A Part of Them
(continued from page two)
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he circles under your eyes seem to be growing darker by the day," Chrissie said as she offered me yet another cup of bitter coffee. "Don't tell me you're still having that same stupid nightmare."
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"It's like a tormented wandering spirit trapped in Purgatory. Or worse. Like a ghost imploring me to do something to set him free of the nether world."
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"Come on, Larry, you believe in such nonsense?"
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"Not exactly. I think it's my subconscious trying to interpret Robbie's final request of me, the 'do what you have to do' part."
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"Why? I thought the police finally discounted that scrap as a routine 'to do' reminder list Robbie had written out for himself and not a farewell communication to you after all. Your name was on it because Robbie had an appointment with you the next morning. That's all. You were his attorney, pal, not his love interest."
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"But quite possibly his only friend. Or if not a true friend, then at least a confidant. Chrissie, let's forget Robbie for a minute. Tell me something. What’s the most immediate responsibility of the living to the dead?"
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Slight pause. "To give them a proper send-off, I guess. To bury them."
"Correct. But let's say you can’t find the body. Then what?"
"Heck, I don’t know. Maybe you conduct a wake in absentia?"
"Exactly."
"Oh, come on, Larry, you've got to be kidding. That's spooky."
"Just a simple requiem so that Robbie's spirit can rest in peace. Nothing more elaborate than a bowed head and a few moment of silence."
"I agree. Ten seconds of quiet meditation for the departed. Let's get it over with it now so you can move on."
"No, I'd prefer something a bit more formal."
"Like a ceremony? Where? Robbie wasn't the least bit religious."
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"I was thinking about the gym over at the Santa Monica Y. I called and it's available this Sunday morning before the jocks take it over at ten."
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"What? Our office waiting room would be better than that. Or even the broom closet. I mean, the man had no family, and you just said you were his only friend."
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"Robbie was a donor at the Y and quite proud of it. You and Marcie and I can recite a few poems or something and then all go out for a nice champagne brunch in his honor."
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"Larry, buddy, where's your mind? Your wife’s running the L.A. Marathon this Sunday, and I'll be gone to San Francisco getting ready for the Johnson deposition on Monday. Besides, what's the rush?"
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"I need to put this behind me. But it's just as much for Robbie, so he can be done with it, too."
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Chrissie threw me an odd look. "Well, if it'll get you out of this darn funk, then do it. I'll phone in an announcement for the obituaries column right now and arrange for some carnations. To be honest, ever since Robbie Conner did my surgery, I've had this little soft spot in my heart for the good doctor."
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Not to mention the other soft spot beneath Chrissie's hardened exterior, the one slightly above and to the left of the one in her heart, the one located somewhere between her rib cage and silicone implant.
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I felt like a fool arriving all alone at the YMCA dressed up in a black suit while a bum slept blocking the entrance. The janitor convinced him to relocate, unlocked the door at seven, and stuck out the battered yellow sign announcing 'Reserved for Private Use.' The air was still foggy and cool, perfect weather for Marcie's marathon.
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A few minutes after seven, a van drove up to deliver Chrissie's thoughtful spray of white carnations.
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While I showed the driver where to set them, a second florist arrived with beautiful arrangement of calla lillies and roses. Chrissie, bless her, must have grown sentimental over Robbie or more likely felt very sorry for me.
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On a rickety table, I propped up a framed photo of Robbie Conner and then sat down in a folding metal chair to wait for seven-thirty, unsure of what I'd say if anyone else showed up.
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I planned to meditate in solitary for fifteen minutes and then pick up the picture and flowers and drive home.
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At 7:10, two more florists arrived with elaborate arrangements requiring wooden stands for support. One satin ribbon was imprinted in gold foil 'To Dr. Conner, With Gratitude' and the other only 'Dr. Robbie.' Neither noted the name of the sender.
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Within minutes, five more florists had arrived, followed by five more, followed by God only knows how many more until by 7:20 a quarter of the gym was packed with enough flowers to grace the funeral of a head of state.
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The first limousine pulled up at 7:25.
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Out stepped a slim woman in black dress. Despite the fog, she had on sunglasses. She walked up to my table, looked at the photo, but said nothing.
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Another woman in black appeared moments later, and then behind me at the door I heard a great commotion.
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Fearing the bums might be causing trouble, I stepped outside and gasped.
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For as far as I could see stretched a parade of limos, cars and taxis, all of them bearing solemn mourners stepping out of their cars . . .
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. . . all women, all of them wearing sunglasses, concealing hats, or dark veils.
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Not that I had much trouble recognizing many of them, these stars and celebrities with their perfect bodies, undoubtedly Robbie's patients.
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Somebody tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around to find--Christine?
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"Chrissie, I thought you were in San Francisco."
"I was," she said, "but . . . I don't know, I just felt I should be here instead."
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"Me, too." It was Marcie, not in nylon shorts and a tight tee but in a black suit.
"Honey," I said, "what about your race?"
"I didn't feel up to it. For some reason, I woke up this morning and felt I needed to be here with you."
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And so it went on as if it would never stop, hundreds of women materializing from out of nowhere, their waiting limos and taxis congesting the streets for blocks in every direction.
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A long line formed leading up to the table, these dignified ladies dressed in blacks and grays and purples, serious and unsmiling and keeping to themselves. Each woman paused a few seconds in front of Robbie’s photo, paid her respects, and then left.
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By the time my allotted hour at the gym was over, the sidewalk was swarming with police and members of the media trying to figure out just what was happening. The reporters tried questioning some of the grieving ladies about their reasons for attending.
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I could tell from the answers that even the women didn’t understand why, that they'd felt compelled to show up for unexplained reasons, likes moths attracted to a light.
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And so their replies were only excuses, none of which made any sense, none of which mentioned the need for apology or atonement, and absolutely none of which mentioned—God forbid—having ever undergone plastic surgery.
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The paparazzi had a feast.
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Do what you have to do and then watch what happens next?
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It isn't easy convincing other people to love us, and so we endear ourselves to those around us by using every conceivable means at our disposal. The luckiest among us employ charm and quick wit or capitalize on good looks and ample checkbooks.
Most of us are forced to be more inventive.
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I kept my face solemn but inside was smiling ear to ear. I imagined Robbie watching the entire spectacle with glee from a spot in some sort of heaven, or maybe from . . .
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. . . who knows?, I mean, his body was never found, so maybe even from a surrounding tall building from behind pulled blinds . . .
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. . . following the endless flow of celebrities who had scorned him while he was in their presence but were now drawn to his memory like metal filings to a magnet.
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The glitterati had finally come to love him, to adore Robbie Conner as they adored themselves, the only sort of adoration they were truly capable of.
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Robbie had entered into their lives in his own special way and become a part of them.
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