Two days later David received a mysterious summons to appear in Wilbur Montclair's tower offices. With the exception of a brief appearance at their welcome-home dinner party a few weekends ago, it had been some time since David had met socially with his affluent in-laws. He felt some vague apprehensions about being coolly chastised for his sloth I work-performance, as well as some spasmodic absenteeism during recent weeks. He had no illusions that the old man might want to see him for purely friendly reasons, for their relationship had been a cursory and dutiful one at best. However, David was in no way prepared for the jarring shock he was to receive that morning.
Upon being admitted to Mr. Montclair's staggeringly opulent office, the two men shook hands and exchanged a few stiffly amiable greetings. David was reminded what a striking and dignified figure Linda's father was, with that shock of white hair and firm, broad shoulders. The boy saw this whole impressive facade as a "noble bearing," until he suddenly recalled what Valerie had said about, her penchant for "sexy septuagenarians" and, even though Wilbur was only fifty-nine, the full essence of this man's aplomb became somewhat blurred for David. He tried to imagine Valerie servicing a man of this vintage, wondering how long she'd have to "work" on this one to get something to harden besides his arteries. Nor did it add much to the old guy's scion-status when David recalled what a ludicrous role he'd played in some of his nightmares. But here the impact backfired, as David summoned up his own role in these hoary vignettes: his rod impaled on the naked grinding ass of his father-in-law… a bit of imagery that now coupled with the pouncing hot cheeks of Hazel-Harry… the beautiful girl-mouthed boy and his humping father-in-law…? Oh no! David cringed at these thoughts and tried desperately to wipe such visions from his mind. How could he look this man in the eyes, or even be civil to him, if he were going to keep thinking of him like that? Hell no!.. it was a bad scene, so kill it, right here and now…
"Sit down, David," Mr. Montclair said grimly. "I'm afraid we have something rather crucial to discuss."
"Oh?" said David, taking a seat near Wilbur's immense Oak desk. "No illness in the family, I hope."
"Illness in the family," Montclair repeated his words, sighing and looking sadly towards the windows. I couldn't have put it more succinctly if I'd tried." Then he turned and gave David a piercing, blue-eyed glare, David visualizing the old man's naked nightmare-haunches again and having to look away. "If there is any illness in this family, David, all the germs will have come from you."
David stared down at his hands and waited, his muscles going tense; for he knew now that something horrible was about to happen. An explosion.
"But you see, I love my family far too much to let this disease spread and infect them," Montclair went on. "In order to protect Linda and the children, I'll have to work out some kind of quarantine for you. And now, David, I shall say no more until you've heard this tape."
He pulled a tape-recorder out of his desk-drawer, and, after plugging it in, set it in motion.
Upon hearing the first sound of his own voice, David gave a start. And as the tape droned on, he grit his teeth and kept his head lowered, wishing to God he could disappear or dissolve under the rug. He felt Montclair's eyes on him during the whole playback, but couldn't bring himself to look up. Oh man… all his hidden resentments and hostilities were now in the room with them, unmasked and undiluted. Oh Christ, that bitch! Making him spill his guts out like that, and how sick all those antipathies sounded spoken in the lush Martini-atmosphere of her apartment. He sounded so damned warped and depraved, spewing out all that overstated melodrama, when the truth was that he could have broken away any time he wanted, if he'd had the guts, if he hadn't let his wife and his kids and his house hammer all those nails in his coffin. And yet, even though every word on that tape reflected his true feelings, his manner and attitude sounded definitely neurotic: grown-up little boy blaming everyone but himself for his own weaknesses.
After several painful moments, the tape stopped. Then silence. And accusation:
Montclair removed his glasses and leaned across his desk in David's direction, his tone surprisingly soft and friendly. "I've always sensed that you disliked me, David, and it's made me a very unhappy man. Both Mrs. Montclair and I have always wanted your love…"
David glanced sharply at him, thinking of his nightmares again and remembering how bitterly these two old harpies had fought over him in bed… wondering why his mind was suddenly playing these bitchy little Freudian pranks on him: realities merging into dreams? But with a shrug, he said: "Cheer up, Mr. Montclair, only God is loved by everybody."
With this flippant remark, Wilbur put his glasses back on and regained a most militant stance, pinning David with an imperious stare of judgment; as the boy wretchedly wondered what the hell he was supposed to do, weep and wail and kiss the cuff of the old guy's pants? So all right, dammit, his secrets were out and this was the end of his free and vapid ride through life… and Sir Fat-Ass Mount Rushmore here could just go out and buy his daughter another robot baby-maker!
"David, do you realize that if you were anyone but my own son-in-law, I'd have to send that tape to the F.B.I.?"
Oh Jesus, here it comes, thought David. He's decided I must be a Communist, just like everyone else who disputes him…
"Do you know what kind of people go around calling every successful, patriotic American business-man an 'imperialist bigot'?"
"Red Chinamen," David muttered crazily, wanting to make a leap for the door.
"Not exclusively, my boy. These are also the words of White Leftist Ingrates who choose to bite the hands that feed them!"
David got a feverish fun-house vision of himself biting old Wilbur's pinkies and knew he'd better get out of there quickly and go sink his teeth into Valerie, because that's where his fangs belonged… (ooh baby, will I be hot for your blood tonight!)…
"… and now, David, if I'm to believe what you said on that tape… by the way, for the record, that was your voice, was it not?"
David nodded.
"Then if I'm to believe all that rot, you apparently see me as some sort of jailer… or… or master…"
"Not 'master'," David broke in, "never that…"
"… Who has kept you in chains and robbed you of your manhood…"
"But not my virility!" David blurted.
"I didn't mention your virility…"
"Neither did I. On the tape, I mean…" Dammit, this sonofabitch was getting him nervous!
"And not one blessed word of appreciation for all the material good I've done for you and your family." Suddenly Wilbur pounded his fist on the desk and David nearly twitched off his seat. "Good God, boy, after all I've done for you, is this the thanks I get? Tell me!"
"Yep," David nodded again. "I guess that's about the size of it."
Montclair regarded him more quizzically. "This woman… this Hudson person, she's obviously got you on drugs. That's the only way I can explain your behavior, even here in my office."
"Right," muttered David. "All that girl has to do is touch a guy, and whammy! just like that, he's a freaky Commie-Acid-Head!"
Wilbur gaped and shook his head in revulsion, eagerly believing every word of this. "Dear Lord in Heaven, David, please tell me you haven't been taking the L.S. of D.!"
"No, I haven't been taking the L.S. of D.," said David.
Montclair heaved a sigh. "Thank God, then at least Linda won't be genetically tainted by your moral decay."
"Opium," said David.
"Pardon?"
"That Hudson woman and I seal up the doors and keyholes and windows and smoke opium 'til our tongues hang out, among other things…"
Montclair's face went red as a beet. He rose and turned his back on David, wandering over to the windows, gazing out across the Bay. "David, I'm sure you think you're being terribly witty, chiding me like that, driving a wedge between our generations simply because you see me as a poor old-fashioned imperialist bigot…"
"Hardly poor…"
"But hang it, I wanted to give you so much!" This was uttered in such an unexpected emotional shriek, David gazed rather anxiously at the old man, and, with some surprise, heard himself say: "Cool it, Dad… "
"Ahh what malevolence in those words!" Wilbur was in control again glaring sternly at the boy, "The flippant disregard of Youth and its Elders… all of it uttered in those three words: 'cool it, Dad!' Is that all you've got to say to me, David?"
"Yes. Can I go now? I think I quit."
"That woman!" Wilbur roared at him again.
"Yes? You want her phone number?"
"I want to know why, David… you had to play around with a tramp like that, why couldn't you at least lave been sensible and covered your tracks? It staggers me to think of the hold she must have over you, if you're willing to let her get away with a filthy trick like that tape. Why, she's not even threatening to blackmail you. She wants only to ruin you, out of spite and mischief…"
"She wants to save me," said David, and somehow made himself believe this. "She knew I'd never have the guts to make this move myself, knew I was dying here, inch by inch. Oooh yeah, that gal knew where all my inches were going. Right down the drain!"
"But… from her note, she sounds so cheap and… common!" said Montclair. "What could you possibly see in her, a fine boy, with your background?"
And now David found that he could lift up his head and look right into the old man's eyes. "She has a beautiful hot cunt and she fucks like a mink, Dad, and for a hundred bucks a bang, shell even take you on. How's that grab you, Great White Father?"
Montclair crossed himself and closed his eyes for a few medicinal seconds; then flapped them open again. "Can't you keep a civil tongue in your head?"
"Nope, I guess I can't." And then David laughed as he remembered some of his juicier sessions with Valerie. "And yours is the first complaint I've had in weeks…" And now he was a little shocked to realize he was happy about what she'd done. Holy Christ, that luscious little whoremonger!.. She'd set him free! There were no more secrets, no more buried grudges. He could fly out of here a liberated soul and start riving on his own, and the hell with everyone! Didn't she say he could make more than three hundred bucks a day with his wang and her guidance? So what did he need with the payroll savings plan and social security and income tax and rich withholding fathers-in-law? Didn't he have this horny, hockable body that practically made Valerie pop her little piston every time she saw him naked? Thank God he'd kept up those work-outs at the gym, and thank God for Valerie, because she had pointed the way: a super-happy, wholesome path ahead for him, paved with sperm and glee and dollars. His body's members had become the most negotiable bonds he owned, and look what he'd done with them all these years: shoved them up that safety deposit-box his wife used for a pussy and waited for dry rot to set in. David found himself continuing this fervent rationale aloud… "The financial district's full of clean-cut young prick-peddlers just like me. Did you know that, Dad? Brilliant young junior executives rent their peters out on their lunch-hour, just so they can go home and give the little woman some extra cash to buy a power lawn-mower or increase the payments on their house, or get the baby's teeth fixed. I tell ya, it's a whole new concept in moonlighting-Hurts-Rent-A-Cock!.. it's sweeping the city. No other way to get ahead these days, because this is inflation, you old dinosaur; everything's going up!"
Wilbur Montclair closed his eyes again and weaved back and forth, as if a bit of vertigo had claimed him. But he finally made it back to his seat, sinking into it with a wheezing gasp; then swiveled the chair around, until his back was pointed towards David. "The only thing keeping me from having a heart attack right now, David, is that I can't understand a word you've said. All I know is that you've gone emotionally and morally berserk, and what's worse, you seem to be wallowing in your own decline." He turned about and handed David an envelope from his desk. "Naturally, I want you out of here today. There's a month's salary for you, but I shall keep making deposits for you in the joint-account you have with Linda…"
"That won't be necessary," David broke in. "I've been trying to tell you I've got something quite definite lined up…"
"Be that as it may, I'm not doing this for you, but to keep Linda from knowing the truth of what's happened. I will also let it be known that I've sent you out on assignment to do some field research in the area. This will explain your absence, and stem the flow of gossip. Should you seek work with another insurance agency, I will give you a laudable reference. For the sake of my daughter and her children. However, David, if after three months' time you still haven't regained your senses, I will dispense with all these efforts to protect my family, and I will let Linda know the complete truth, and assist that poor girl in obtaining a just divorce-settlement."
David stared at the pale, stony face behind the desk. "Ahh, that's beautiful. You're giving me three months to shape up or ship out."
"I'm glad you said that David! I wouldn't have been quite so crude, and until this week, never suspected you had such a flair for vulgarity. However, your words are aptly put. Because I know my daughter has built her whole life around you, I am giving you this chance to… to…"
"… Sow my wild oats?"
"To realize exactly what's at stake here, David. You'll lose everything, you know. Your children, the house…"
"Brad Grogan went that same route. He 'lost everything' too, and now he's having the best time he ever had in his life, really livin' it up in that bachelor-pad of his… chicks swingin' in and out of there night and day, all shapes and sizes…"
"If Bradley Grogan has now become your criteria for adult deportment I'm afraid I have nothing more to say to you. But I must say you've certainly chosen the most unlikely candidate, if you needed someone to set you a good example. That man's a thorough scoundrel… a wastrel, a… a womanizer…"
"And what makes you so Goddamned holy and pontifical?" Suddenly David wanted to scratch the surface of all this smug infallibility. "Just because you've never been caught with your pants down?"
Montclair averted his eyes, his face reddening again.
Eyeing this reaction, David said: "Oh hell, I think I just answered my own question. You never got caught-right? That's why you can keep looking so pure and lily-white. Which means my only crime is letting you find out how naughty I've been. So now Papa's gotta take down Junior's pants and give him a good spanking!" David paused here, feeling awkward and foolish by the intimacy of his own language. Impulsively, he shot to his feet and seized the envelope which still lay on the desk. "And if Papa thinks I'm too proud to accept my mustering-out pay, he's out of his gold-plated skull, because it's your phony pride that's kept me tied to your bootstraps all these years. Family pride and moral pride and paternal pride…" He strode to the door, where he turned for some parting shots. "And as for the money in this envelope, I'm using it to buy me a one-way ticket straight down into the Underworld, so you can stick that up your truss, old man, and let it simmer there!"
Wilbur let out a holy, stentorian wail. "Ohh… May God watch over you, David! May He show you the righteous paths and lead you out of the darkness…!"