He probably reminded her of someone from her past. Names in general tended to confound her. Along with muscles and eyesight, memory was the other thing that disintegrated. Luckily his was still razor sharp. He had no problem recalling his past and the people who had passed through it.

         Three doors further down, he put the key in the lock of number 417, opened it, walked in and closed it behind him. The room was warm, so he unbuttoned and peeled off his cardigan and hung it in the closet. Marco felt his bladder twinge and realized he needed to make for the bathroom. How many times was it today? Eight? Maybe nine? Sleeping through the night these days was out of the question. Maybe he should just give in and let them hook up a catheter.

He smiled a little at the picture that formed in his head. Lying on the bed hooked up to a device to let him water the weasel without getting up. No way. He’d jump out the window before he let that happen. Or maybe someone else would agree to put him out of his misery. Who knew? It could happen. 

         When he’d finished his task in front of the toilet bowl, Marco zipped up and turned to look at himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. Not too bad, really. He’d gained a few pounds but carried them fairly well. His face, while lined, didn’t scream “old fart.” His snow-white hair still flourished, neatly combed from the trim he’d gotten earlier.

“Thank you, gene pool.” His father Martin had passed away at 96 with a full head of hair.

Bobby did a good job with the scissors, he conceded. This place, while not his idea of a good time, had a competent barber. And the chow was okay, if a bit bland. He craved something spicy, Enchilada’s Suiza or a meatball grinder. Maybe Deidre would bring him one. Or, better yet, take him out to lunch. She was due before long.

“Don’t ever die you handsome devil,” he told the image in the mirror, then returned to the apartment’s small living room. Remembering the faded card he’d picked up, he pulled it out to examine it as he sat on the couch.

The black and white picture, crinkly and yellowed with age, was of a grinning man in a sweater with a white collar and a saggy polka dot bowtie. There was a name for that kind of neckwear, but Marco struggled to remember what it was.

He had no idea who the man was. Some manner of celebrity, obviously, but who . . . ? And who had dropped it? Someone who collected this kind of thing? Someone with warm recollections of a simpler time?

         He flipped the card over. In large white letters in a black box, the caption read. “IF YOU GET TIED UP ON THE PHONE”— Further down the punch line read: GET SOMEONE TO CUT YOU LOOSE!  Above the joke (even less funny than Marco’s department store announcement) was the attribution. SOUPY SEZ.

         He still couldn’t place it. Soupy? Soupy who? His eye scanned the card for a clue. Who names himself after chicken noodle? In tiny letters on the bottom was a copyright posting. Soupy Sales WMC.

         Soupy Sales. Of course. The kid’s show host. Dumb jokes and even dumber skits. The grinning jackal host talking to the paw of a furry white dog-like puppet he called “White Fang.” The cloth mongrel answered Soupy’s questions with a series of unintelligible grunts, growls, and snorts which the host translated for the audience. Christ. It had to have been fifty years since Soupy Sales was on TV. Someone in the assisted living complex must have been a big fan to hang on to this all this time. He flipped the card over.

         “IF YOU GET TIED UP ON THE PHONE—GET SOMEONE TO CUT YOU LOOSE!” Tied up. Phone. The image popped into his mind, as real as if it was happening right in front of him. “Laddy Rattigan,” Marco croaked. “You shoulda paid your gambling debts.” 

The vision hovered and vibrated in front of him. A dingy hotel room. A rat-faced man with a phone cord wrapped around his neck, panting and gasping, his face getting redder and redder as he tried to dig his fingernails under the cord that was strangling him.

         “GET SOMEONE TO CUT YOU LOOSE!”

Another set of hands, twisted the cord tighter and tighter as Laddy Rattigan’s eyes bulged and he slumped to the floor. His tongue dangled from his mouth and a rivulet of drool seeped out and splashed on the floor. Laddy’s legs twitched once, twice, and then he went limp.

The killer yanked the cord in one more violent twist, then dropped it and reached for a nearby pillow. He pulled it over Rattigan’s face and applied downward pressure for several minutes. Just to be sure. No loose ends. Get ’er done.

“SOUPY SEZ—IF YOU GET TIED UP ON THE PHONE—GET SOMEONE TO CUT YOU LOOSE!”

“Sorry, Laddy,” Marco muttered. “Just another day at the office.” He glanced at the card once more, then walked over, stepped on the foot pedal, and deposited it in the metal kitchen trash receptacle.

         His phone buzzed. He walked back to the living room and picked up the receiver.

         “Yeah,” he said.

         “Marco, it’s Barbara down at the desk. Your daughter Deidre is here. She says for you to grab a jacket. She’s taking you to lunch and it’s nippy out there.”

         “Tell her I’ll be right down.”

Great, he thought. Lunch. Hope we go somewhere where they have something spicy. My taste buds have gone gunnysack, just like the rest of me. He grabbed a parka from the closet and headed for the lobby.

 

         Deidre Fallon brought her father, Marco Conway back to the complex. It had been a nice lunch, although, she thought, he seemed to be having more and more trouble connecting during conversation. His responses to her questions or comments sometimes verged on nonsensical. She’d caught him several times, a forkful of food halfway to his mouth, staring off into space.

She’d consented to take him for a Schezuan meal, even though she knew that the spicy chicken dish he always ordered wreaked havoc with his digestive system. What the hell, she thought. He doesn’t have that much longer on the planet. He should have what he wants.

         “Let me walk you to the elevator,” Deidre said as they entered the lobby. “I can even go up with you.”

         “I’ll take the stairs,” Marco said gruffly. “Elevators are for pussies.” She gave her father a mock slap on the face and he chortled at her. “I may be

old . . .”

         “But you can still do inappropriate with the best of them.” She finished his sentence, smiled, and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

         “I’ll be fine Dee, You go on.” X

          “You sure?” But he was already halfway to the stairs.

         “Drive carefully,” he said over his shoulder as he clambered up the first flight. “Give the grandkid’s a hug for me.”

         Deidre smiled and waved as she made her way toward the entrance. She loved seeing her dad. But his deterioration made her sad. She stopped at the reception desk window, just under the sign that said “Peterson Creek Memory Care Center.”

         “So did you have a nice visit?” Barbara asked.

         “We did,” Deidre confirmed. “He seemed okay today. Have you noticed anything I need to be concerned about?”

         Barbara scrunched up her face a little. “Well . . . He has a tendency to leave some things in odd places. Books, snacks, his wallet, items of clothing.”

         “Is that unusual?”

         “No, not really. Happens quite a bit with our population. But . . .” She hesitated for a few seconds. I overheard him telling a story in the game room. He was playing cribbage with Sam Goshen and—”

         “Let me guess. Marco started telling stories about having been a professional hit man. How he’d been a ‘made’ guy, worked for the mob, traveling all over the country taking out people the bosses wanted eliminated.” Deidre laughed. “I wondered if he’d start sharing that fantasy. Doesn’t surprise me. Guess the dementia brought it front and center.”   

Relief washed over Barbara’s face. “So, it’s not true? He never shot anyone in the face? Or strangled a man with a phone cord?”

         Barbara giggled. “Dad? C’mon. Marco wouldn’t hurt a fly. He cried at the end of a rerun of that sappy Disney movie Old Yeller. He didn’t even spank us when we were kids.”

         “Whew!” Barbara glanced over at her computer screen. “I’d better get back to work.” She tapped the space bar. “What did he do for a living?”

         “Salesman. For a truck parts company in New Jersey. He did travel all over the country calling on clients and taking orders. Made a pretty good living at it.”

         “No gunplay involved?”

         “Nah. He said guns were for soldiers and policemen. Said most gun owners were fools who doubted their masculinity.”

         “Make’s sense.” Barbara frowned. “I’m sorry I made it a thing.” She shrugged, visibly embarrassed. “It’s just that . . .”

         “No, no, I totally get it. It’s hard for you to tell what might be a threat and what isn’t. Don’t worry about it. Dad’s harmless. Really. Thanks to you and everybody here at Peterson Creek for looking out for him.” She patted Barbara’s hand and, as she went out the door, exploded with laughter.

“Strangled someone with a phone cord. Damn. I hadn’t heard that one.” She sputtered—“Really Dad, C’mon now.”

 

Several days later, mid-afternoon, Barbara looked up to see a man standing in front of the reception window shifting from side to side. He was middle-aged and ordinary looking with a pronounced widow’s peak and a pot gut his expandable slacks couldn’t quite hide. He wore a white shirt and a suit jacket several sizes too large for him. He kept one hand in the jacket’s side pocket.

         “Can I help you?”

         “Uh, yeah, I’m here to visit Marco Conway. It’s visiting hours, right?”

         Barbara glanced at the clock. “Yes.” Until dinnertime at five.”

         “Can you tell me where I could find him?”

         “Of course. He’s . . .” She checked her computer screen. “In his apartment. Shall I let him know you’re here?”

         The man thought about it then smirked. “No, I’d rather surprise him. What’s his room number?”

         Barbara nodded and examined the man. Ordinary. Probably someone who’d worked with Marco. “He’s in 417. Are you sure I can’t call and . . .?”

“No, please don’t. He’ll be tickled when I pop in.”

         “All right. If you’re sure. Oh, I need to have you sign the guest book.”

         “No problem.” the man said and wrote his name carefully on a blank line in the open book.

         “The elevator’s right over . . .”

         The man turned to go. “I’ll take the stairs. I could use the exercise.”

         Barbara watched him go, thinking Marco would enjoy the company. Then she turned the guest book around and looked at his name.

         “Fred Rattigan.” She ran her finger over the signature. “Now why does that name sound familiar?”