He’d gotten a strange letter from Dell a few years back. Seemed Dell regretted having been involved with that Aarhus speech. Called it “deceptive, cynical, anti-truth, sly.” “Vicious, in its way.” Well, that turkey’d had no objections at the time. He’d be there fifteen minutes early, big shit-eating grin on his mug, pencils all sharpened. Goddamned eager beaver. Used to send a Christmas card every year. Always, somewhere on there, he’d have found a place to write “MindMeld.” In his weird hippie calligraphy. Dell’d been all-in. At the time. “Even if this theory’s correct, twenty years won’t make a bit of difference.” That was Dell’s. “The world has actually, over the last fifteen years, grown colder, not warmer.” It was Dell cherry-picked that zinger.
A year or so later, Dell had the nerve to call the house, leave a message. Crazy, rude message. Seemed like he might be having mental issues. He’d always been high-strung. Once he’d told a whole kickoff meeting what it was like to get a coffee high colonic. Advised the whole room to get one asap. Used to wear these weird ties, with cow faces on them. He had, like, six different cow-faced ties. At the time of the call, Dell had been retired for three or four years and had moved to Oregon or some such.
Then here was his voice, on their machine.
Hello, motherfucker, cocksucker! Dell shouted.
Outrageous.
Viv’s eyes went so wide.
What was Dell, drunk? On top of being mental?
Bastard, punk, shyster, wielder of bad influence through your loathsome wry charisma! Dell ranted on. I was so puffed up! With pride! How I bragged! At the club! About my proximity! To you! Proud of the many clever concealments, distortions, and misrepresentations we cooked up, as we attempted to craft a “less negative take,” to “gain some breathing room for this essential industry we all love” and “push back against the hyperbole” regarding “this whole gosh-darned issue”!
He’d raced across the room, picked up the phone.
What are you doing, Ed? he said, almost tenderly. What do you want?
I want you to go back in time and get someone else to help you write that piece of shit, Dell said.
Well, I’m good, Ed, said my charge. But I’m not that good.
The whole thing makes me sick, Dell said. To think that that’s what I did with my life, with my talent.
Yourtalent,my charge thought. Ha. Oh, boy.
We sinned, brother, Dell said. Against the world, against God.
In the face of this hollow sanctimony, my charge felt an urge to twist the knife.
Well, I never could’ve done it without you, Ed, he said. Truly. That speech was more yours than mine. For sure. One hundred percent.
In response, Dell emitted this pathetic little yelp of—what?
Despair?
Agony?
Butt-hurt?
Then hung up.
So that had been fun.
Sometime later Dell moved down to Mexico, got addicted to something, tried and failed to hang himself.
Sad, I said.
Not sad, he said. Pathetic. A bottom dweller has one bright, shining moment and can’t help shit the bed about it.
Lovely, I said.
My charge’s wife swept in, set some clean towels on the love seat, went rushing back out again.
The stacked towels toppled off the love seat.
All but one.
