The Obligatory Meeting

[Arroyos]

The Obligatory Meeting


“Call me Ishmael,” he said, and then he laughed. More like an extended giggle. Perhaps a chortle or even … a chuckle. Who knows? I’m not good with words, not like I am with money, or was, once, which is what brought me here, to his door, for a meeting Roberta said was necessary, “inevitable” I think was her word, and long over due.

Roberta, my General Manager—“Acting GM” officially, but in reality, it’s her office, her game—and Mayberry, my GM in name only. In reality? Who knows? This place distorted all my thoughts, all my opinions and inferences, even my assumptions about places like this.

“Sorry,” he said, extending his hand, “couldn’t resist. Always wanted to say that—the Ishmael thing—and you seemed like the kind of chap who might actually appreciate it.” I didn’t, but I shook his hand anyway.

“So, here it is,” he said, inviting me into his room and waving the orderly away. “Ain’t much, but at least I have a private room. Thank you for that, by the way.”

I had no idea why he was thanking me for what appeared to be a tiny, crowded bedroom with papers taped to the walls and stacked on the desk in the corner. The bed was neat, covers pulled up, but certainly not tucked in, not in the tight, military-style corners I expected from my own brief visits to hospitals over the years. Made me wonder if he pulled them up, the covers, just for me.

When I asked why he was thanking me, he said I paid his bills.

“For this?” I asked.

“For everything,” he said. “Room, board, medication, even therapy. All paid for by the Dozers—Arroyos, I mean. Still can’t get a handle on the new name. But I like it,” he rushed to say.

“We pay all your bills?” I couldn’t believe it.

“Yes,” he said. “Better than a salary, y’know?”

I didn’t, but I chose not to tell him that. Nor did I mention that when I returned to Yuma I would be taking a close look at the books, at his expenses in particular. I knew Roberta wouldn’t like that, but this … this was unexpected. How much does keeping a man in a mental hospital cost? With a private room? I wasn’t going to ask him. Maybe that head nurse, what was her name?

“This is what I wanted you to see,” he tugged me over to the desk in the corner. “Whadda ya think?”

What I thought I couldn’t say. At first it just looked liked a jumble of numbers and names jotted on paper and taped to his wall, but then he pointed to some names that rang a bell.

1.Willis 6.Soto 11.Garcia 16.Hathaway 21.Myers
2.Carson 7.Hernandez 12.Maruyama 17.Sasaki 22.Gato
3.Owens 8.Angus 13.Trewin 18.Hernandez 23.Nicholson
4.Ohayashi 9.Johnson 14.Judkins 19.Ingram 24.Armstrong
5.Johnstone 10.Skyrme 15. Ivey 20.Russell 25.Andrews

“Are those—” I started to ask.

“Yup,” he said before I could finish my question. “And these,” he pointed to a longer list adjacent on the wall, “are the original draft list we put together. The guys we wanted to pick.”

It took a moment to sink in, but when it did the questions came tumbling out. “This is where …?” I gestured to his desk corner. “And you were the one who …?”

He was nodding vigorously, proudly, repeating over and over, “Yup, yup, this is the spot. Draft Central, we call it. Yup, it all happens right here, right here, yup. As you can see.” He pointed to the first list, the one with names I recognized. “Those are the picks we got. That,” he tapped the list on the wall, “that, Mr. Slummings, is the Arroyo franchise. Yup. That there is your future. Our future, the Yuma future.”

He was grinning like a mad man, like a Cheshire cat, only he wasn’t disappearing, oh no. His presence had filled the tiny room. I was beginning to feel a bit claustrophobic. I had no idea—not only about the draft, I mean I knew Roberta conferred with him on picks, but all this, his presence, especially his continued presence and influence, and (admit it, Slummings, I told myself) his continued importance to the Yuma club I thought I was head of. Owner, yes, but boss? Looking at the lists on the wall and remembering how often Roberta called to confer with him, well, I began to doubt whether Taffy Slummings was the be-all and end-all of the Yuma organization.

“Yup,” he said again, “that there is the future of Yumankind!”

I wanted to throw up, I wanted to run, to escape this mad house, to leave this mad man to his crazy games. I wanted, well, I admit it. I wanted to kill Mayberry.

[Sandgnats]

I love the never ending drama of this franchise.

[Arroyos]

I love the never ending drama of this franchise.

Oh, there’s an ending. We just don’t know when or where or how.

[Borealis]

I wanted to kill Mayberry.

Uh oh... Look Out Yuma Bob!!!

[Arroyos]

I wanted to kill Mayberry.

Uh oh... Look Out Yuma Bob!!!

I'm counting on you to have my back, Mike!