Waiting For Gordon

Walter and Stefan wait for Mrs. Gordon's husband to show up. Nothing much happens.

approximately 2200 words

Author notes. This story is very loosely based on an Alfred Hitchcock episode, "Shopping for Death," which in turn is based on a Ray Bradbury story of the same name. Bradbury also wrote the episode, his first collaboration with Hitchcock. 

That said, this is also kind of an experimental story on my part: nothing happens in the story.  In fact, i wrote it with with exactly that intent, and that makes it also loosely based on a famous play--clever readers will recognize which one! 

The episode first aired on January 29, 1956.   

Waiting For Gordon
Max Griffin

         
Walter ran a disapproving finger across the greasy countertop at Sam’s Butcher Emporium and jotted a note on his iPad.  Insurance was all about risk mitigation, after all, and that meant impeccable service counters.

         His partner, Stefan, puttered up to him, shook his head, and muttered, “I tell you, this place is a virtual shop of horrors.  There’s risk everywhere I look.”

         Walter avoided rolling his eyes.  Of course, Stefan would find risks. After all, he thought insurance was about finding risks, not mitigating them.  No point in starting that argument again, though.  Besides, their different focus was exactly why the AAA Best Insurance Corporation had made them partners.  Stefan found risks and Walter found ways to mitigate them. Walter nodded, and said, “We’ll need to coordinate our data.”  The aroma of fresh coffee and freshly baked rolls made him glance at the adjoining deli.  “How about we get something here and compare notes?”

         Stefan hitched his flannel slacks over his protruding and belly and grinned. “I’m always up for a jelly roll.”

         Walter avoided another persistent argument about eating habits and exercise and excused himself to use the facilities.  He soon joined Stefan at the deli counter where he ordered a black coffee, while Stefan ordered two cream puffs and a mocha latte.

         They settled at their café table and started chatting, Walter sipping coffee and Stefan delicately stuffing cream puff in mouth.  After a few minutes, a woman charged into the shop and stomped up to the butcher counter.  Her frizzy red hair looked like she might have combed it yesterday, and she appeared to have put on her lipstick by eating it.  She rapped her knuckles on the greasy counter and spoke in a voice filled with fire and smoke.  “Butcher?  Butcher! Listen up! Do ya have wax in yer years?”

         Sam clenched his jaws and the muscles in his arms rippled as he gripped his stainless steel clever.  Still, his answer came in a pleasant if rather sing-song Irish tenor. “Mrs. Gordon.  So good to see ye this mornin’. How’s Mr. Gordon?”

         “The same lunkhead as always, not that it’s any of your business.”  She tapped a ruby-red fingernail on the counter and said, “He was in a mood this morning, so I need to fix him something special tonight.”  She touched a finger to cheek and winced, then sneered,  "Somethin' special. That's just what he deserves, all right."

         Walter narrowed his eyes as he recognized risk mitigation in action.  Underneath her layers of makeup, he was sure he spotted a bruise, so her plan for a special dinner was doubtless to avoid another beating.

         “Well then, Mrs. Gordon, I’ve got some prime Porter House steaks that would be perfect.”

         She glanced at the price and snorted. “I said ‘special,’ not exorbitant.  We ain’t rich, ya know.  Besides, by dinnertime, he’ll be too drunk and to notice whether what I fix is any good.”  She squinted at the display case. “How about them? They’s cheap.”

         Sam winced and chewed his lower lip. “Bottom round steaks tend to be dry and tough unless you fix them properly.”

         Her eyes sent daggers at Sam.  “Ya sayin’ I cain’t cook?”

         “Not at all. Perhaps you’d like to try our special marinade?”

         “Don’t need no stinking marinade. 'Sides, I got my own special sauce in mind. Jest gimme two of them steaks.  Snap to it.”

         Stefan slurped his latte and muttered, “Now, there’s a woman who’s a just a bundle of risks. She’s got an abrasive manner and a husband who beats her.”

         Walter nodded.  “But she’s got a plan for risk mitigation. She’s going to fix him a steak dinner tonight.”

         Stefan licked some pastry cream off his upper lip with his tongue and said, “Sounds like a stupid plan, if you ask me.  Or at least one that’s full of more risks.  I doubt she knows how to cook a steak properly, or that her husband would appreciate it she did. There’s a high risk that he will beat her again tonight.  Or worse.”

         Walter eyed his partner.  “You know, she’s a perfect case study for us.  You see all her risks, and I see ways to mitigate them.  This was our last appointment for the day.  What say we follow her and gather more data?  Maybe we can even help her out.”

         “Kind of personal consulting service?  Or were you thinking about referring her to the sales staff?”

         Walter suppressed a grimace. “I don’t think the company has a policy that covers spousal abuse.  I was thinking of it being more like a good deed, like we’re knights errant. We could even check back later to see if our methods worked.”

         Stefan slurped the last of his coffee.  “You mean like a case study.  Sure, why not?  She’s as good a subject as any.”

         While Mrs. Gordon settled up with Sam, Walter scampered to the parking and got in the driver’s seat of the company-provided Audi SUV.  Stefan climbed in the passenger seat, fastened his seat belt, and said, “Ooh!  This seat is hot.  It’s searing my bottom like it’s a ahi tuna in a sous chef’s grill.”

         Walter grinned, switched on the car, and adjusted the air conditioning.  “The forecast was for a high in the low nineties.” He glanced at the car’s external thermometer reading.  “It’s well after three in the afternoon, and eighty-nine already.”

         Mrs. Gordon erupted from Sam’s Butcher Emporium, her steaks in a brown wrapper in one fist and a scowl on her face.  She paused to inspect her reflection on the store’s window, ran a finger through her tangled hair, and shrugged.  She climbed into a dust-covered, puce-green Honda, slammed the door, and sat for a moment, fiddling with the dash.  The passenger side door was dented, and the rear view mirror on that side was missing. 

         Walter peered at her. “What’s she doing?”

         Stefan shrugged. “It looks like she could be adjusting the air conditioning or the radio.  Oh my god, look at that!  She’s pulling right out without even looking, and she didn’t fasten her seat belt!”

         This time Walter didn’t try to hide his rolling eyes.  It was just like Stefan to focus on seeing risks.  He checked his mirrors, slipped the SUV out of its stall and started following Mrs. Gordon. 

         Her route took her south on Memorial to 91st Street, then east to the suburbs.  Twenty minutes later she pulled into a place called Carlyle Apartments, snaked her way to the back, and parked.  She got out of her car, didn’t bother to lock it, and plodded up the steel staircase to a second floor unit.

         Walter parked discretely a few stalls down from hers.  Stefan snorted.  “Look at that.  She didn’t lock her car, and just walked right in to her apartment without using a key.  She must have left it unlocked. What was she thinking?”

         Walter shrugged. “She probably thinking she doesn’t have anything worth protecting.”

         Stefan glanced at him.  “Still, it’s a risk.”  He sighed.  “Well, what’s next?”

         Walter said, “I saw a pool.  Maybe we should start by asking around about her.  See if there’s any gossip about Mr. Gordon.”

         “Good idea.  More data is always better than less.”

         Walter squirmed in his seat, then opened his door and stepped outside.  “I hope there’s a public restroom.” 

         Stefan pulled out a crisp, white handkerchief and mopped his brow.  “I bet the office has one.  Maybe we should start there instead. Don’t forget to lock the car.”

         Walter let a tight grin bend his lips. It wasn’t like Stefan to think in terms of risk mitigation. 

         A perky receptionist rose to greet them in the complex office.  “Good afternoon, gentlemen!  My name is Brandi and I’m here to help you!”

         Walter gave her a hearty smile and responded, “My name is Walter, and my friend here is Stefan.  We’re looking into apartments, and a dear colleague of ours lives here so we thought we’d check it out.”

         “That’s so sweet, Walter.  Who’s your friend?”

         “Mrs. Gordon.”

         Brandi’s expression underwent a lightning change, like she’d bitten into an apple and found Mrs. Gordon inside.  “She’s your dear friend, you said?”  Her tone suggested Mrs. Gordon being dear to anyone was about as likely Lady Macbeth winning Miss Congeniality. 

         Walter permitted himself a discreet smile. “Well, perhaps she’s more of an acquaintance. Is there something we should know about her?”

         Brandi huffed a deep breath, then said, “Well, I shouldn’t really talk about the tenets, especially since you’re considering become part of the Carlyle family.”

         Walter squelched the bile that soured his gullet and at the prospect joining such an unsavory group and simpered, “Well, perhaps you can share with Stefan some details about this wonderful place.  Floor plans, rental rates, and such.  While you do that, is there a restroom I can perhaps use?”

         “Sure thing.” She pointed. “Just down the hall and on the right.”

         “Thank you, my dear.”  He scuttled away, ignoring a scathing look from Stefan.  When he returned, Stefan was clutching a colorful folder with The Carlyle Experience emblazoned on it in ornate, golden script.

         Brandi chirped, “Would you gentlemen like to tour some of our units?”

         Stefan answered, “I think we’d like to walk the complex first.  Get a feel for the place and maybe chat about which options best meet our needs.”

         Brandi beamed at them.  “Take your time.  We’ve got several units available.  I’ll be glad to help you.  You’re just the kind of couple we’d love to have.  We’re open to all lifestyles.”

         Walter said, “I’m sure you are.”  He gave her a nod and headed to the door.

         Back outside, Stefan said, “Well, that was quite the experience!”

         Walter grinned, sure that Stefan has uncovered lots of risks.  “Tell me more.”

         “Well, in the first place, Mrs. Gordon’s first name is Blanche.  Isn’t that just perfect?”

         “Other than the Tennessee Williams reference, what else did you learn?”

         “Well, it would seem our Mrs. Gordon is about as well-liked as, oh, I don’t know.  Typhoid Mary, shall we say?”

         “A toxic personality, then?”

         “I’ll say.  Poisonous.  Medusa had a more engaging reputation.  The only thing worse appears to be her husband.”

         “What about him?”

         Stefan sniffed. “From Brandi’s description, he’s a hulking lummox who fights with the odious Blanche Gordon regularly.  Why, just last night they were so loud that neighbors called the police.”

         Walter nodded. “I’m sure you noticed the bruise on her cheek.”

         “Yes. Between her manner and his temper, their whole marriage is one big heaping pile of risk.”

         Walter nodded.  “I suppose I could think of a few things she could to do mitigate her risk.”

         Stefan pulled out his handkerchief and again wiped his forehead.  “This humidity is smothering.  That bank we drove by had time and temperature display.  It’s ninety-two degrees out.  You know what that means!”

         Coming from Stefan, it had to involve more risk assessment. Walter said, “Remind me.”

         Per usual, Stefan’s response managed to be both triumphant and pedantic. “Statistically, it’s the most likely temperature for murder.  Hot enough to stimulate anger, not so hot as to discourage activity.”

         Walter rubbed his forehead.  “So, you’re saying she’s at risk for being murdered?”

         “Exactly.”

         Walter reflected on his partner’s words.  The man was a genius at identifying risk, after all.  “Maybe we should warn her.”  That was the only mitigation he could think of.

         Stefan said, “Or we could wait. After all, Mrs. Gordon is uniquely unpleasant.  Maybe her husband’s the victim, not the other way around.  In fact, I’d rather not speak to her at all.  That’s an interview that’s fraught with risk.”

         Walter didn’t argue.  Risk assessment wasn’t his forte, but risk mitigation was.  “The most prudent course seems to be to wait until Mr. Gordon arrives before we take further action. To gather more data, as we agreed.”

         Relief flooded Stefan’s features. “I’m totally on board for that.  Shall we wait in the car?”

         Walter nodded. “An excellent plan.  Perhaps we can relax and listen to some music on the radio.”

         They returned to their Audi, where Walter turned on the engine and the air conditioning while Stefan fiddled with the radio.  He enthused, “Ooh!! The classical channel is playing Carmina Burana.”

         Walter’s mouth soured.  “Not the most endearing piece.  How about we compromise on the Eighties channel?”

         Stefan shrugged. “If you insist.”  In no time, the sound of Billie Joel noodling about the Stranger filled the sumptuous cabin.  Walter sat back and closed his eyes. 

         While they waited for Mr. Gordon, they chatted about inconsequential things. The price of tea.  The chances of rain. Dinner last week at the Wild Fork.  After an hour so, Walter decamped back to the office to use the bathroom.  When he returned, Simon and Garfunkel warbled The Dangling Conversation.

         To refresh the air, they rolled down the windows and let the warm summer breezes flood the car.  The temperature held steady at ninety-two degrees.

         Eventually, a motorcycle roared into the parking lot and careened to a stop near Mrs. Gordon’s Honda.  A creature with the ribs of a mastodon and the head on an unshorn lion dismounted the massive Harley and stopped to glare at Walter and Stefan. Tattoos of dragons and snakes coursed about his shirtless torso, and a death’s head grin embellished his lips. 

         The brute snorted, and a booted foot pawed the ground.

         For a panicked moment, Walter thought the newcomer was going to charge their Audi, like one of the Pamplona bulls, but then the man wobbled and steadied himself on his bike. He belched, and even from fifteen feet away the sour scent of beer made Walter gag.

         Stefan gripped Walter’s wrist and whispered, “We should get out of here.”

         Walter hesitated. The newcomer staggered up the stairs and entered an apartment.  Mrs. Gordon’s apartment.  The motorcycle thug had to be Mr. Gordon. 

         Stefan was right, of course.  He was the expert on finding risks, and Walter was the expert on avoiding them.  Walter started the car, turned to his companion, and asked, “Dinner at the Wild Fork?”