Assholes Anonymous

 

“Hi, my name is Fred, and I’m an asshole.”

“Hi, Fred,” murmured the people around me.

I was sitting in a church basement with about a dozen others, our folding chairs arrayed about the room. Most of the people had cardboard coffee cups sitting on the floor next to their seats, but I’d declined the offer when I first came in. Fred continued.

“And I’ve been a human being for six months.”

Hearty applause broke out, to which I tepidly contributed.

“I’d like to share with you what got me here.”

I nodded as if I were interested. Well, maybe I was, a little. I sure knew what had gotten me here, but I’d be damned if I was going to share it. Not with them, not with anyone.

Theoretically, I had the option to just get up and leave, but not in reality. One of Bill Plummer’s limos was sitting out in the parking lot, and the chauffeur was watching the church entrance to make sure I stayed for the duration. If I left early, one quick call to the boss and it would be my last ride in one of those limos.

No, I had to endure this meeting, and God knows how many others, or I would not only be toast, I’d be burnt toast.

Bill Plummer was my client, my only client. He oversaw all the entertainment bookings for the largest hotel chain in the country, hundreds of venues. I was one of four talent agents who filled these bookings, getting a nice twenty-percent commission on top of a very generous salary.

Bill was also someone I’d known since first grade, which was how I’d fallen into this pot of prosperity. But now, I was on the verge of losing everything. Because of some drummer’s girlfriend.

Fred, a man whose face was unintelligent-looking, as I saw it, was still speaking.

“I never considered myself to be an asshole. In fact, if anyone had called me that to my face I would’ve punched him in the mouth.”

Several people around me nodded.

“I used to say that I was just being honest, that’s all. Just being truthful with people. And if anyone couldn’t handle my honesty, that was their problem.”

I almost fell off the seat. That was exactly what I’d said to Bill Plummer when he first sucker-punched me with all this. It was practically word for word.

And I remember what he said back to me, word for word.

“You like being honest, Morty? Try being honest with yourself.” Then he added, “Asshole!”

He told me I’d either attend these meetings or I’d be history. He said it was entirely up to me.

I couldn’t believe this was happening. Sure, maybe if I was a falling-down drunk, I could understand being forced to go to some kind of AA thing, but this? I’d never even heard of this outfit before.

He said it was getting very popular throughout the country. Alcoholics who were assholes tended to blame it on their drinking, and maybe it was true for some. But for many others, even though they were clean and sober, it only meant that they were clean and sober assholes. A bunch of them, evidently, got concerned enough about it to start this organization. So, lucky me.

But back to Fred. Did I mention he had an annoying rasp in his voice?

“Here’s what finally did it,” he said. “I happen to be chief financial officer for a large tech company. The name doesn’t matter, but you’d recognize it. One of the perks I get is a parking space right by the main entrance. It’s clearly marked Chief Financial Officer.

“It’s not just a perk for me, it’s a necessity. I’ve got arthritis in both my knees, and I can’t walk very far, so I need it.

“Well, I’m driving up to the building one day for a really important meeting. Just as I get to my spot, this woman in a beat-up Toyota pulls into it right in front of me.

“I couldn’t believe it. So, I pulled up next to her in the No Parking area, lowered my passenger-side window, and asked her what she thought she was doing.”

This sounded like a sanitized version of what I’d said to the drummer’s girlfriend.

“Her windows were up and she didn’t hear me,” Fred continued, “so I got out of the car and walked around to her driver’s side window. She still didn’t notice me. She was going through a bunch of papers on the passenger seat. So I rapped on the window and said, ‘Hey, lady, you’re in my spot! Get out!’ Or something like that.

“It startled her. She cringed and then looked up at me with fear in her eyes, and that kind’a pissed me off. I could never stand it when people acted like they were afraid of me. I don’t know why, but it just makes me angry.”

I sort of knew what he meant, actually. I can get that way, sometimes.

“So I really lit into her. I told her I work my ass off for that parking spot. I asked her if she knew how to read signs. I asked her if she knew how to read anything. I was really getting into it.

“Then she started to cry, and that just made it worse. She wouldn’t lower her window, I guess because she was scared, so it made me talk even louder. Other people in the parking lot were starting to notice.

“I didn’t care. She was saying something I could barely hear through the window, about how she only needed to go into the building for a minute to drop something off.

“Well, that was it. I had a huge meeting to get to, and the clock was ticking. Drop something off? Who the fuck did she think she was?”

God, this was sounding familiar. I felt myself squirm a little in the seat.

“Now I was really losing it,” Fred went on. “I don’t even remember what I was saying. She just kept crying. ‘Okay, okay,’ she finally said as she put the car into reverse. She shot backwards out of the spot, just as I heard a man’s voice say, ‘Hey, what’s the problem?’

“Then I heard a sickening crunch.

“She’d run right over him. He was someone who heard me yelling at her. He’d come over to help, and now he was dead. Because of me.”

Tears were streaming down his cheeks.

“Because I wasn’t a human being. I was subhuman. I could have been polite to her. Polite but firm. Why not, and what would it have cost me? She would have calmly pulled out of the spot. But just because, in that moment, I happened to be in the right, I thought I had permission to go medieval all over her.”

His voice broke. “Because I’m an asshole.”

Then he talked about how much of a struggle it was, every day, for him to treat people decently. How ingrained his intolerance was, and how it was a constant battle. I was hardly listening. I was remembering.

It was just three weeks ago, though it seemed like forever. I had booked Rodolfo Rodriguez, the international recording star, into the main room of the Magnifico Royale Hotel in Las Vegas. It was opening night, and I was there to make sure everything went down as it should.

As an agent, I drive a hard bargain, harder than most. Bill Plummer once told me about the complaints he got from the managers I deal with. But he never minded it because I always delivered the goods.

Rodolfo Rodriguez was among the more difficult goods to deliver. His manager was almost as much of a hard-ass as I was, and his contract had lots of restrictions in it. One of them was about unauthorized personnel in the dressing room area. If they ever caught anyone there that didn’t belong, they had the right to cancel the contract. They might not actually do that, but they’d sure be in a good position to renegotiate and jack up his price.

I got to the hotel shortly before Rodolfo and his entourage were due to arrive, keyed in the passcode, and took the private elevator up to his dressing room, just to make sure the staff had set things up the way he wanted.

The doors opened and holy shit!

Sitting in the middle of the dressing room floor, in a lotus position, was a tiny waif of a girl. She looked like a hippie; long, stringy hair, tie-dye shirt, lots of beads.

“Who the fuck are you?” I demanded to know.

She looked up at me in fear, which, as Fred pointed out, immediately pissed me off. She struggled to her feet.

“I’m with Jimmy Francis,” she said in a quivery voice.

“Who the hell is that?”

“He’s the drummer with the Pumas.”

The Pumas happened to be the band that was working in the lounge. I’d never heard of them. I don’t book lounge acts anymore; that’s for cheapo agents. In any case, I didn’t care if Jimmy Francis was Pope Francis’s freakin’ nephew. This was intolerable.

“How’d you get up here?”

“I took the stairs outside the band’s dressing room. They weren’t locked.” She looked at me pleadingly. “Can I stay? I love Rodolfo; he’s my favorite singer.”

I saw red. They’d be arriving any minute!

“You’ve gotta leave,” I said, reaching out and grabbing her by one skinny arm. I conducted her into the elevator.

I kept hold of her arm, maybe a little more firmly than needed, and did a slow burn as the elevator descended. I hoped to hell we wouldn’t run into Rodolfo or, even worse, his manager in the lobby.

She kept trying to convince me to let her stay and meet him. She said she’d memorized all his records, as if that meant anything. She told me Jimmy wouldn’t know where she was. Could she, at least, go back to the band’s dressing room?

I would have none of it. Anyone could tell she was underage, just by looking at her. No way was I going to do anything other than throw her out. And the more she pleaded, the angrier I got.

“Can you tell Jimmy where I am? I don’t have any money, and I can’t get home from here. Please, can you tell him?”

It was all noise to me. I hustled her through the lobby, out the door, and over to the curb. Then I turned to go back inside, and she grabbed at my shirt.

For some reason, that did it.

I whirled around, and it took her by surprise. She gasped and took a step back, her foot slipping on the curb, making her lose her balance. She fell over backwards, hard against the pavement.

She wasn’t run over the way Fred’s guy was; she didn’t have to be. Striking the back of her head on the pavement was more than enough. She died two days later without ever regaining consciousness.

It didn’t have to be.

At any point, I could have recognized what should have been perfectly obvious. Of course, she had no idea what she’d done, or the calamity she’d almost caused. She was only a fan, and it wasn’t her fault that Security had failed to lock that door to the stairs. And yet, I was perfectly willing to leave her helpless and stranded, when all I had to do was reassure her that I’d send someone to the band’s dressing room to tell Jimmy. So simple.

But I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to.

Fred was wrapping up, and I robotically joined in the applause. Then, as if watching from the ceiling, I saw myself stand.

“Hi, my name is Morty,” I croaked, “and I’m not a human being. I’m an asshole.”