Sammy gave me a call yesterday afternoon that Boyce would probably be on his way to the Sleep Center, and he probably wasn’t going to be very happy. I knew Boyce would be on his way to my work, but I had no idea why he wouldn’t be happy. Sammy told me that when Boyce got to his “commercial lock repair” call that morning and found out it was the Arby’s that Sammy works at, he was none too pleased. Sammy was waiting for him at the back door holding the dead bolt in his hand that he had dismantled an hour earlier and then threw at the side of the dumpster several times. “Oh, sir, glad you’re here. I think there’s something wrong with the lock,” and then Sammy let all the pieces fall out of his hand. Ever the consummate professional, Boyce replaced the dead bolt on Arby’s back door, though all the while informing Sammy that one extra call wasn’t going to let him keep his job, and might get Sammy fired from his.
That same morning I had gone behind the Sleep Center and unscrewed the deadbolt. I didn’t know what to do with it so I heaved it back into the forest where the nesting boxes are for the Eastern Screech Owls. I called Boyce’s company and tried to play it casual, asking for, “Your best man. Perhaps that excellent locksmith, Boil Limpderder.” The secretary asked if I meant Boyce Lancaster. I wasn’t sure how I should play it, so I said, “Hm, could be. And yet I’m fairly certain his name is Boil Limpderder.” The secretary said there was no one by that name at the company, nor any one on this planet by that name. So I said, “That was my dead brother’s name!”, and hung up the phone. I had to wait a few minutes before I called back. Luckily someone else answered the phone and I asked for a Boyce Lancaster to come out to fix the Sleep Center’s lock.
When Boyce got to the Sleep Center he told me how stupid my plan was, for no other reason then if Rex Tugwell sees him, he could put two and two together. Besides, he informed me that he didn’t have the size of dead bolt that would fit in the door. That meant the two of us had to go into the forest and look for the dead bolt I heaved out there. We never found it, and we had to run out to Home Depot really quick in order to buy a right-sized lock.
While Boyce installed the dead bolt into the back door of the Sleep Center, he asked me if I’d like to go gambling with him at one of the Indian reservation casinos. I understood what Boyce was hinting at and told him that Sammy and I both would contribute seed money. I asked him if he was going to keep gambling one of his last paychecks a secret from Charlotte, but he said it was her idea.
Just as Boyce was finishing the lock Rex Tugwell came around the side. He stared at what was happening, and then got a big, mischievous smile. When he approached us, though, he shook Boyce’s hand and they talked for a couple minutes about drills and motorcycles. When Rex left us he looked at me and said, “I’m going to shoot some extra doves for this one,” and I told him that’s fine. This is Boyce we’re talking about.
When we all got together in the evening for dinner, we began to discuss what our dream jobs were. We’ve had the discussion before, and Sammy’s answer changes every time. Yesterday his dream job was to be one of those divers who goes into rivers and lakes looking for dead bodies or murder weapons. He said there’s probably no pressure to actually find anything, “Because, my god, look at the size of that lake!” Plus it’s dark under there and that could some lead to some really trippy experiences. And if you do find the body or the weapon, all of your colleagues would be incredibly impressed. You’d have some drinks while you watched the local news about how the cops caught the bad guy, and then you’d all raise your glass and give knowing looks about who really solved the case.
Boyce said he would be a hay farmer. Boyce always chooses hay farmer.
I said I was perfectly content with my job, but I wish I could be a security guard somewhere. Except the place I was securing would have to be dangerous enough to need three guards—a spot for Sammy and Boyce, of course—but not so dangerous that I’d actually have to do anything. I’d just stand outside the door and sometimes people would stop by in their cars and say, “Do you know where Hartwell Street is?” And I’d tell them and they’d say thank you, then I’d go home and pick the kids up in my arms, and Rachel would tell me dinner was almost ready. Chicken breast, again? My god, how about some variety? (In my fantasies I generally sew small seeds of discontent so that later during dinner, having sensed my reticence, Rachel will ask me what's wrong. I then sigh and explain how it's nothing she did. I tell her, "It's funny. I never thought I'd take you for granted, but I think sometimes I do." Then I look at her and it all comes back to me, how I was before her and how I was without her and how I am with her now on this endless tape loop of realized dreams, and I say the chicken is delicious, and I love her, and she pats my hand and gives our son a little piece of green bean on his high chair tray.)
Whenever this question of dream job came up with Rachel she always said she was perfectly content being a receptionist. She said she wouldn’t want a job that would make her spend even two seconds in worry or thought. “You know what a job is for?” she would say, “To make me enough money so I can do things that matter.” Sometimes, if she said that around one of her girfriends who was in business or something, she would hear, “Don’t you want to do something you love?” Rachel would say that’s something guidance counselors invented to make kids not kill themselves when they realized how many years of their lives would be spent working for people who weren't their family or friends.
Charlotte didn’t say what her dream job was, and it’s probably for the best since it might have made Boyce feel bad. I know what it is, though. She wants to write songs. She doesn’t want to perform them, she just wants to write them. One day when she’s long dead Boyce Jr. is going to tear open some floor board and find an entire evolution in music in old old shoebox.
After dinner we discussed going out to the casino this weekend. Boyce is a terrible gambler, and I told him I'd do all the leg work for him. The house always has the odds, but that doesn't mean the house always gets to win. Boyce told me he'd pick me up in the morning for a ride-along. I asked where we were going, and he said he wanted to ask me the same thing.
