3. Flick
FLICK
Why his mother moved them away from civilization to the middle of the sticks he would never know. Josie was cautious about everything when it came to him, but for the first time in his seventeen years she’d thrown caution out the window.
Flick missed Queens. He missed the noise and bustle of his old Latino community in Flushing. He missed the smell of peppers and garlic wafting up from the restaurant below their apartment, and even gruff Mr. Perez who looked at him like he was a shoplifter but made the best egg-and-cheese sandwiches at the corner bodega. Flick understood Flushing; he was used to looking over his shoulder on the subway platform. He knew the best places for dim sum. He knew which section of fence had a missing bar he could slip through into the Botanical Garden after hours. Ever since he could ride the train alone, he’d never missed a Mets opening day.
Now, in the blinding greenery and noiselessness of Massachusetts, Flick didn’t know how to be. The neighbors, who lived not on the other side of his apartment wall but a whole acre away (he’d never used that word in his life) had names and waved whenever he passed them walking their dogs on the road. Flick hadn’t known the names of whoever lived next door back in Flushing. Tenants changed so often, he never bothered.
It hadn’t been easy, but he and his mother had done just fine on their own back there. Josie had worked in housekeeping at one of the hotels, cleaning rooms. It was honest work, she said, if hard. That all changed when she met Stan the Dry Cleaning King.
“You’re kidding, right?” Flick had said with a half-smile when Josie told him. Josie went out with a lot of men; Flick had long ago stopped asking. “A king?”
“Don’t judge,” she’d huffed, looking offended. Josie never looked offended. “He’s a successful businessman. Makes a good living.”
Flick had heard this before. The successful mechanic, the deli owner, the limo driver. It was like Josie was lending them some kind of credibility if she inserted the word successful in front.
“You know who he is,” she said. “The guy on all the billboards.”
Flick knew him, alright. He also knew the tacky homemade cable TV ads. Stan was a big guy, and a big guy stuffed into a velvet purple suit left an impression. What Flick remembered more than the King’s shiny head or thick finger he jabbed at the screen was his booming voice, slick with innuendo. “Bring me your dirty laundry,” he sneered. “I’ll take care of it.”
Flick squinted at his mother. He could tell there was more.
Josie stared at her feet. “Stan wants to meet you.”
That’s when Flick knew his life was about to change. Josie may have gone on a lot of dates, but she didn’t bring men home and she had never introduced any of them to Flick. They never lasted long enough.
“Stan.” Flick didn’t like the way it sat on his tongue, like soggy bread.
“Stan,” Josie repeated. “He wants to take us to dinner.” She looked up at him hopefully. Flick was used to looking down at his mom, he was almost a foot taller; but that day she looked especially small. “Do me a favor. Give him a chance?”
Flick’s mom had always taken care of him, even if it wasn’t the kind of care some of his friends got. Josie didn’t cook, but there was always takeout on the table. His mother didn’t go to school assemblies, not when he won an award for math or the one for art—maybe she was too tired. She’d never imposed any real boundaries for him; luckily he was a kid who made his own. But she’d also never asked anything of him, either.
Flick sighed. “So when is dinner with the Dry Cleaning King?”
Josie smiled gratefully. “Tomorrow. At the Italian Club.”
They met for dinner. Stan did not wear his velvet purple suit from the TV ads, but Flick noted the way the lighting reacted with the fabric of his jacket, nonetheless. He tried not to wince when Stan barked his drink order at the waitress. When it was time to eat and Stan ordered for Josie without asking her, Flick stole a wary glance at his mother. But she was smiling, looking relieved not to have to choose between steak Florentine and chicken picatta—as if she were being pulled from a life raft. What Flick came to realize over his plate of gummy linguine was that Stan was the life raft. He’d thrust his meaty finger at Josie just like he did in his commercials, and she’d reached out and grabbed it. Flick couldn’t understand why, and he didn’t much like the guy. But as long as that smile stayed on his mother’s tired face Flick decided right then that he would not question it. He was seventeen and would be going off to college in another year. So if Josie chose the Dry Cleaning King, he would stomach it.
When they got engaged a month later, Flick went along with it. On the walk to school, his best friend, Mateo, ribbed him. “So does this make your mother the Dry Cleaning Queen?”
Flick shoved him.
“Relax, man.” Mateo laughed. “The guy’s got dough! Look at that Caddy. You’re rich now.”
Flick didn’t care. The Cadillac was a tinted-windowed beast that Stan drove too fast, just like he talked. It was embarrassing the way Stan carried a thick wallet of one hundreds, shoving the bills under cashiers’ noses for a two-dollar coffee with the same faux apology each time: “All’s I’ve got, doll.” But Josie had a giant sparkler on her finger, and expensive new clothes in her closet. She was happy. So Flick tried to be, too.
The afternoon she showed up in his doorway with an armload of cardboard boxes, however, Flick had to sit down on his bed. Instead of his racing heart, he tried to focus on the light in his mother’s eyes as she explained that Stan had a new plan. He’d sold the dry cleaning business. He was buying them all a country house.
“You can’t move to the country. What about your job?” Flick managed. He felt like a fool the moment the words came out.
Josie touched his cheek. “We’re both retiring, kiddo. See the incredible life Stan is giving us?”
Flick could not see it. “Exactly where in the country are we going?”
“Rockwood, Massachusetts.”
“We’re moving to Massachusetts?” Flick sputtered. He’d pictured something outside of the city, in New York; at worst, Connecticut. Then, “Is it at least near Boston?”
“It’s rural. You’ll like it.”
Rural. Flick pictured expanses of deep lakes and dark woods. It did not sound like a place that had dim sum up the street or the 7 train to Citi Field. What did people in rural Massachusetts even do?
Any outrage was lost on his mother, who glanced dreamily out the window. “Stan’s little brothers already live up there. They say it’s real nice.”
Flick’s belongings only took three boxes to fill. He wondered how he’d fill the big new bedroom in the big new country house Stan was dragging them to. Just one year , he tried to tell himself. He could always come back to the city for college.
Now, the first week of summer, they were moved in. The house was very nice and very big. There was a saltwater pool and a deck out back. Inside, there were vaulted ceilings and three different living rooms and five bedrooms and a gleaming marble kitchen bigger than their whole apartment back home. Back home. Flick winced.
“You have to stop saying that,” Josie chided. “It hurts Stan’s feelings.”
Flick was not convinced Stan had feelings, at least not when it came to what others thought of him. Evidence A was parked in the driveway: a towering, blinding chrome-finished RV parked right up along the neighbor’s front yard. Evidence B was the conversation with the new neighbor about Evidence A.
Just the other night, the new neighbor had left his yard, walked around the colossal RV, and up their driveway. He had carried a small clay pot of something green and a smile, despite the consternation in his eyes. When Flick answered the door, the neighbor grinned and introduced himself in a friendly voice as Ned Birch, father of Darcy and Adam, from next door. Flick did not know who Darcy or Adam was, but he had a foreboding sense he soon would.
“Welcome to the neighborhood!” Ned proclaimed, thrusting the potted plant in his direction. “This is basil. Fresh from my garden.”
Flick smiled back at Ned Birch and accepted the plant. “Thank you.” But he didn’t have a chance to say anything more because Stan had filled the doorway behind him like a dark cloud. A pretzel rod hung from one corner of his mouth like a cigar. Flick gave way.
“Oh, hello there!” Ned said, gazing up at Stan. “Ned Birch, from next door.” He extended his hand.
Stan shook it half-heartedly, crunching on his pretzel.
Niceties were shared, mostly by Ned. There was brief small talk about the town, also by Ned. And then there was silence. But given the way Ned kept glancing over his shoulder toward the driveway, Flick could tell there was more. Unable to tear himself away, he waited for Ned Birch to get to it. Finally, he did.
“There is one thing I had hoped to ask you about,” Ned said, his voice clear and hopeful. Flick felt sorry for the guy already.
Stan crossed his arms. The remains of the pretzel rod flicked between his lips. “What’s that?”
“The RV?”
“Yeah?”
“We were wondering how long you plan to park it there.”
Stan’s eyes gleamed. “She’s a beauty, ain’t she?”
“Yes, for sure.” Ned shifted in his penny loafers. “Though I think large vehicles are supposed to be stored in the rear of the property. At least not on top of the neighbor’s line. As it is, almost on top of my rose garden.”
“Rose garden.”
“Yes.” Ned smiled. “Heirloom variety, from my mother’s actually.”
When Stan said nothing, Ned Birch looked him calmly in the eye. The man was small and soft-spoken, but Flick admired his directness. “The thing is, this is a quiet residential street. Though it’s been a bit less quiet lately, especially late at night. We were really hoping you might turn the music down a little?”
Stan crossed his arms and considered Ned Birch like one does a small fly on a hot day. “Let me get this straight: you don’t like my RV and you don’t appreciate my taste in music.”
Before Ned could reply Stan forged ahead. “I thought people in the country minded their business. You know, I moved up here for some privacy. And peace and quiet.”
Ned nodded. “Which is exactly what I’m asking for, too.”
Stan licked a stray crumb of pretzel off his bottom lip. “Tell you what—you worry about you, and I’ll worry about me. Nice to meet you, Ted.”
“It’s Ned.”
But Stan didn’t hear. He’d already reversed back inside his country house and slammed the door.