Chapter 1
“They’re going to like you. Stop stressing,” Lynn said, tossing a piece of popcorn into her mouth without turning away from the latest episode of 24. Jack Bauer chased a terrorist across the screen. “Can we talk about it at the commercial?” She asked.
“I guess.” Her parents were coming to town Friday from Tucson. Her lackluster encouragement did little to lower my anxiety about meeting them for the first time.
“It’ll go better than you think,” she added.
“Uh-huh.”
Lynn muted the TV when a Kroger commercial blared onto the screen and turned to face me from the opposite end of the couch. “Relax. There’s nothing to worry about. Really.”
“Good. That’s good. Convincing. I feel much better now,” I said. “Stick to teaching third-graders. You’d be lousy selling used cars.”
“No, seriously. My parents will like you because I like you.”
“Even better. What you’re saying is my charming personality and wit aren’t enough.”
Breathy giggles set Lynn’s chestnut locks high-stepping on her forehead.
“I guess I do have one concern,” she said, “related to having just met your mom for the first time.”
“And?”
She tilted her head upwards as if completing a mental analysis. “They do say the nut doesn’t fall far from the tree.” She stared at me with one of those raised-eyebrow, pinched-lips looks. “After she told me the joke about why Jewish women have crow’s feet—having just met me—and considering shared DNA, there’s no telling what gems might come out of your mouth.”
“Good point.” I snickered, remembering our weekend in Dallas the month before—her first Ida Kagan encounter, better known as The Interview. Lynn had endured Mom’s bawdy Jewish humor and her is-she-good-enough-for-my-son inquiry.
“Trust me, they can handle your humor. Mom and Dad do know some Jewish people. And, a Jewish family lived two houses down from where I grew up in Delaware.”
“Hmm, not encouraging, babe. That’s like saying, ‘A family of cannibals lived on our block. While they didn’t bother anyone, every time they grilled in their backyard we wondered if one of the neighbors had misguidedly dropped by for dinner.’”
“Stop it. I was just suggesting they can handle your Jewish humor. You might want to edit your jokes, though.”
“I can do that.”
Hesitant to reveal my real reason for stressing about her parents’ visit—a lifelong demon named Rejection—I looked at the TV hoping Jack was back at it and we could end the conversation. Nope, just a commercial featuring a herd of black and white Holsteins lumbering by—Purity Dairy logos painted on their sides—and shamelessly promoting milk.
“You’re always so engaging, Brian. Mom will think you’re charming. And Dad will keep you busy answering a multitude of questions about your marketing and branding business. When I told him what you do, he asked me, ‘Is that a real business? How can you make a living just giving marketing advice?’”
“I’ve been trying to answer those questions for over thirty years.”
“Enough with the jokes. Remember, he started as a chemist for DuPont and then director of international business for the greater part of his career. Dad’s very linear.”
“I hear you. I’m just a little nervous. I don’t feel self-assured as when I was twenty-one and met my first wife’s mother. There I was at Oklahoma University writing sappy poetry and feeling cocky. She liked me a lot until I left her daughter for another woman after two years of marriage. She called me a despicable human being. Or at twenty-eight when I met my second wife’s folks. I managed a glitzy fashion store for women in Oklahoma City, wore classy suits, and felt self-important. Her parents liked me, too, until I divorced their daughter after twenty-five years. Then they called me a monster.
“Okay, okay,” Lynn said. The sound of clock ticks on the TV had announced Jack’s return. She was done talking. I wasn’t.
“And then there’s post-9/11. My marketing business tanked, we lost our home, ended up divorcing, and dead broke. Then working with Christian missionaries in third-world countries.”
Lynn huffed and turned off the TV with the remote.
“And now I’m back in Nashville. Living with you. And your son. Plus, restarting my business during a recession. I don’t know; they might wonder if I’m able to hold down a job.”
“It’s 2006. That’s all behind you, Brian.”
“Nice try. But at fifty-seven, impression point values double.” Feigning Let’s Make A Deal’s Monty Hall, I added, “Thanks for playing. Jay, tell Lynn about her parting gifts.”
She didn’t buy it. “And as far as your living here, you needed a place to land after Minneapolis. We’re just good friends, for God’s sake.”
I grinned. “Friends with benefits.”
“It’s not like you’re asking for my hand,” she said. “Chill out. It’s just a visit.”
Conceding, my knotted shoulders untied. “Okay, okay. Let’s keep things light while they’re here. How about some kind of fun outing?”
“Definitely,” she said, then jack-in-the-boxed to attention. “Ooh, I just read that Steve Martin’s at the Ryman this weekend. Let’s see if we can get tickets.”
“Okay.”
She clicked the TV back on and the teaser for next week’s episode. “And by the way, you’re no Monty Hall.”
We met Lynn’s parents at the Nashville airport. After exchanging initial pleasantries—Bob and I shook hands, Ginnie and I hugged—we left. Lynn drove and swapped catch-ups with her parents in the back seat. I listened, waiting for a tactical moment to jump in.
“Are you hungry?” Lynn asked. “We can stop at Kroger and pick up anything you’d like me to have in the house.”
“Thanks, sweetie,” Lynn’s mom said, “but we’re good. The hotel will have whatever we need.”
Food, I thought. Perfect topic. “Lynn mentioned you both like Thai food. There’s a great place around the corner from Lynn’s house. How does that sound for dinner?”
“We love Asian food,” Bob said. “We can’t get authentic Thai in Tucson.”
Ginnie asked, “Lynn, do you think they have tom ka gai?”
“No,” Lynn replied. “But the pad Thai and panang are terrific.”
Here’s a chance to score points, I thought. “So, Bob, I understand you guys lived in Hong Kong for a number of years.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I guess you ate terrific Thai food there,” I said. “The real deal.”
Looking at Lynn, her eyes had shocked wide open and I heard suppressed chuckles from the rear. “Well, Brian,” Bob said, “the best Thai food we ate was actually in Bangkok. Thailand.”
“Right. Of course.” I flogged myself with a mental reprimand. Good one, moron.
Lynn to the rescue. “We’re planning a fun night out while you’re here.”
“That’s right,” I said. “We thought you might enjoy a live show.”
“Sounds like fun,” Lynn’s mom said. “What did you have in mind?”
Bob interjected. “Not that twangy country-western music, I hope.”
“Unless it’s Kenny Rogers,” Ginnie threw in. “He’s my all-time favorite.”
Oh yeah, it’s redemption time, I thought. “Yes, he is amazing. I worked with Kenny a few years back—branded two of his albums. Great guy.” I subdued a snarky grin.
“Bob and I would love to see him someday.”
“If he’s ever in Tucson or Phoenix, I’ll make sure you get tickets. I’m still tight with his management.” A completed pass to the 49ers Jerry Rice, I thought to myself—think John Madden on Monday Night Football.
“We’d really love that, wouldn’t we, Bob?”
“Yes.”
“I’m pretty sure I could even arrange for you to meet him after the show,” I added.
“That’s very kind of you,” Bob said. Smelling the endzone, I continued the internal color commentary. Rice is at the 30, 20, 10…he’s going to score. “Lynn tells me you’re in the branding business. I’ve never heard the term ‘branding’ used in conjunction with a record album or any other product.” Oh no. Rice is tackled at the 1 yard-line. He fumbles. Denver recovers at the 2 yard-line. Unbelievable!
“Yes, Lynn mentioned you might be interested in learning more about what I do.” An advance team of sweat assailants deployed from my armpits and down my side. “I look forward to our conversation,” adding in my head, about as much as inserting a hot poker up my…
“You two can talk about it over dinner one night,” Lynn said. Knowing Bob would continue grilling me, she shifted topics. “About the concert. We’re taking you to see Steve Martin. You know, the guy who starred in Father of the Bride.”
She turned and winked. I smiled and mouthed, “Thank you.”
“Oh, he’s very funny. Yes, we like him,” Ginnie said.
“The show’s tomorrow night at the Ryman Auditorium—where the Grand Ole Opry began. We’re stopping at Kroger to buy tickets.”
“Turn here, Lynn,” I blurted as we approached the shopping center turn-in. “Park here.”
“This far from the store? There are open spots right up front,” Lynn said.
“I know. Just extra caution for your new car. You can’t trust these crazy Nashville drivers, you know,” —a nimble gambit to get out of the car before Bob resumed his interrogation.
“Need some cash for the tickets?” Lynn asked.
“Nope. This one’s on me,” I said with one foot already on the asphalt. “I’ll be right back.”
The customer service desk at Kroger spread halfway across the length of the front windows. Having temporarily evaded Bob’s colonoscopy business probe, I needed time to prepare an explanation about the nuances of brand positioning. To an analytically-minded chemist—like RuPaul discussing fashion trends with Billy Graham.
I walked between a row of stanchions and stopped behind a man in front of the counter clutching a small, ticket-sized envelope in one hand and stuffing cash into his pocket with the other. As he walked past me toward the exit, the combo of scraggly beard, plaid shirt, and belly jellying over the top of low-slung jeans hinted at Lynyrd Skynyrd tickets.
I turned around, responding to what sounded like a command.
“Next.”
The guy behind the counter looked to be in his late thirties, of medium build, and about five-feet tall—his rigid in-your-face manner verified by a starched white shirt, garrote-tight red tie, and buttoned-up blue vest. A Kroger badge proclaimed “Darryl” and “Customer Service Manager” in black letters.
Darryl closed a six-inch thick, black three-ring binder in the center of the counter. Unopened, it looked like an overstuffed corned-beef sandwich on pumpernickel with wads of pale lettuce spilling out the sides. The spine’s label read, “Nashville Venue Seating Charts.” He looked up, jerked down the two vest tips, and stared through me with Hannibal Lecter eyes.
“Yes?”
“Hi. How are you today?” I asked.
“Yes?” The deadpan tone and disapproving glare hinted at his possible lack of people skills.
Hannibal needs a glass of chianti, I thought. “Okay then,” I said. “I’d like to buy four tickets to Steve Martin; tomorrow night at the Ryman.”
Darryl blinked once, reached over, and 180-ed the binder in front of me.
Inserting a finger between the plastic-encased pages, he flipped the book open, and said, “Here’s the Ryman chart.” Right to the page. Impressive. He remained stone-faced. “Tell me what section and I’ll check what’s available.”
“Thanks,” I said and leaned over to study the seating chart. Darryl interrupted, his words rife with impatience.
“I need the section,” he said.
Really? I thought. I just started looking. “Of course.” No response. Just dead eyes and stone face. “Lower orchestra,” I declared without looking up from the page, thinking he might go for the jugular because I hadn’t specified “center,” “left,” or “right.”
Darryl turned to the Ticketron monitor, clicked keyboard keys, and stared at the screen. I checked my watch. For God’s sake, I thought, I’ve been here ten minutes and still don’t have tickets.
“Any good seats left?”
Keys clicking away.
Time clicking away.
My watch having crossed the eleven-minute mark, I looked past Darryl to Lynn’s Subaru in the distance. I had to get this done before Lynn came looking for me. Or even worse, Inspector Bob. My already smoldering anxiety flared—picture the family cookout chef who, when agitated from everyone whining about how long it is taking, drenches the sluggard coals with Kingsford lighter fluid.
Thinking I could peek at the angled screen without antagonizing Darryl, I planted my hands on the counter and slunk closer. The thumb of my right hand tapped the glass surface like a neurotic woodpecker.
“Don’t do that,” he growled.
The thumb super-glued itself to the counter. “Sorry. Just excited about seeing Steve Martin.”
Darryl spoke. “Four tickets, Center Right Orchestra, Row K, seats 14-17. $278.50.”
“Great!” I reached into my pocket for cash and caught the eye of a young woman behind me.
“Just another minute and he’s all yours,” I said wide-eyed; my expression adding, “You have no idea what you’re getting into.” The combined sounds of shoppers, carts wheels, and cash registers cackled their agreement.
“No problem,” she said, returning my smile.
Eager to finish and leave, I counted $156 in bills and thirty-six cents in coins.
“Darryl?”
He glowered.
“I’ve got about $150 in cash.” I pulled the checkbook from my back pocket and held it up. “I’ll just write a check to Kroger for $150 and give you the difference in cash.” I reached over for the pen resting on the counter. Darryl snatched it away and slipped it alongside two pens nestled in a white-vinyl pocket protector.
“You can’t do that. You can’t write a check for tickets.”
“No problem,” I replied. “I’ll just pay with a credit card,” I said, returning the checkbook and cash into my pocket. Before I could reach for my wallet, Darryl stood taller, grabbed the strawberry-colored tie between his thumb and forefinger, and throttled it against his throat.
“You can’t use a credit card for tickets.” He sneered and pointed to a four-by-six-inch sign propped against the far side of the monitor: Cash Only For Ticketron Tickets
You could have told me that in the first place, I thought and glanced down at my watch. As if screaming, “Danger, Will Robinson, danger,” I noted we had now crossed the fourteen-minute mark. My right leg started shaking. A replacement convoy of sweat troopers ambushed my forehead. I imagined Bob’s question coming from the back seat. “Is this normal? Do you think Brian might need some help in there?”
“No problem,” I said. I held up the checkbook from my pocket in one hand and the cash in the other. “I’ll just cash a check for $150 and combine it with the cash I have here.” I laid the cash and checkbook side-by-side on the counter and reached for the pen. Again. Darryl snatched the pen away. Again.
“You can’t do that,” he said and added what appeared as a snarky lip twitch—too quick, though, to be certain.
Dumbfounded, I flinched. “Why not?”
“Because you’d be using Kroger cash.”
I cocked my head just like Bentley—my dachshund—when I’d ask, “Wanna go for a ride?”
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“You can’t use Kroger dollars to buy tickets.”
“Okay, I get it. I’m on Candid Camera, right?” I did a slow three-sixty, exaggerating a search for the hidden camera while asking, “C’mon Darryl, where’s Allen Funt?”
Certain I had exposed his playful ruse, I expected high-fives and robust laughter. Instead, the man previously known as Darryl morphed into a Voldemortish monstrosity. Translucent ash-colored skin. Deep-seated apocalyptic eyes. If Death ever wanted his own statue displayed in Kroger, this was it.
Voldy glowered. “You can’t use Kroger cash for…”
I glanced at my watch. Sixteen. Over it, I cut him off. “Yeah, I get that. Soooo, explain the difference between my cash and what you refer to as Kroger cash.”
He staccato pointed at the cash on the counter. “You brought this cash into the store.” He turned and pointed at the cash register drawer. “This money is Kroger cash. Your cash is new money. We only take new money for ticket purchases.”
I’m going to kill this imbecile, I vowed, having concluded a guillotine was worth the gratification of leaping over the counter and choking the life out of him.
I turned to see if the woman behind me had overheard our asinine exchange. Four more people in line. No smiles. One foot tapper. Two arm crossers. Nineteen minutes in purgatory. Still no tickets. And Lynn’s parents by now asking, “Where the hell did you find this guy?” That’s when valor grabbed the scruff of my neck and let loose a barrage of face slaps, yelling, “Don’t let this Napoleonic lunatic stand between you and those tickets. Man up, Kagan.”
Having anticipated I would slink away from the counter defeated, Darryl motioned around me at the woman. “Next?”
“Not so fast,” I snapped with revived mettle. “I’m not done yet.”
Startled by the resolve in my voice, he glared back. “Yes?”
“Here’s the deal,” I leaned in closer. “I’m going to go buy a quart of milk and some Oreo cookies. At the checkout, I’m going to write a check for $150 over the amount. $200 over is the max, right?” With no intention of allowing his response, I scowled and continued. “Then I’m coming back to buy four tickets to the Steve Martin concert. With new cash.”
Darryl’s snake eyes darkened. “You can’t do that.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because the money from the cashier will be Kroger cash. You can’t mix cash.”
I let loose a deep guttural sound—one you might hear after kicking a bull in the oysters.
A sweat war raging all over my body, head pounding, and both thumbs drumming a Ginger Baker riff on the counter, I declared, “Oh, yeah. That’s just fine because I’m going to do the whole milk and cookies thing, leave the store, and drive around the parking lot three times. Then, I’m coming back and buying the frigging tickets; with Kagan cash.”
“I won’t let you do that,” Darryl replied, venom dripping from each syllable.
“You have to,” I crowed. “There’s no way you know where I drove, if I broke into my kids’ piggy banks, or how I replenished my cash.”
“I won’t let you do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you just told me your plans. I’ll be waiting for you.”
“Oh really.”
Ten minutes later, I arrived back at the car toting a grocery bag, placed it on the floor in front of me, and closed the door.
“Brian, are you okay?” Lynn asked. “You were in there for almost thirty minutes.
“Thirty-one to be exact,” I said. “I checked my watch the whole time while trying to buy the tickets from the psychopathic customer service manager.”
Bob chimed in. “We were ready to send in the cavalry.”
“They wouldn’t have helped.”
“Was it that bad?” Lynn pressed.
“Worse,” I replied.
“It’s over, forget it,” Lynn said and started the engine.
“Lynn’s right,” her mom said and squeezed my shoulder. “Let’s just enjoy the concert.”
“It’ll be great fun,” Lynn added. “Did you get good seats? And what’s in the bag?”
I sighed, grimaced, and said, “Well…”
Lynn’s parents returned home Sunday. On Monday morning, I was having coffee with a friend at Starbucks when he told me about his weekend.
“We saw Steve Martin at the Ryman on Saturday.”
“Oh?” I said.
“Oh my God, it was the funniest show ever. His stories and antics had the audience in hysterics.”
“Wow. That’s great.”
“How about you?” he asked.
“I tried to buy tickets while Lynn’s parents were visiting. It didn’t work out.” I swiped my hand as if batting away a fly. “That’s okay. We ate Oreos dipped in milk and laughed our way through Father of the Bride. Everything worked out just fine.”
On October 20th of the next year, Lynn and I married. Bob and Ginnie were delighted.
