February 6, 2008
Condomes
Written by Girth McDürchstein on February 6, 2008 3:23 PM
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Don't Call Me Daughter
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Last night, I sat in the living room reading Gutter Tramps when Renal sat on my knee, put her arms around my neck, and said, “Daddy…”
“Yes, dear?” I asked.
“I know you’ve been trying to think of a way to invest your money ever since the charity went under. I want to introduce you to a friend of mine.”
“What?”
“Her name’s Jordache Finkelstein,” Renal said. “I met her at the Sunset Strip. She goes to college and works at this place that finds real estate to develop. She has a proposal, and I think you should meet with her and hear her out. It’s right up your avenue.”
I shrugged. “‘Kay. When?”
“I sent up a meeting with your lawyer for tomorrow, two o’clock.”
“I’ll be there, little darlin’,” I said.
Renal giggled and scampered away. I leered at her until she disappeared from view.
Before bed, Margo and I discussed it.
“I don’t trust her,” Margo said.
“It couldn’t hurt to hear her out,” I replied.
“It probably could,” Margo said. “I should go with you, make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”
“When have you known me to do something stupid?”
“When it comes to your love for that girl, you’ve never done anything smart. Oh shit, I can’t go tomorrow. I have a shoot up in Bakersfield.”
“Another one?” I scoffed. “You’re taking this modeling stuff a little too seriously again.”
“Well, shit, Girth, we need money, and this little Jupiter thing isn’t exactly raking in the dough.”
“We have a whole tour planned!” I shouted.
“Whoop-dee-shit,” Margo spat. “We’ll probably lose more than we make, just like we did in Europe.”
“Cold, Margo. Real cold.”
“You know what? You can fend for yourself tomorrow.”
“I don’t have to. Herc will be there.”
Margo rolled her eyes. “Oh, that’s encouraging.”
So this afternoon, Renal and I went down to Herc’s office. At usual, the stench of dried blood and crusty feces permeated the place. Sheila refused to flirt with me on account of I had a 15-year-old girl standing by my side. Instead, she just gave me a look of revulsion. I found out later from Herc that she heard a rumor Margo and I broke up and thought I was rebounding with Renal. Could you imagine that? Sleeping with my own daughter.
Jordache Finkelstein, my daughter’s googly-eyed best friend, stood at the head of Feinstein’s conference table. Beside her, someone had erected a large easel covered with a stained red velvet curtain.
Feinstein stood near the doors, waiting for us.
“Hey, Herc,” I said.
Feinstein’s eyes were bloodshot, and he had the weathered face of a man who hasn’t slept in days. He simply groaned instead of saying anything. I clapped my hand on his shoulder, and he jerked away at my touch. I shrugged and crossed the conference room to Jordache.
“Renal has told me so much about you,” I said, shaking her hand.
“All good things, I hope,” she said, giving Renal a once over.
Renal smoothed the crotch of her miniskirt and snickered.
We took our seats while Jordache mentally prepared herself for the presentation. Eyes closed, muttering to herself, etc. When it didn’t look like she planned to start any time soon, I got a cup of coffee. I offered Herc some, but he moaned, which I took to mean “no, thanks.”
Finally, Jordache opened her eyes and smiled wide. It made her look more piscine than a 21-year-old girl should.
“In Woodland Hills, the harsh desert sun has laid waste to 40 once-pristine acres of land. Where fresh crops once grew, now nothing remains but dust and dirt. This is where we come in.”
“Who?” I asked.
She glared, which gave me the impression she didn’t want interruptions. “Klemperer-Rudnick,” Jordache continued, “a service dedicated to absorbing depressed properties and value-free lands and cultivating them for a modern marketplace. What we ask from you is nothing more than capital.”
“Capital?” I whispered to Herc.
He started sobbing.
“Money,” Jordache answered.
“Of course,” I said knowingly.
“We’d want you to be a…silent partner,” she said. “A financial asset to us who will reap the benefits once the project is completed. I’ve compiled a binder containing detailed notes regarding the viability of this proposal.”
“I see. And what, exactly, are you proposing?”
“You’ve heard of condominiums, I assume?”
“The apartments you buy,” I said wisely.
“Indeed,” said Jordache Finkelstein. “Well, allow me to introduce to you Klemperer-Rudnick’s wave of the future…Condomes!”
She pulled a gold rope attached to the red velvet curtain, and it dropped, revealing a large artist’s rendering of the completed Condomes project.
“A futuristic dome city that combines the detached sterility of a science-fiction dystopia with the comforts of home,” Jordache continued. “Your investment will contribute to the cultivation of land and construction of the actual Condomes properties. We’re asking a small sum—$750,000.”
I stared at the painting, jaw agape.
It took a moment to collect my thoughts. Finally, I said, “It’s…wondrous. Isn’t it, Renal?”
“It truly is,” Renal said, beaming at me.
“Feinstein, what do you think of this deal?”
“Where do I sign?” Herc asked, even though he had been staring at the blood-stained conference table the entire time.
I looked back at Jordache, who looked a bit eager.
“How should I pay for this?” I asked.
“Any way you want,” Jordache said.
I pulled my battered checkbook out of my back pocket and began scrawling it out.
Jordache continued, “Cash, any major credit card—”
“Who do I make the check out to?”
“No personal checks.”
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