 Chauncey had been channel surfing
from the relative comfort of his waterbed when he first stumbled upon the infomercial explaining how to make a fortune as
a ‘Life Coach’. Simultaneously yawning and exhaling a ribbon of menthol smoke, he cleared his throat, reached
for his ink black rotary phone and very carefully dialed the one nine-hundred number bookended by dollar signs that was flashing
in a vibrant green at the bottom of his television screen. Above the number was an energized, wide-faced man with luminous
white teeth the size of Arlington gravestones. He was wearing a bumblebee yellow suit and making his hypnotic Life Coach pitch
while reclining in a lawn chair with a gold cane resting on his lap. Over his shoulder Chauncey could see a monstrous pink
mansion and, parked in the circular driveway, a white limousine being washed by two bawdy looking women wearing half shirts
and thongs. Life Coach Man was looking directly into the camera at all the friendless fools, depressives and weak-willed widows
who were watching him, wrapped in tattered afghans, stuck to semen-stained sofas and sprawled out on leaking bean bags, floating
in an ocean of debt, drifting down a river of defeat, and more than willing to liquidate an annuity or pawn an heirloom, then
wire the proceeds to this deeply tanned, strangely loveable and loquacious man who reminded them of lovers never taken, husbands
long dead and children who had stopped calling. “Thank you for taking positive action and calling Life Coach. Please hold,” intoned the androgynous, recorded voice on the other end of the line before the sound of a waterfall and mating songbirds flowed into Chauncey’s balding, oversized head. Chauncey shifted his enormous body and felt the bed water beneath him lurch and sway. He squinted through a mist of cigarette smoke and watched as a Spanish-looking woman wearing a bikini delivered a strawberry daiquiri to Life Coach Man, then kissed him on the forehead before swishing back towards the mansion.“The beauty of it is that all the life coaching takes place over the telephone so you never have to leave your house, never even have to leave your own bedroom,” said the man before getting up with his daiquiri and walking towards the mansion while the camera and his viewers trailed behind.“A job that allows you to work only two hours a week from under the covers of your own bed!” he said, as he walked through the entrance of what Chauncey assumed was his mansion, through the foyer, and into a bedroom the size of a profitable Red Lobster. At this point Chauncey still didn’t know how Life Coach worked, didn’t know if it was a company or a cult and, most importantly, whether or not they offered direct deposit. He didn’t know what kind of business was supposed to take place over the telephone, whether products were bought or sold or perhaps, he’d hoped, only discussed, very briefly of course, while both parties lay in their beds and dozed. What he did know was this Life Coach guy was being waited on by gorgeous models -- models that, if they weren’t doing so already, certainly wanted to have all kinds of sex with him. Maybe not the ones washing his limo in the background – it was hard for him to see them -- but without a doubt the one who delivered the drink. Chauncey noticed that when she gave the man his drink, she rested one hand on his shoulder and kept it there for at least five or six seconds. Chauncey couldn’t be sure, but it looked like she might have whispered something sexy. All this and the man only worked two hours a week. Chauncey had worked for a few months in a parking garage, counting change and looking at Encyclopedias. He’d also slept through weeks of security shifts at a now defunct linoleum factory and, for fifteen dollars and a pizza, once babysat a neighbor’s stepson, giving new meaning to the term ‘babysitter’ by sleeping all afternoon while the kid got stoned on light beer and stuck a lit candle into his ass. He’d spent nearly a year taking tickets at a downtown movie house, before quitting – well, staying at home and avoiding calls from one of the managers – when he discovered the theater was a gay one, an embarrassing fact brought to his attention by a carload of inebriated teenagers who drove by one night in a fury, pausing only briefly to make themselves clear and pound the ticket booth with eggs dyed a fuchsia pink. And then there was the time he tried to make ends meet with a mouse farm. Never once throughout all of these jobs did Chauncey have beautiful women waiting on him, or even speaking to him. Never once did he wind up with a mansion or a limo or a cane made of gold. Never once did he only work two hours a week. Never once was he paid to stay in bed. He knew that much. Chauncey turned up the volume on his television set and washed a Percocet down with Dr. Pepper. Life Coach Man winked into the camera and said if it weren’t for Life Coach he’d still be living in the cellar of a halfway house, sleeping in a three-sided computer box and eating alley cats for lunch. Chauncey nodded. His cat cocked her head and hissed. Life Coach Man pointed to a dollar sign shaped rug and said he owned a motor home the size of a battleship and had recently purchased a pair of boxing gloves belonging to Carl Weathers. Chauncey pulled the comforter up to his chin
and let the certainty of future wealth fill him with a warmed over calm. He felt as though his blood had been replaced with
liquid gold and as if his heart had been wrapped in a damp, velvet blanket. His entire body was floating upon a see-through
pond surrounded by money trees and picnic baskets full of diamonds. Or maybe it was the Percocet. The songbirds stopped singing. The waterfall switched to light static.
“This is Lucia. Are you ready to become a millionaire?” said the no nonsense yet subtly seductive voice on the opposite end of the line. Chauncey belched softly into his meaty hand, then put his Dr. Pepper down on the nightstand, sandwiching it between an Encyclopedia Britannica Volume S and his menthols. In his mind he’d already become a millionaire. He imagined himself pulling into the Burger Bonanza drive-thru in a lime green Rolls Royce, splurging for three Heifer Burgers and, with a wink and a compliment, handing a hundred dollar bill through the window, into the open, grateful palm of that Pilipino girl with the crooked eye. He saw himself dressed in a Bison fur coat, walking down Webster Avenue, generously doling out fifties to the homeless, the half-sane and the has-beens that were sprawled out, like battlefield bodies, on the iced sidewalks. And then he was on the deck of a towering yacht that was made of solid gold bullion, had a thousand dollar bill emblazoned on the sail and near the bow, a hot tub the size of a baby brontosaurus packed with models. “May I have your credit card number?” Lucia asked. Chauncey considered lying, but knowing
the truth couldn’t be concealed for more than a few minutes, decided against it. “I don’t own one,” he admitted. “A credit card.” “Do you have a checking account and routing number or the ability to send a cashier’s check?” Lucia asked, in a succinct way that indicated considerable experience with Life Coach and, more specifically, cardless callers like Chauncey. Chauncey looked to the television for guidance, but the Life Coach infomercial had ended, ceding
the following timeslot to an re-run of a game show in which the contestants sat on metal stools while asking questions of
an offstage celebrity – more of a personality, really -- who sat in a dunk tank filled with water, cursing his agent
behind a tight smile. “I have a bank account,” Chauncey said, then coughed into the phone and thought about the models, the mansion and the man he’d seen on TV. “And you understand there is an initial five hundred dollar fee and then payments beginning at fifty dollars a month but decreasing by a dollar for each person you sign up?” she said, somewhat quickly. “The television didn’t say anything about monthly fees,” said Chauncey. Lucia paused. Chauncey could hear her calm, very deliberate breathing and in the background what sounded like heated ocean waves. He wondered if she was speaking to him from a beach somewhere, if she was wearing a white leather bikini and rubbing her tanned feet together while occasionally sipping from an iced flask of rum. “You’re very perceptive, mister…” “I’m Chauncey,” he said, pleased the conversation had showed signs of turning more personal, and beginning to feel like he was speaking to a friend or a future lover or both. “You sound like a very sophisticated decision maker, Chauncey,” she said, before quietly popping her lips and pausing for effect. Chauncey lit a menthol, grinned into his television and forgot about the monthly fees. The cat rolled over on her back. “I can already tell that you’re going to make a fortune as a Life Coach,” she said convincingly. “In my heart,” he said. “In my heart I know that too.” “There’s something in your voice that says ‘I’m honest, intelligent and proactive,’ something very powerful, very masculine about you.” Chauncey couldn’t remember a woman calling him powerful or intelligent or proactive. In junior high school a girl named Debbie called him honest once. but as he thought back on the incident now, she might have been talking to someone else. Women he’d worked with had called him strong, usually just before they asked him carry something heavy. But he’d never been called powerful. Somehow powerful sounded better. Chauncey imagined Lucia moving into his apartment and never wearing anything but a bikini, walking around the whole time with a tray full of Dr. Peppers, calling him masculine and proactive and powerful. He imagined them lying in bed all day, occasionally picking up the phone to do some Life Coach, but mostly, like the guy on television, just drinking fancy drinks and getting rich. “I might be in love with you, Luna,” said Chauncey. “It’s Lucia.” "That’s what I meant,” he whispered. “Of course you did, dear,” she
said, emphasizing the ‘dear’ and playfully chiding him all at once. “I have to tell you something, Lucia” “I’m listening.” “I don’t have the five hundred dollars. I don’t…” he
trailed off and looked at the corkboard on his bedroom wall. It was nearly empty except for a lottery ticket, a picture of
a castle torn from his encyclopedia and a pizza coupon that had expired three years ago. “How much do you have?” she asked, her tone shifting ever so slightly from flirtatious to mercantile. “Eighteen dollars,” he said, not having to think about it, not having to add up an extensive list of eighteenth century American art, precious metal mutual funds and tracts of raw land in Idaho, then weigh all of it against a ski chalet mortgage, a Dartmouth tuition bill and monthly, five figure alimony checks. “Eighteen dollars,” he repeated. Lucia covered her phone and in a muffled voice shouted to someone about a cigarette break. “Listen, let me see what I can do
for you and give you a call back.” “Yeah, yeah OK,” Chauncey said, as though speaking to a friend. “Thank you.” “I’ll speak to you soon then,” she said, while phones rang in the background and a man yelled something about first prize. “Bye now,” she said, without asking for Chauncey’s phone number, without setting a time to speak again and without mentioning any starter kits that might be forthcoming in the mail. But Chauncey hadn’t noticed. He could see her clearly, as though she were lying right beside him; her casual, top down convertible hair sprawled across the pillow, her coffee brown eyes, her carefree, cake and cream movie giggle. Chauncey turned off the television, blew into his fist for warmth, then traced a finger along her cheek and down to her chin. He felt the ease of a lasting love and saw her breasts and their future together. Tearing across Lake Michigan in a cigarette boat made of silver. Flying to Paris in a money green hot air balloon. Watching ping-pong playing chimps on a plasmatron the size of a whale. Hunting sharks with cannons. Diving into a pool full of Dr. Pepper. Exchanging wedding vows on a jet bound for nowhere. Having their son fetch treats from the fridge. They love and learn. “What time is it?” she said. “Who were you talking to?” Chauncey roused from his fantasy, straightened up in bed and turned to his is wife, who was yawning into her hand. “It’s morning, babes,” he said. “Who were you talking to?” she said again. “Nobody,” said Chauncey as he traced the tip of his finger from her earlobe to her chin. “Probably myself.” “How did you sleep?” she asked, as she opened her eyes. “Fine, babes” he said, without looking at her. “I slept just fine.” Chauncey leaned down and reached for the tattered, terrycloth robe bundled in a heap on the cold floor. He rose slowly from the bed, stood up straight and wrapped the robe around himself, tying it tightly around his paunch. He lit a cigarette and while exhaling parted the floor length curtains, revealing the white frozen side-yard and a rearview of the new Home Depot. He could hear the upstairs neighbor firing up his drums and the feint sounds of talk radio floating in from somewhere below. A semi rumbled into the Home Depot parking lot and came to a stop. The driver hopped out and walked towards the back entrance, his breath hovering around his head like iced bonfire smoke. A hulking man wearing a snow hat emerged from the Home Depot and hugged the driver before stepping back to laugh and shadow box. “Coffee, bath or Gin Rummy in bed,” said Chauncey, still looking out the window. “Your choice, babes.” “Bath first, coffee second, then back to bed,” she said. “But no gin rummy. There’s no gambling on Sunday, sillyhead.” Chauncey dropped the lit cigarette into his Dr. Pepper and smiled. “No gambling on Sunday,” he repeated, before stepping into his slippers, leaving to run the bath and then returning to her side of the bed, where he reached both arms underneath his wife and kissed her bare shoulder. She wrapped her arm around the back of his neck and winked at him. “Take me,” she said. Chauncey smiled on the outside and lifted her into his beefy arms. She winced slightly and he pretended not to strain while carrying her limp body across the bedroom, through the cold, darkened hallway and into the bathroom where he lowered her gently into the still running bath. She opened her mouth wide as the warm sting of the water enveloped her back. Chauncey mouthed ‘be right back’ before rising up, tightening his bathrobe and walking down the hall, stepping over the space heater and into the bedroom. He shut the door behind him and fell to his knees where he cried quietly in his hands as a narrow strip of sunlight crept through the window and laid itself over the waterbed, across his hunched back and out into hallway. Chauncey looked up at the light and thought to himself it looked like a small road, but different. ` |