Notoriety’s Curse

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People to Whom I Wish I’d Never Given My Business Card

By George Deukmejian  Jr.

The Artist
I met her in San Francisco at the corner of Carl and Cole.
    I’d come out of a restaurant to use my phone and there she was, waiting for the bus. She looked like one of my mother’s friends but with a fur that resembled a German Shepherd. I was intrigued. My wife watched through the restaurant window. I gave her a little wave. She scowled. Her mouth said, “No,” in slow motion.
    “Fine evening,” I said to the woman.
    “A lovely evening,” the woman said to me.
    “Where’re you headed?”
    “Home.”
    “What’s the rush?”
    She joined our party. We drank wine then went to a nightclub and maybe another. At the end of the evening, I called her a cab and waited with her.
    “You’re a real sweetheart,” I said to the woman.
     “And you’re a real gentleman,” she said to me.
    “If you’re ever in Sacramento and need anything at all, just give me a call. I mean it.” I gave her my card.
    “Deukmejian? Are you related to the former Governor?”
    “Indeed.”
    She lit up. “He was a fine man.”
    “But not much for dogs or casual dress.”
    “I voted for him.”
    “I’ve never met anyone who didn’t.”
    “I’m going to call you.”
    “Not good enough.”
    She giggled.
    “Why don’t you come out? I’ll take you to lunch. We’ll tour the Capitol. We’ll take a water taxi.”
    “I’d love that,” she said.
    The cab came and took her with it. The city lights twinkled. The stars were my companions. I bought a watch that just needed a battery from a guy who just needed a chance. When I found my wife, she said, “You didn’t give her your card, did you?”
    On Monday the woman called, asking for directions from the Greyhound depot.
    “You’re here already?” I said.
    “I was going to come tomorrow.”
    “Tomorrow’s not so good.”
    “How about Wednesday?”
    “I forgot you’re retired.”
    “I need to see the Governor.”
    “Oh?” I said.
    “I’ve got something to give him. A painting,” she said.
    “Really,” I said.
    “I’m an artist,” she said.
    “Neat,” I said.
    “I painted his portrait,” she said. “He’s wearing a tuxedo and riding Pegasus.”
    I blinked a few times and waited to see if the cuckoo would go back in its cabin.
    “I call it, ‘Arriving in Style,’ ” she said.
    “Listen, I’ve got a lot going on.”
    “I won’t be a bother,” she said.
    “I have appointments …”
    “I can type 20 words a minute.”
    “I have a deadline …”
    “I give a good massage.”
    “I’m going to go now.”
    “What about the water taxi?”
    “It’ll be a letdown after the winged horse.”
    “But you gave me your card.”

Magic Man
Denny did magic and sold real estate. That should have been enough, but he also liked archery, hot air balloons and the color yellow. “I’m a Renaissance man,” he said as we waited for our pizzas. He gave me his card. In the corner was a photo of Denny pulling a rabbit from a top hat.
    “I see you’re a notary, too.”
    “I like to keep busy.”
    He took out two lengths of rope.
    “So what do you do?” he asked.
    “I’m a consultant. I do a little writing on the side.”
    “A writer, eh?”
    “Not really.”
    “Here’s a trick.” He took a drink of his whiskey. “Can I get your card?”
    “Sure. What are you going to do, tear it in half then put it back together?”
    “No. I want the card to send you my screenplay. It’s about a real estate agent who sells haunted properties.”
    “I think they’re in my other wallet.”
    “He sells a sea cottage to a beautiful ghost.”
    “How does she pay?”
    “I haven’t worked that one out, but I’m thinking treasure. Here, write it on this,” he said, handing me a pen and cocktail napkin.
    He stuffed the two strands of rope into his fist. The third piece poked from his cuff.
    “Sala bim, sala bomb.” He clapped his hands. He dangled the long piece of rope.
    “That’s a great trick. For your encore, you ought to make a noose.”
    He took another sip of whiskey then looked at me squarely.
    “Do you know the difference between a blimp and a dirigible?”
    I didn’t hear from him for a whole 24 hours. Then I got a call from my friend who owned the pizza place.
    “Your pal Denny’s down here.”
    “I hardly know the guy.”
    “He’s had a few drinks and I don’t want him driving.”
    “Why don’t you call him a cab?”
    “He gave me your number, on a cocktail napkin, no less. Really, George, you ought to be more selective.”
    “That’s what my wife says.”
    I lived nearby and walked over. When I got there, Denny was sitting at the bar shuffling a deck of cards.    There were two empty stools on either side of him. He was like the last piece on a checkerboard.
    “I hear you need a ride.”
    “Aw, that’s what she’s saying.”
    “Well, it’s her joint.”
    After a little persuading, he settled his tab and gave me his keys. Then we went to get his car from the lot.
    “Bertolotto invented the flea circus,” he said as we walked out the back door.
    “Are you sure?”
    “What do you mean, ‘Am I sure’?”
    “I mean, who keeps track of that kind of stuff?”
    “Scholars,” he slurred.
    Parking was tight. There were four columns and the spaces were close. I adjusted the seat. I put on my belt. I adjusted the mirrors. I pulled slowly from the spot. Then there was the unpleasant sound of costly damage.“Ow!” Denny shrieked as though it were his hand and not the passenger’s panel that had scraped against the column.
    “Oh man, I’m sorry.”
    He shoved against the door that was stuck.
    “Lemme out!”
    “You better let me pull up.”
    “NO!”
    “Here, just a second,” I said. I pulled forward. The side mirror fell off. He got out of the car. He grabbed his hair. He pulled at his shirt.
    “Look,” I said. “I’ll pay the deductible on your insurance.”
    “Insurance?”
    After I had paid to repair his vehicle, he called once to invite me for a pizza.

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