(This is the first part of a story that I mentioned a few posts ago, the one that was, unsurprisingly, not accepted into an undergraduate literary magazine. I'm sharing, but as Dr. Seuss might say, and in fact does say [in "Pete Pats Pigs"], "Don't ask my why. I cannot say." That, I think, is the second rudest line Dr. Seuss ever wrote, the first being a line earlier in the same story/poem that goes like this: "Don't ask me why. It doesn't matter." Pete Briggs pats pigs. Amy Hall writes on internet walls. Don't ask me why. Like I wrote before, this story is supposed to be a spoof, which is something I say about all my stories, that way if they seem silly and laughably bad, I can claim that that's because they're supposed to. I also like to experiment with grammar, spelling and punctuation, so that explains ostensible typos.)
At 2:52 on Wednesday, May 23 Kellman’s Private Investigation Agency received a phone call from Erin White, property manager of Tri-Columns Apartments, requesting to enlist the agency’s services in apprehending the Tri-Columns vomitter, who, “for three weeks now has been sullying the first floor hallway of Tri-Columns with this pink, rank filth.” Ms. White’s tone was less than friendly, but tones less than friendly are more than common when people realize they are faced with a problem that makes a relationship with a professional P.I. agency necessary. The stealth and secrecy of private investigation is not the happy sort, say of a surprise birthday party; pre-clients like Erin White know this; this knowledge accounts for their pre-client unfriendliness; and this knowledge cannot be shaken, though the unfriendliness usually is.
On the phone, Erin White told Michael Brooks, head secretary of Kellman’s Private Investigation Agency, that he would be seeing her along with “a check made out to Kellman himself” within the hour.
Apparently, Ms. White did not realize that Kellman’s first name was Maxine or that she (Maxine) had recently abandoned her sanity and moved herself into the basement of the agency’s offices to commence a new, sinister business: with its aim of retribution, Maxine Kellman’s Center for the Distribution of Just Deserts was an agency designed by the now-deranged Maxine for the case-by-case crafting and exacting of punishments for those whom the upstairs agency found guilty of some transgression. (There was never a case, upstairs or down, without a transgression.) In the four weeks since its Grand Opening party (which every Investigator and officeworker of the upstairs agency attended, the former with anxiously grit teeth, the latter with at best half-hidden amusement) Kellman’s CDJD had netted no clients. This had nothing to do with Kellman’s abilities, which had proved considerable hitherto, and everything to do with the upstairs agency’s total concealment of Kellman’s new and humiliating business endeavors. Maxine had instructed Brooks to send CDJD’s Grand Opening announcements and party invitations to all of Kellman’s PIA current and former clients; Brooks had subsequently been instructed by every sane investigator of Kellman’s PIA to shred all evidence of the CDJD. Alexander Andrews, an especially professionally fervent yet personable investigator, threatened Brooks that he would lose his job if news of Maxine’s lapsed sanity reached clients.
With Ms. White’s angry voice in his ear, Michael Brooks, who was new to the job and unswervingly timid in his performance of it, wasn’t quite sure what to do; but he knew what he definitely couldn’t do, and that was to tell Ms. White that the owner and longtime operator of Kellman’s Private Investigation Agency was newly psychotic. Brooks wouldn’t have minded telling Ms. White that truth; in fact, he would have liked to, as it would’ve also afforded him the opportunity to assure Ms. White of how sane and capable all the other investigators at Kellman’s were. Instead of this, Brooks said nothing while Ms. White explained her pukey predicament with livid briskness, and when she announced to him that he should expect her arrival soon, he nodded, in the inaudible way of all nods.
When Brooks brought the details of the Tri-Columns case to Alexander Andrews, whose investigative prowess made everyone regard him as the agency’s de facto Top Investigator now that Maxine was effectively gone, Andrews seemed at first not to have listened to Brooks’ report before responding with equal parts boredom and dubiousness: “It’s a case about vomit?” he asked. Most of Andrews’ attention was somewhere among the papers scattered across his desk.
“Yes, sir,” Brooks answered.
“Send Ms. White to Kellman,” Andrews said uncaringly. Andrews shuffled through the mess on his desk, and Brooks felt uneasy during the silence that ensued Andrews’ perplexing instruction.
“To Kellman?”
“Yes,” answered Andrews, distantly.
“To Maxine?” Brooks asked, confused. Brooks, who had been instructed by Andrews to treat Kellman like an embarrassing childhood memory, that was, not to talk about her and even to pretend as best as he could that she never happened, was shocked by Andrews instructions to send the Tri-Columns Apartments case to her, to the madwoman.
“Of course not!” Andrews shouted savagely, shooting up from his seat as if propelled by springs. He breathed, permitting his sense of professionalism to quell his choler, and said mildly, “Send this Ms. White to Robin.”
Brooks chided himself silently for mentioning Maxine Kellman to Andrews. Even though Robin Kellman, Maxine’s granddaughter, had never investigated a case, was only in town for the summer, had been hired as an administrative assistant, had majored in computer science, was only twenty-four years old, … in brief, even though Robin had no relevant experience or expertise, Brooks realized that it nonetheless should have been obvious to him that Andrews would never speak of a humiliating wraithlike woman as if she were a capable investigator. A simple process of elimination ought to have made it obvious to Brooks that Robin was the only remaining Kellman to whom the incensed Ms. White could be sent.
When Brooks exited Andrews’ office with a posture whose angle was considerably more acute than it had been upon entering, he heard his name called from an office with an open door. The office belonged to Travis Bright, and the voice calling Brooks’ name belonged to Travis too.
“A new case?” Travis asked.
Brooks shrugged, said, “I don’t know.” He referenced his message pad, summarizing, “This Ms. White called from Tri-Columns Apartments, said a resident has been vomiting in the hallways there. She’s the property manager, and she says that residents are becoming upset. She sounded pretty upset herself.”
Travis made a face, evincing his unsettled state; it wasn’t clear to Brooks whether it was the unthrilling content of the case or the thought of vomit that discomposed Travis Bright.
“What did Andrews have to say about it?” Travis asked.
“He said something very strange. He said to send Ms. White to Robin.”
Travis laughed uncomfortably, said, “Really.” He looked off and thought. “People say you have to start at the bottom and work your way up, but I’m not sure vomit is a strong enough foundation to build on.” Travis continued to look off thoughtfully—the objectless-ness of his gaze and the nearness of his eyebrows to each other demonstrated the thoughtfulness of his eyes’ enterprise. Finally, Travis said, “I better help her out.”
Erin White arrived within an hour as promised, but she was much less time-consuming than Brooks expected her to be. She merely handed Brooks a check, signed a contract without reading it, and announced, “I have to leave now. I have an appointment to show an apartment to potential renters, but I have first to make sure there is no vomit in the foyer.” She said it foi-yay.
“You may call us if there is any,” Brooks responded, attempting to be helpful. Ms. White responded by looking thoroughly irritated and stomping away from his desk and out the front door of the agency’s office. Brooks promptly unloaded the check and contract off on Travis, who eagerly received them and eagerly embraced the prospect of helping the young Kellman on her first case.
Robin was first filing papers and then dumbfounded when Travis approached her with Ms. White’s contract and a synopsis of the Tri-Columns Apartment case. She asked “Why me?”, received a vague response, and marveled at Travis’ face, which she now regarded as excessively un-handsome. The idea that anything about him had ever seemed even kind of attractive to her two years ago (when she was a college sophomore and easily impressed by full-time employment and suits and especially by full-time employment spent in suits) now seemed entirely untenable, verging on imaginary, and so it seemed equally imaginary when she heard herself responding affirmatively to his question would she like to talk about the Tri-Columns Case over shrimp cocktails ... or was it shrimp and cocktails? Either way she was committed, and she decided that a free dinner wasn’t anything to be upset about, even if Travis’ face was.
Travis had glasses, brown hair, brown eyes, a wide, flat nose and almost, in length and width, no lips; Robin figured that he had trouble fitting even a small spoon into his mouth, and she noted that Travis’ very top-heavy face showed no signs of having a chin but she modified her note to allow that perhaps there had been a chin once but it had disappeared into his neck years ago, never to return, while looking downward to read.
Robin, alternatively, had a very distinct chin and very large lips, the former possibility a tad too large. Someone, a boy, had once told Robin that her eyes were honey-colored, but all former and subsequent descriptions disagreed with the honey-colored one and instead insisted that her eyes were brown. Plain brown, and hardly any more oblong than a pair of quarters. Plain brown and almost perfectly round her eyes were, and she was not pleased about it. She would have preferred honey-colored and almond-shaped eyes, but the truth was that there was no food to be had anywhere on her face. Her largish chin and diamond-edged jaws weren’t home to even a single patch of peach fuzz, and her complexion resembled its color’s version of construction paper, not the skin of any known fruit. She often hoped that at least her breasts could be properly likened to a food (her preference was for a fruit likening but she was willing to accept some vegetables), but most presently Robin hoped her grandmother would stop behaving crazily and help her solve her first case.
For dinner, Travis took Robin to Fishes Revenge, a new seafood restaurant on the muddy shores of two-acre man-made lake whose advertising claims of being “upscale” Robin found both untrue and insensitive, like if a Longhorn were to incite patrons to “steak” their claim to dinner. Robin didn’t let on her disapproval; she listened as Travis retold the facts of the Tri-Columns case as he was made to understand them.
“What are your preliminary thoughts?” he asked, sipping a martini like it was a chore.
“Only that our services evidently cost less than security cameras,” Robin responded. At this Travis neither laughed nor showed any subtler signs of having been amused, which indicated to Robin that he had taken her remark more seriously than she had dished it. And although the memory of their last and only other dinner together, which ended with her telling him that she would never fellate him, because it was so obvious to her that he wouldn’t appreciate it in proportion to the pleasure it’d afford, haunted her and had given her many a shame headache, she was sure she was right. He was a monk without principles, an ascetic roaming Home Depot. He was so smug and so serious, and he wouldn’t know a good thing if it wrapped its lips around his penis. Still, to have said what she said was lastingly humiliating to Robin, like a tramp stamp or a date rape. And there was another event from that painful memory pit of a date that haunted Robin, wherein she asked if anyone had every told him that Travis Bright was a misnomer. He had said yes in fact, two people had told him that before, but he said that both times he ended up forgetting to look up misnomer in the dictionary.
“Hello? Robin? I said, what do you think will be your modus operandi?” Travis asked, apparently for a second time. Robin squeezed her eyebrows together and massaged the small heap of flesh the squeezing produced. Travis asked what was the matter.
“Nothing. I have a shame headache,” she said, rubbing her glabella.
“A what?”
“A headache. As far as my modus operandi goes,” she began half mockingly, half good-naturedly, “seeing that I am starting in media res, I plan to question Ms. White and those with apartments on the first floor. Just like you said, Travis.”
“You have to be extremely, um, precise with this case,” Travis said.
“Why’s that?” she asked.
“Because the case hardly qualifies as a mystery,” he said.
“So you know the vomitter?”
“No.”
“Neither does anyone else. Clearly, this is a mystery. And I already know that every case requires precision, as you say, and I frankly don’t understand why you’re demeaning the case and lecturing me about being precise, as if I would’ve proceeded sloppily otherwise,” Robin said, feeling miffed by Travis’ remarks. “And it’s not like I chose the case or believe it’s hugely important,” she added placidly.
“Look, Robin, you have to be precise with the case because there are half a dozen investigators who are ready to take over Kellman, call it Andrews instead and forget Maxine altogether, and you don’t want to give them any more reasons than they already think they have to trash the Kellman enterprise,” Travis said. He appeared sincerely stressed, but Robin doubted that Travis’ stress stemmed from the prospect of Maxine being thus discarded; Robin assumed Travis’ stress stemmed more from a desire to rename the agency Bright than a duty to defend Maxine’s name, repute and memory. What Robin regarded as Travis’ motivating desire was forever threatened by Alexander Andrews’ inimitable talent for netting and impressing clients, netting and impressing, netting and impressing.
“How do you go about determining who your suspects are?” Travis asked, as if administering a pop quiz.
“I’ve often heard the phrase ‘Everyone’s a suspect,’” Robin said, refusing to take Travis as seriously as he seemed to think he deserved to be taken.
“That’s true, to an extent,” he granted.
“Should I consider you a suspect?” Robin asked, attempting to be playful.
“No,” he rebuked. Shaking his head, he said, “That would be a waste of time.” With his head moving less, he said, “On the other hand, if you feel you need to practice interviewing before you begin officially interviewing, I am more than willing to play the role of a suspect.” Robin wanted to say to Travis that he ought to understand himself as precluded from use of the expression “play a role,” on account of his genius and seriousness, but she wasn’t feeling sufficiently feisty; to get there, she ordered a Tom Collins that, rather than making her feisty, made her very, very sleepy, and she was relieved when the check arrived to the table and nearly elated when Travis told her that he was ready to leave.
The car ride to Robin’s was silent except for beach jazz on the radio and the occasional lecturing adage from Travis about private investigation, including “Things aren’t always the way they seem in this business” and “Sometimes the good guys turn out to be the bad guys.” He also said he remembered his first case like it was yesterday; and it had been yesterday, give or take three years.
When they were close to the house Robin had rented for the summer, she told him not to pull into her driveway, which was long and windy and provided no good spot to turn around. She thanked him for dinner, and he did not tell her she was welcome; instead, he sat silently staring at his steering wheel for an uncomfortable while before saying with a wounded tone, “I would probably apologize. I would be embarrassed and feel guilty, which is not to say that I wouldn’t appreciate it. I would appreciate it, but I would say, ‘I’m sorry’ afterward. I’m sorry,” he said. Robin was through with shame headaches, and she didn’t mind if Travis suffered one himself, so instead of filling the silence that ensued his confession with consoling remarks, she just said “Ok” in an emotionless tone and exited his car.
Robin was glad about the moments of reflection that her long walk up the winding driveway made available. She thought about the case. She realized that to want her grandmother’s help was to dream, but even more than this she realized that the reality of her situation was the dream’s opposite: not only was Maxine too far gone mentally to help Robin, she was so far gone and showed so few signs of returning that she was the one needing help; she needed Robin’s help to safeguard the company she had owned since 1947 and operated until two months prior to Robin’s arrival. Though afraid, Robin took pleasure from the prospect of protecting and continuing Kellman’s Private Investigation Agency in and with its original name. “I am a Kellman,” Robin said aloud, and she relished the sound of her name and the personal love and professional respect she felt for her grandmother. Robin enjoyed her walk in the semi-cool night air, and she enjoyed the sounds of bugs in the grass and trees, and she liked that the sky over Gray, Georgia seemed only to get dark blue and never to get black, and she loved that the moon made the driveway appear to glow and even to float a bit, and she was pleased by the Japanese maple on the mound of pinestraw in the middle of the yard of her rented house, and she appreciated that her neighbors kept such nice lawns, and she felt great to be free of Travis’ company, and she looked forward to having something strange and exciting to do in the morning. As she approached her rental house, a two-bedroom stucco, the only thing Robin didn’t like was that someone had apparently deposited at least ten sandwiches’ worth of pink, rank pimento cheese filth on her doormat. But of course the truth was more upsetting than Robin initially appreciated, and it was not edible so much as it was already eaten.
