It Being the Birthday of Mr. Culp
I have here for your reading pleasure (I hope) a story that is not action-packed, or sexxy, or anything like that. About 2500 words of ... thinking and talking, and a little bit of tennis. Apologies for them what's getting it twice.
They are so married, in a way that completely enhances the institution. :-)
Stand the Heat
Scotty hates assignments that take them to Palm Springs; he just hates the place, so they don't go there much except for assignments and tournaments (and, of course, any time the one accompanies the other). Not that he doesn't have his reasons: except for brief stints of actual work, there's nothing to do but train, swim, flirt, and drink; these activities often happen more or less in that order, given the heat, and since he doesn't drink, he mostly either reads in the room, or keeps an eye on Kel and the bikinis by reading poolside.
(He's a good and responsible trainer, but at this point Kelly doesn't need much more than a nudge to practice regularly, unless he's been injured, in which case he needs someone to sit on him, sometimes.)
Scotty's was a great swimmer, but Palm Springs pools aren't big enough or the right shape for real swimming. And flirting? Scotty can flirt, and he knows it, but the crowd here is usually too provincial, and thus too white (and frankly, not interesting enough) for him to have a good time.
Kelly knows it isn't his favorite place. Nothing the guy can do about it, anyway, except suggest another tram ride. And since Scotty's promised to fix his face the next time Kelly mentions the tram, they tend to go their own ways mostly - Scotty poolside or in the room with a book and a soda, Kelly poolside flirting.
And another thing -- it's so hot. He knows there are theories that suggest he should be fine with the heat, but look, Philly's got the muggy kind of heat that sort of carries you along, even as it wrings you out, and he's used to it. This desert means a different kind of heat, and those theories about his heat-tolerant ancestors can just take a hike, out there in the sand where the sun and wind dry up your sweat and then proceed to wear you down to nothing, and then blow away any crumbs left beind.
Not his scene, really, and Kelly knows it.
Nevertheless, Scotty is on a blistering hot tennis court, faced with this: one Kelly Robinson, practicing his serve. Going on an hour now, the hour after lunch (if Kelly's even had lunch), and Scotty knows that the thermometer by the pool, the one in the shade, reads ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit. Tennis courts don't tend to offer much shade, so there's Kelly, hiding behind his sunglasses, launching ball after ball into the service court, and running out of sweat. And the only question is whether he's going to let Scotty talk him out of the self-destructive activity before he actually destroys himself. The signs aren't promising.
“Duke, what is it that you think you are doing out here?”
Kelly doesn't break rhythm at all, which is mildly insulting. He could at least act like he didn't hear Scotty coming from halfway across the resort.
“Well, now, that should be obvious to a world-class trainer like yourself.” False levity is one of Kel's favorite acts.
“You know, it does look familiar. But since not even an amateur would be out here practicing his serve for hours on end in this heat, I have concluded that a pro such as yourself must really be doing something else, instead.”
Still no break in the rhythm. Kelly bounces the ball meditatively while responding, “Your minor premise has failed you here, sir. I am no professional, not on this tour.”
A soft grunt punctuates his disquisition, and another green projectile lands dead center in the service court, with slightly less momentum than a typical Robinson serve.
“And,” he goes on, taking up another ball from the chaotic herd of them at his feet, “as my serve needs some work, I think I illustrate that your major premise is false, as well, for I am, indeed, an amateur practicing his serve.”
“In this heat,” Scotty prompted.
Another grunt, another good, if not winning, serve.
Kelly grabs up two more balls with his left hand, and takes a couple steps to the left. This should be a right-hander's weaker side, but Kel has a lot of muscle left from his pole-vaulting days, and he's incredibly strong from either side.
“This heat was the only heat they had, sir.” He makes the serve look easy, but Scotty can see the effort.
“Right, I forgot about that. The pitifulness of the amenities out here.”
“Not so, sir! Not so,” and, pausing for the first time since Scotty's appearance, Kelly turns to face his partner, although even through the glasses Scott can tell that Kel's not meeting his eyes. “I find that they have just about everything that the amateur needs, right here on this little four-acre spread.”
For a minute, it looks as if he might continue, but he just drops his head and blows out a breath, then starts bouncing the second ball, setting up his next serve.
Scotty just watches, ready to admit defeat.
“In that case, Hoby, my good man, I am leaving you with this cooler full of water and lemonade, in the hope that you will make good use of it. I would hate to have to come out here later with a broom to sweep you up off the court and carry you back to Washington in a paper bag.”
A ragged laugh made him glance up.
“My man, my man. You think of everything - there is, in fact, a decided lack of cool out here, no matter what the brochures claim.”
He's bouncing the next doomed ball, and there's little mirth in the joke, but Kelly's nod at something like reason makes Scotty feel just the slightest bit cooler, himself, as he trudges back toward the room.
***
Not for the first time, Scotty finds himself both challenged and disappointed by Erich Fromm. Guy writes a book every time he turns over, and each one is surprisingly a bit less sophisticated than the one before. Not that Scotty can't appreciate idealism, but the man's seen more than enough in his life that he should be just a little less aggressively hopeful. Makes Scotty feel old. Or maybe just inadequate Hard to tell, these days.
He's trying to decide whether to write any of these thoughts down somewhere when the door is flung open and the wraith of Kelly Robinson drags through. It kicks the door shut behind it and has dropped the training bag and the cooler on its bed and disappeared into the bathroom before Scotty does more than take a breath to offer a greeting. At least he won't have to ask housekeeping for a broom, now. He thinks about calling for room service, but it's anyone's guess whether Kelly will emerge from the shower ready to head downtown for drinking and flirting, or pull a Garbo and dive under the covers 'til morning. Either way, Scotty wants to be sure his partner eats something - purely as a matter of his own self-interest, of course.
He pounds hard on the bathroom door to be heard over the shower, then opens the door a crack and calls through.
“Kel, you want dinner out or in, tonight?”
A piteous groan suggests the latter, but then Kelly offers actual words.
“What did you wanna do?”
“I'm starving, I want food! And none of that shrimp cocktail at the bar, either. I want real food - but I don't care where I get it, if it happens soon.”
“Room service, then. I'm ... tired.”
Scotty can't tell yet whether Kelly is reading him or not, but it doesn't matter, as long as he's still talking.
“Room service it is,” he says, without comment on Kelly's fatigue. With the prospect of real food before him, Scotty can afford to be generous.
He's setting up a game of solitaire on his bed when Kelly wanders back into the room, swaddled in a white robe and toweling his hair dry with what looks like real energy. He tosses the towel back in the direction of the bathroom, then shoves the stuff off his bed and onto the floor between them before collapsing face-first into his pillow.
Scotty shoots him a glare meant to encompass the towel as well as the mess on the floor, but it's lost on his partner, who almost immediately rolls back up to his feet and moves toward the bottle of bourbon on the bureau.
“So, you made it back in one piece,” Scotty drawls, including just enough bitter to comment on Kelly's lousy housekeeping.
Kelly's facing away while he pours his drink, and for a moment Scotty hears only the clinking of ice being stirred in a glass. Then, lightly: “Yes, the wonderfulness of courtside beverages. I owe my lack of desiccation entirely to you.” Scotty looks up as Kelly turns back toward him, but Kel's not finished.
“I just couldn't stand the thought of you having to slave away with broom and dustpan -“ Kelly stops short, as if pained at hearing the words that have come out of his mouth, but he only turns away slightly and slouches over to his bed.
“Yes, well, I'm endlessly touched by your consideration,” Scotty replies dryly, absolving Kelly of both American history and the rudeness of the English language.
“Hmm, certainly. I'm just that kind of guy,” Kel offers distractedly, taking up the book Scotty has left on the table between the beds. “'The Heart of Man: Its Genius for Good and Evil' … well, our old friend Erich has that much right, doesn't he?”
The cards are not doing Scotty any favors. Why does he even play this game?
“Huh? Oh - he's okay. Dude's trying too hard to - I dunno. Can't decide if he's a behaviorist or an existentialist, and he wants good and evil. I can't figure out which one of us is a cynic.”
Kelly's consternation is almost laughable.
“Um, I am, amn't I?”
Scotty grins. “I mean between me and him.”
“Oh! Well, you know me, I mostly just look at the pictures and cheat on the exams. So, here, I'd say: you have the genius for Good, and I have the --”
“Now cut that out!” Scotty's vehemence surprises himself, and from Kelly's expression he isn't too far behind.
“You disagree, sir?” The words are light, but the tone lacks Kelly's usual élan.
The cards are hopeless, and Scotty concentrates on re-stacking the deck, trying to think before he speaks, this time.
“I do disagree. You're not any more evil than I am - but if you don't know that by now, I'm not gonna convince you. But look,” and he manages to meet Kelly's eyes after he returns the pack of cards to the drawer in the night table, “I don't even know if I believe in evil. I know there's a lot of bad, and if evil just means superlatively bad, then, okay, we know that's out there. It's everywhere. But it's not in you, anymore than it's in me, Hoby. It's the job - the price of doing business. Don't make it more than it is.”
“More than it --” Whether it's the hint of desperation or the depth of his own anger that Kelly fears, he cuts himself off and takes a deep draught from his glass.
“Right - More. Than. It. Is. 'A dirty dollar for a dirty job,' right? It's not in you Kel, even when you carry it like it is. Anymore than it's in me - and I've been wading in it almost as long as you have.”
For a moment, Scotty thinks he may have gotten through, but then Kelly raises his nearly empty glass, meeting Scotty's eyes over the rim.
“But you don't seem to have the … talent for it that I do, Fred C.” He knocks back the rest of the drink, and sets the glass on the night table.
Scotty lets it go. Even if it isn't the bourbon talking, Kelly looks like he's already sorry he said it. Scotty grabs the glass and stomps into the still-humid bathroom, rinses the glass and fills it with lukewarm water - the coldest kind that comes out of this tap, this month.
He returns to the bedroom in a better humor for the pause, and sets the glass down on the night table. The slide of Kelly's eyes reveals a hint of fear - he hates provoking Scotty's anger. But Scotty just flops onto his own bed while Kelly stares steadfastly at the book in his lap. Scott decides to let Kel off the hook, this time. “If you're going to insult me, man, you can stick to tap water for the rest of the night. I've been arguing with Fromm all afternoon, and I'm not going to spend the rest of the night banging my head against the wall with your half-wit philosophizing.”
Kelly's grin lets him know that Kel recognizes the reprieve, and Scotty can't help but notice that they each take let out a relieved sigh. Kelly tosses the book aside and crosses his arms exactly like a resentful thirteen-year-old. “Half-wit philosophizing - that's low. How's a guy s'posed to philosophize with his whole wits when the other guy takes away his booze?”
A knock on the outer door interrupts Scotty's next move, and Kelly takes advantage of the distraction like the pro he is. He rolls smoothly to his feet and, on his way to open the door, offers a fresh challenge.
“Just for that, you have to play me at poker, and loser buys dinner - and that's gonna be you, Fred C.”
“True true,” Scotty admits, tossing Kelly's detritus back onto his bed. “I never can win against a guy who plays all underhanded and evil.”
The room service waiter is pushing a heavily-laden cart into the center of their room when Kelly crosses his arms again.
“You are truly rotten, Stanley. Now I'm not even gonna tell you which jokers are wild during my turn to deal.”
Scotty signs the bill, and pulls some change out of his pocket for the waiter as he shows the man out the door.
“You fool,” he snickers, “your games and stratagems are so predictable that my mom was reminding me about which jokers you always make wild just last week.”
Kelly's digging about a half pound of butter out of a chilled dish for his baked potato, but pauses long enough to grin gleefully up at his trainer.
“Just so, just so - because I have recruited her into my evil plans. For some reason, she really does love me more.”
Scotty sighs in defeat, lifting covers from dishes in search of sour cream. “It's the chitlins, man - she loves anyone who'll eat her chitlins.”
“What better reason could there be?” Kelly wonders, and Scotty, for the moment, cannot think of one.
end.
Comments welcome, esp. typo thingies and lack of clarity thingies ... with luck, there may be another story or two before day is done.
They are so married, in a way that completely enhances the institution. :-)
Stand the Heat
Scotty hates assignments that take them to Palm Springs; he just hates the place, so they don't go there much except for assignments and tournaments (and, of course, any time the one accompanies the other). Not that he doesn't have his reasons: except for brief stints of actual work, there's nothing to do but train, swim, flirt, and drink; these activities often happen more or less in that order, given the heat, and since he doesn't drink, he mostly either reads in the room, or keeps an eye on Kel and the bikinis by reading poolside.
(He's a good and responsible trainer, but at this point Kelly doesn't need much more than a nudge to practice regularly, unless he's been injured, in which case he needs someone to sit on him, sometimes.)
Scotty's was a great swimmer, but Palm Springs pools aren't big enough or the right shape for real swimming. And flirting? Scotty can flirt, and he knows it, but the crowd here is usually too provincial, and thus too white (and frankly, not interesting enough) for him to have a good time.
Kelly knows it isn't his favorite place. Nothing the guy can do about it, anyway, except suggest another tram ride. And since Scotty's promised to fix his face the next time Kelly mentions the tram, they tend to go their own ways mostly - Scotty poolside or in the room with a book and a soda, Kelly poolside flirting.
And another thing -- it's so hot. He knows there are theories that suggest he should be fine with the heat, but look, Philly's got the muggy kind of heat that sort of carries you along, even as it wrings you out, and he's used to it. This desert means a different kind of heat, and those theories about his heat-tolerant ancestors can just take a hike, out there in the sand where the sun and wind dry up your sweat and then proceed to wear you down to nothing, and then blow away any crumbs left beind.
Not his scene, really, and Kelly knows it.
Nevertheless, Scotty is on a blistering hot tennis court, faced with this: one Kelly Robinson, practicing his serve. Going on an hour now, the hour after lunch (if Kelly's even had lunch), and Scotty knows that the thermometer by the pool, the one in the shade, reads ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit. Tennis courts don't tend to offer much shade, so there's Kelly, hiding behind his sunglasses, launching ball after ball into the service court, and running out of sweat. And the only question is whether he's going to let Scotty talk him out of the self-destructive activity before he actually destroys himself. The signs aren't promising.
“Duke, what is it that you think you are doing out here?”
Kelly doesn't break rhythm at all, which is mildly insulting. He could at least act like he didn't hear Scotty coming from halfway across the resort.
“Well, now, that should be obvious to a world-class trainer like yourself.” False levity is one of Kel's favorite acts.
“You know, it does look familiar. But since not even an amateur would be out here practicing his serve for hours on end in this heat, I have concluded that a pro such as yourself must really be doing something else, instead.”
Still no break in the rhythm. Kelly bounces the ball meditatively while responding, “Your minor premise has failed you here, sir. I am no professional, not on this tour.”
A soft grunt punctuates his disquisition, and another green projectile lands dead center in the service court, with slightly less momentum than a typical Robinson serve.
“And,” he goes on, taking up another ball from the chaotic herd of them at his feet, “as my serve needs some work, I think I illustrate that your major premise is false, as well, for I am, indeed, an amateur practicing his serve.”
“In this heat,” Scotty prompted.
Another grunt, another good, if not winning, serve.
Kelly grabs up two more balls with his left hand, and takes a couple steps to the left. This should be a right-hander's weaker side, but Kel has a lot of muscle left from his pole-vaulting days, and he's incredibly strong from either side.
“This heat was the only heat they had, sir.” He makes the serve look easy, but Scotty can see the effort.
“Right, I forgot about that. The pitifulness of the amenities out here.”
“Not so, sir! Not so,” and, pausing for the first time since Scotty's appearance, Kelly turns to face his partner, although even through the glasses Scott can tell that Kel's not meeting his eyes. “I find that they have just about everything that the amateur needs, right here on this little four-acre spread.”
For a minute, it looks as if he might continue, but he just drops his head and blows out a breath, then starts bouncing the second ball, setting up his next serve.
Scotty just watches, ready to admit defeat.
“In that case, Hoby, my good man, I am leaving you with this cooler full of water and lemonade, in the hope that you will make good use of it. I would hate to have to come out here later with a broom to sweep you up off the court and carry you back to Washington in a paper bag.”
A ragged laugh made him glance up.
“My man, my man. You think of everything - there is, in fact, a decided lack of cool out here, no matter what the brochures claim.”
He's bouncing the next doomed ball, and there's little mirth in the joke, but Kelly's nod at something like reason makes Scotty feel just the slightest bit cooler, himself, as he trudges back toward the room.
***
Not for the first time, Scotty finds himself both challenged and disappointed by Erich Fromm. Guy writes a book every time he turns over, and each one is surprisingly a bit less sophisticated than the one before. Not that Scotty can't appreciate idealism, but the man's seen more than enough in his life that he should be just a little less aggressively hopeful. Makes Scotty feel old. Or maybe just inadequate Hard to tell, these days.
He's trying to decide whether to write any of these thoughts down somewhere when the door is flung open and the wraith of Kelly Robinson drags through. It kicks the door shut behind it and has dropped the training bag and the cooler on its bed and disappeared into the bathroom before Scotty does more than take a breath to offer a greeting. At least he won't have to ask housekeeping for a broom, now. He thinks about calling for room service, but it's anyone's guess whether Kelly will emerge from the shower ready to head downtown for drinking and flirting, or pull a Garbo and dive under the covers 'til morning. Either way, Scotty wants to be sure his partner eats something - purely as a matter of his own self-interest, of course.
He pounds hard on the bathroom door to be heard over the shower, then opens the door a crack and calls through.
“Kel, you want dinner out or in, tonight?”
A piteous groan suggests the latter, but then Kelly offers actual words.
“What did you wanna do?”
“I'm starving, I want food! And none of that shrimp cocktail at the bar, either. I want real food - but I don't care where I get it, if it happens soon.”
“Room service, then. I'm ... tired.”
Scotty can't tell yet whether Kelly is reading him or not, but it doesn't matter, as long as he's still talking.
“Room service it is,” he says, without comment on Kelly's fatigue. With the prospect of real food before him, Scotty can afford to be generous.
He's setting up a game of solitaire on his bed when Kelly wanders back into the room, swaddled in a white robe and toweling his hair dry with what looks like real energy. He tosses the towel back in the direction of the bathroom, then shoves the stuff off his bed and onto the floor between them before collapsing face-first into his pillow.
Scotty shoots him a glare meant to encompass the towel as well as the mess on the floor, but it's lost on his partner, who almost immediately rolls back up to his feet and moves toward the bottle of bourbon on the bureau.
“So, you made it back in one piece,” Scotty drawls, including just enough bitter to comment on Kelly's lousy housekeeping.
Kelly's facing away while he pours his drink, and for a moment Scotty hears only the clinking of ice being stirred in a glass. Then, lightly: “Yes, the wonderfulness of courtside beverages. I owe my lack of desiccation entirely to you.” Scotty looks up as Kelly turns back toward him, but Kel's not finished.
“I just couldn't stand the thought of you having to slave away with broom and dustpan -“ Kelly stops short, as if pained at hearing the words that have come out of his mouth, but he only turns away slightly and slouches over to his bed.
“Yes, well, I'm endlessly touched by your consideration,” Scotty replies dryly, absolving Kelly of both American history and the rudeness of the English language.
“Hmm, certainly. I'm just that kind of guy,” Kel offers distractedly, taking up the book Scotty has left on the table between the beds. “'The Heart of Man: Its Genius for Good and Evil' … well, our old friend Erich has that much right, doesn't he?”
The cards are not doing Scotty any favors. Why does he even play this game?
“Huh? Oh - he's okay. Dude's trying too hard to - I dunno. Can't decide if he's a behaviorist or an existentialist, and he wants good and evil. I can't figure out which one of us is a cynic.”
Kelly's consternation is almost laughable.
“Um, I am, amn't I?”
Scotty grins. “I mean between me and him.”
“Oh! Well, you know me, I mostly just look at the pictures and cheat on the exams. So, here, I'd say: you have the genius for Good, and I have the --”
“Now cut that out!” Scotty's vehemence surprises himself, and from Kelly's expression he isn't too far behind.
“You disagree, sir?” The words are light, but the tone lacks Kelly's usual élan.
The cards are hopeless, and Scotty concentrates on re-stacking the deck, trying to think before he speaks, this time.
“I do disagree. You're not any more evil than I am - but if you don't know that by now, I'm not gonna convince you. But look,” and he manages to meet Kelly's eyes after he returns the pack of cards to the drawer in the night table, “I don't even know if I believe in evil. I know there's a lot of bad, and if evil just means superlatively bad, then, okay, we know that's out there. It's everywhere. But it's not in you, anymore than it's in me, Hoby. It's the job - the price of doing business. Don't make it more than it is.”
“More than it --” Whether it's the hint of desperation or the depth of his own anger that Kelly fears, he cuts himself off and takes a deep draught from his glass.
“Right - More. Than. It. Is. 'A dirty dollar for a dirty job,' right? It's not in you Kel, even when you carry it like it is. Anymore than it's in me - and I've been wading in it almost as long as you have.”
For a moment, Scotty thinks he may have gotten through, but then Kelly raises his nearly empty glass, meeting Scotty's eyes over the rim.
“But you don't seem to have the … talent for it that I do, Fred C.” He knocks back the rest of the drink, and sets the glass on the night table.
Scotty lets it go. Even if it isn't the bourbon talking, Kelly looks like he's already sorry he said it. Scotty grabs the glass and stomps into the still-humid bathroom, rinses the glass and fills it with lukewarm water - the coldest kind that comes out of this tap, this month.
He returns to the bedroom in a better humor for the pause, and sets the glass down on the night table. The slide of Kelly's eyes reveals a hint of fear - he hates provoking Scotty's anger. But Scotty just flops onto his own bed while Kelly stares steadfastly at the book in his lap. Scott decides to let Kel off the hook, this time. “If you're going to insult me, man, you can stick to tap water for the rest of the night. I've been arguing with Fromm all afternoon, and I'm not going to spend the rest of the night banging my head against the wall with your half-wit philosophizing.”
Kelly's grin lets him know that Kel recognizes the reprieve, and Scotty can't help but notice that they each take let out a relieved sigh. Kelly tosses the book aside and crosses his arms exactly like a resentful thirteen-year-old. “Half-wit philosophizing - that's low. How's a guy s'posed to philosophize with his whole wits when the other guy takes away his booze?”
A knock on the outer door interrupts Scotty's next move, and Kelly takes advantage of the distraction like the pro he is. He rolls smoothly to his feet and, on his way to open the door, offers a fresh challenge.
“Just for that, you have to play me at poker, and loser buys dinner - and that's gonna be you, Fred C.”
“True true,” Scotty admits, tossing Kelly's detritus back onto his bed. “I never can win against a guy who plays all underhanded and evil.”
The room service waiter is pushing a heavily-laden cart into the center of their room when Kelly crosses his arms again.
“You are truly rotten, Stanley. Now I'm not even gonna tell you which jokers are wild during my turn to deal.”
Scotty signs the bill, and pulls some change out of his pocket for the waiter as he shows the man out the door.
“You fool,” he snickers, “your games and stratagems are so predictable that my mom was reminding me about which jokers you always make wild just last week.”
Kelly's digging about a half pound of butter out of a chilled dish for his baked potato, but pauses long enough to grin gleefully up at his trainer.
“Just so, just so - because I have recruited her into my evil plans. For some reason, she really does love me more.”
Scotty sighs in defeat, lifting covers from dishes in search of sour cream. “It's the chitlins, man - she loves anyone who'll eat her chitlins.”
“What better reason could there be?” Kelly wonders, and Scotty, for the moment, cannot think of one.
end.
Comments welcome, esp. typo thingies and lack of clarity thingies ... with luck, there may be another story or two before day is done.