Читать книгу Elevating Overman - Bruce Ferber - Страница 12

To Overman, everything in life was a negotiation. In his dealings with women, the grueling battle of give and take was a foregone conclusion, cruelly validated by the indelible scars left in its wake. At the office, there was the ever-nagging question of whether the size of the paycheck justified the level of abuse. When purchasing a car, it was the time-honored test of wills between buyer and salesman, the exhaustive parrying back and forth that ultimately left both parties spent and irritable. If negotiation was indeed such an integral part of the human experience, why then, Overman concluded, should it be any different with eye surgery?

The Lasik coupon he found in the Pennysaver advertised “FDA approved, Life-Changing Vision Correction” for $299 per eye, which immediately told Overman he could close the deal for $500 out the door. But now here he was, seated across from Dr. David Gonzales of the Clearview Vision Center listening to a quote of $1999 for the pair including a five-year extended warranty. The doctor seemed enthusiastic about slicing open Overman’s corneas, cheerfully adding that the fees could be paid in monthly installments with absolutely no money down.

Overman shook his head. “If it says $299, how can you charge me a thousand dollars each?”

Dr. Gonzales nodded sympathetically, eager to clarify. “Ira, I really don’t think you’d be happy with a $299 eye.”

Overman pondered the meaning of this remark, wondering if there was any sort of lemon law that applied to this procedure, and if so, how that would work. It was also conceivable that the warning had been issued because Dr. Gonzales himself, with his thick, coke bottle lenses, had opted for the bargain basement Pennysaver deal and wound up paying dearly. Apparently this was not the case. The doctor went on to explain that his astigmatism, paired with a family history of glaucoma, made him a poor candidate for Lasik surgery. The $2000 treatment, he continued, bought one the identical surgery but with the peace of mind that any complications would be fully covered for five years.

Overman smiled and said he understood perfectly. He took his wallet out of his back pocket, removed a wad of cash and slapped it on the doctor’s desk.

“I’m a gambler. I’ll take the best you can give me for $450.”

Fifty bucks later, Overman and Dr. Gonzales shook hands and agreed on the terms. Two eyes Lasiked, one hundred dollars below the advertised Pennysaver price, no extended warranty. A Pyrrhic victory perhaps, if he went blind. But those were the wages of fear, paranoia and decades of perceived victimhood.

Overman hadn’t always been a miserable soul. Misery had slowly attached itself to him barnacle upon barnacle, culminating in the formation of a sublimely dysfunctional individual. As he walked over to the microwave to nuke his Healthy Choice Fettuccine Alfredo with Bacon, he imagined himself a modern-day Ratso Rizzo, drifting further away from reality while trapped in a dwelling fit for squatters. If only he could be more like Ratso, he thought, who somehow managed to look at the glass, no matter how filthy, as half-full.

The dinging of the oven signaled him to remove the paper tray and plunk it down on the dinette table, no plates necessary. That was his wife’s thing. The perfect place settings, the recipes out of Bon Appetit, the remodeled kitchen with its requisite Holy Grail, the Granite Counter. What was it about granite that made it an object of worship among the upwardly mobile? And what was it about kitchens? Back when he was married, it occurred to Overman that most of the people he knew with fancy kitchens went out to eat all the time. Then they would take their friends back to the house to show off their gourmet kitchens.

Divorced Overman deals with food as fuel, not fetish. He shovels it in, the fettuccine sweet and congealed, the bacon limp and chewy. And yet, a healthy choice. All things considered, it is a moment of triumph. For the first time since toddlerhood, Overman is consuming a meal without wearing glasses. He had often noted that while people don’t need eyeglasses to eat, they rarely act on that option. Oddly enough, they instinctively put on glasses when they’re not hearing well, even when lip reading doesn’t enter into the equation. The glasses become the thing one reaches for when searching for comfort. While Overman could never picture himself finding comfort in anything, he suddenly felt the urge to look around. Just because he had always been terrified of the unknown didn’t mean he had to stay that way. The known was so mediocre and shitty, what did he have to lose?

In truth, the eyeglasses obscured Overman’s growing collection of wrinkles and crow’s feet, and the absence of spectacles actually made him look older than his pre-Lasiked self. But the surgery was less about vanity than a desire to shed unnecessary weight in his life, even if it was only that which rested on his nose. As he scarfed down the gluey noodles, Overman couldn’t help but notice that his newly unencumbered pupils not only saw better, but saw differently. While his peripheral vision had understandably improved, so, surprisingly, had his awareness. Every disgusting nook and cranny of the apartment now looked like it was being presented in IMAX 3-D. The startling images beckoned him to focus on them with a yogi-like acuity. The mildewed carpet had far more texture than he had previously thought. The hole he had kicked in the drywall exposed curiously gray fiberglass insulation that had gone unnoticed for years. The “mid-century” cottage cheese ceilings were cheesier, richer, undoubtedly masking a history of secrets Overman dared not contemplate.

It was a strange sensation. As he continued to process visual stimuli, he recalled the advertisement’s claim that the surgery would be “life-changing.” Had the $500 eyes purchased from Dr. David Gonzales of the Clearview Vision Center altered his relationship to the world around him? Cleaning up the table and going off to brush his teeth, he considered this far-fetched possibility. He faced himself in the bathroom mirror and saw more wrinkles, but no sign of any change afoot. Still, as Overman climbed into bed and got under the covers, he felt that something was brewing. Yes, his world was a narrow and petty one, but his sense was that it was about to become narrow and petty in bold new ways.

The alarm clock blasts Overman out of his dream. In it, he is being ripped off by the contractor who is re-modeling the house he will eventually lose in the divorce. Flawlessly mimicking real life, his soon-to-be ex-wife seems to have no problem with a forty-two thousand dollar bathroom fixtures charge, and to top it off, is winking conspiratorially at the contractor. Overman is ready to threaten a lawsuit when he realizes he’s semi-conscious and due at work in forty-five minutes. He leaps out of bed, grabbing from his closet the standard-issue cotton blend white shirt, permanent press slacks and synthetic tie that have long been the couture de rigueur of his current profession. He accessorizes the look with a personal touch, Elevator shoes purchased online to prop up his sagging 5 foot 6 inch frame. Whatever embarrassment Overman already felt about his diminutive stature was formalized the day he received his lifted loafers in plain brown packaging, sent that way to hide its contents from snickering mailmen or inquiring neighbors. The stealthy nature of the delivery clearly branded him as a lowlife, indulging in some sort of abhorrent, illegal foot porn.

In a matter of moments, Overman is in and out of the shower and racing downstairs to the subterranean parking garage that houses his “E” Class Mercedes sedan. As he waits for the rusty security gate to open, he marvels how his is far from the nicest car parked here. How can people live in such a shitty apartment building and drive $100,000 automobiles? Auto leasing knew a good thing when it met Los Angeles.

The drive from old-school mid-Wilshire to Nouveau McMansion-happy Calabasas could take anywhere from a half-hour to three times that depending upon traffic. Today Overman was cruising comfortably, having successfully erased from his consciousness the sales meeting that would occupy most of the morning. How many more ways could his boss continue to sell German cars to Jews? To be fair, it wasn’t just Jews. All manner of conspicuous consumers descended upon Calabasas, that proud Southern California bastion of white flight. But the fact that Overman was an intrinsically guilty Jew made him feel extra guilty each time he sold a Mercedes Benz to one of the tribe. The congregants of Temple Alhashem were undoubtedly his best customers; a living testament to the amount of energy Overman expended diverting them from the BMW dealer down the street.

Mostly he just hated his job. How did a once young man with such promise become a middle-aged hawker of zero down financing? After graduating from Columbia with honors, he had worked as an entertainment executive for the studios, segueing into positions with various management firms and talent agencies on both coasts, garnering ever more generous stock option grants and lavish expense accounts. Now he struggles to keep his eyes open as self-important gasbag Hal Steinbaum enumerates the latest sales incentives being offered by Steinbaum Mercedes of Calabasas. “We’ll pay off your trade, no questions asked!” “Complimentary maintenance for 36 months!” “Free, All-You-Can-Eat Sunday Barbecue, with 16 oz. Stein-baums of beer!”

The fledgling sales guys, or Green Peas as they are known in the trade, seem to get off on these depressing pep rallies, filing out of the conference room with renewed determination and amped-up testosterone. Overman feigns his usual smile and pads back to his corner desk, away from the hubbub. He will pick up the phone and good-naturedly badger the couple who looked at the CLK convertible last Saturday, review his list of customers with leases about to expire, make a few cold calls from the leads handed out at last week’s meeting.

Overman looks up from his desk to see Douchebag-of-the-Month Rick Crandall flirting with Maricela, the receptionist with the insanely round ass. Crandall is a white trash middle-aged lifer with a tired wife and two ADHD kids. Maricela, a hard-partying and even harder-bodied twenty-six year-old, is best known for the ornate and provocative “tramp stamp” tattooed above her coveted rear bumper. She has a steady boyfriend, but is also aware of her power over all things male. On the surface she may be a lowly receptionist, but for all intents and purposes Maricela runs the dealership. It is common knowledge that Hal Steinbaum himself begged her to accompany him to Cancun one weekend when his wife was out of town. And that when Maricela turned him down, she somehow wound up with a raise rather than a pink slip. The unspoken truth is that every guy on this lot is her bitch. Maricela is at all times the model of grace and composure as she cheerfully answers the phone: “It’s a beautiful day at Steinbaum Mercedes.”

When has it ever been a beautiful day at this shithole? Overman asks himself. On the other hand, how could you blame the messenger? The poor girl didn’t make up that greeting, she was instructed to recite it by some dopey middle manager without a creative bone in his body. Overman has nothing against Maricela. She has always treated him kindly, although, to his chagrin, like some benign grandfatherly eunuch. Conversely, he has been nothing but polite and gracious, which could not be said for the rest of the esteemed sales force. Overman admired her assets as much as the next guy: he just had enough class not to drool all over the showroom floor. At least that’s what he told himself. In truth, the respectful distance he kept was rooted in a lifelong fear of rejection and being exposed for the lonely, horny train wreck he had honed to perfection.

Overman studies Maricela as she works the phones. She has an effortless, inviting smile, chatting with the ease of someone who has yet to experience despair, know anybody with cancer, or even gain a few extra pounds. He thinks about getting to work, but instead contemplates for the gazillionth time whether or not she’s fucked Rick Crandall or anyone else at the dealership. How could she say no to the boss and then bang one of his puerile protégés? Then again, she’s the one in control of the company pheromones. She can do whatever she wants. For all Overman knew, she was blowing Gene Cantalupo in Pre-Owned, who fucked his way through Nissan of Rancho Cucamonga. Picturing the two of them together made him want to throw up.

He tries to get to work, but an Einsteinian equation, profound yet elegant in its simplicity, invades his already cluttered brain. Based on the massive amount of fantasizing, plotting and planning at Steinbaum Mercedes, one of these degenerates had surely banged or would bang the exquisite Maricela.

Overman manages to regroup, and is about to dial a number when he hears Maricela laugh from across the room. As he stops to savor this primal, unrestrained thing of beauty, he sees that she’s looked up and caught him staring. He feels himself starting to blush, but Maricela doesn’t chuckle or grimace or avoid his gaze. She gamely stares back, openly and without judgment. Overman keeps looking at her. Maricela doesn’t blink. Should he turn away? He tries, but he can’t. Overman is focusing with an unconscious intensity, a wild current coursing through his veins. He feels his body start to convulse, his blood pressure rising like the price of bathroom fixtures in his dream. Fearing a seizure or worse yet, a spontaneous public ejaculation, Overman manages to get up and stumble toward the water fountain. He bends down and lets the cold stream splash all over his face, now drenched in sweat. The sleeve of his poly-cotton shirt comes in handy, a surprisingly quick drying agent. Overman takes two deep breaths and starts to regain his composure when he feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns to find himself face to face with the magnificently sweet-smelling Maricela; her bare midriff only inches away.

“Excuse me, Mr. Overman.”

“Please. Ira,” he managed, his pulse racing.

“Ira,” her lips formed the two simple syllables of his name in a way that really did make it a beautiful day at Steinbaum Mercedes. “I don’t know what it is, but something about you seems… different.”

I’ve been the same asshole my whole life, he thinks to himself. Then he remembers that there has, in fact, been a change. “No glasses,” Overman informs her, pointing to his naked face. “I had Lasik.”

The young woman can’t take her eyes off him. “I... I don’t know why but when you looked at me just now, something happened.”

“No kidding?” Overman asks lamely, an impressively speedy erection in the making.

Maricela nods her head. “Even though I’ve seen you like a gajillion times before, I felt like I really saw you for the first time. And you really saw me.”

Nothing new about the latter, Overman thinks to himself. He’s studied every inch of this girl in the office and reviewed his findings in the shower for as long as he can remember.

“Does that sound stupid to you?” she asks adorably.

“Not stupid at all.” Overman has no clue what she’s talking about. At the same time, he’s smart enough to recognize that he’s scoring points and must get them on the board while the getting is good. He tries to think of something insightful to say, but draws a complete blank. As he wonders how any man could be this pathetic, Hal Steinbaum appears out of nowhere and grabs Maricela by the arm, dropping a roll of Mentos on the floor in the process.

“Just the girl I want to see. I got a laydown who’s about to get reamed for two g’s over sticker. Come in my office and watch how it’s done.”

Maricela follows him, her eyes not wavering from Overman as she goes.

What just happened? Overman wondered. It was as if he had telepathically communicated his needs and desires to this young woman and she now wished to respond in kind. But why would a smoking hot twenty-six year-old be interested in a poorly preserved middle-aged relic? Maybe it was a nasty joke set up by one of the Green Peas. Then again, maybe it wasn’t. What if the Lasik surgery really did make him handsome and desirable? Overman checked his reflection in the showroom window and quickly nixed that theory. Still, on the off chance that this beautiful girl was trying to make a connection, it would be a ray of sunshine in a life that had thus far wallowed in every conceivable shade of gray. While highly unlikely, for now he would allow himself to bask in the possibility that things could get better. Maybe he wouldn’t have to spend the rest of his days feeling like some stray dog at the pound, marking time before his incineration.

It turns out to be a productive afternoon. With Maricela busy at her station, Overman uses his newfound energy to sell a fully loaded S-class, lease a CL, and have a relatively cringe-free telephone conversation with his ex-wife. The erstwhile Nancy Overman had been happily re-married to internist Dr. Stan Belzberg for thirteen years, which she felt compelled to bring up nearly every time they spoke. Today they needed to go over the details of their daughter Ashley’s high school graduation party, which would of course be held at the Recurring Nightmare House. The one he never got to live in because by the time it was built, he had already lost it in the settlement. But today none of that mattered. Overman offered to buy centerpieces for the tables and assist in whatever way he could. Nancy was taken aback, wondering aloud if Overman had finally found a mind-altering medication that worked. If so, her husband could surely get him free samples of whatever SSRI he was taking.

“The pharmaceutical companies love Stan,” she crowed.

Why should they be any different from the medical supply outlets, the blood work technicians and everyone else to whom Stan had ever said two words? Overman thanked Nancy for the offer, but told her he didn’t need any pills.

Relieved to be finished with this conversation, the car salesman shoves the phone back in its cradle and looks up to see Maricela waving at him as her boyfriend enters to take her out. Overman is momentarily crestfallen but quickly recovers, seeing this as a positive. After all, to be crestfallen one first has to have reached some manner of crest, a feat he had inarguably accomplished. He waves back, Maricela smiles, and Overman feels certain that his life has somehow changed overnight.

He picks up the phone and dials Jake Rosenfarb to see if he wants to hit some tennis balls. Maybe lovely Rita, the Rosenfarb better half, who trades her husband blowjobs for jewelry, will let him out tonight. He’s been kicking Overman’s ass for months, but tonight the Mercedes salesman extraordinaire is firing on all cylinders, recharged by his blossoming relationship with the receptionist. He will even spring for the post-victory beer and sandwiches so he can tell Rosenfarb about the portending revelatory moment with Maricela.

Rosenfarb answers his cell phone. “Yello?”

Why do people say “Yello?” Overman wonders.

Rosenfarb is out in the field, installing electric blinds in some yenta’s pool house. He’s had his own window treatment business for twenty-four years and loves to boast about being his own boss. Overman knows the real story: his clients treat him like shit and after that, he goes home to get abused by Rita.

Rosenfarb says he wants to play. Rita has her book group tonight and it is imperative that he gets out of the house. It’s either that or listen to twelve Botox survivors in a gated community discuss Oprah’s latest selection, something about women suffering in Afghanistan. They agree to meet at the courts at 7. Overman surmises that even though Rosenfarb might lose, it will still be more enjoyable for him than listening to that phony whining about the injustice of wearing burqas. Who are they kidding? If Prada designed them, the entire book group would snap them up.

Overman gets onto Valley Circle and sees the 101 choked with traffic in his direction. It has been such a refreshing, renewing day up until now. If only there were an alternate route. But there really is no other way to travel from the West Valley to mid-Wilshire. He creeps down the ramp and onto the freeway. Overman moves a lane to the left, hoping that as he gets into the flow of traffic, sluggish though it may be, he will be able to relax and reflect on the positive events of the day.

Almost immediately he is behind an anxious eighty year-old of indeterminate gender and being tailgated by some yahoo in a Roto Rooter van. He crosses one lane to the left and gets honked at by a teenager whose text messaging he has rudely interrupted. For no apparent reason, the guy in the left lane driving the Ford F-150 gives him the finger. Now he’s behind a meatpacking truck and a cloud of diesel exhaust. It is putting a serious crimp in his evening. All cars come to a standstill. Overman wishes he could have his own HOV lane that would whisk him home. It would give him the space to breathe in his recent good fortune and imagine more positives in the Overman future. His eyes close for a split second, mid-reverie. When he re-opens them, traffic appears to be easing up.

The meat truck in front of Overman moves to the right lane. The tour bus ahead of the truck goes left. The Taurus just beyond the tour bus inches to the right. The Corolla in front of the Taurus moves left. Overman starts to pick up speed. He’s cruising. It’s turning out to be a decent drive home after all, Overman regaining the indescribable feeling he had at work. Why shouldn’t he feel good? He wouldn’t be the first person on earth to turn around his life and change for the better. There were countless stories about gang leaders and career criminals, who, against all odds, became productive members of society, achieving professional and personal goals they had never dreamed possible. Even at a beaten down fifty-five, Overman believed he still had a shot.

A mile or two later, the car salesman realizes that the traffic jam is still very much on: it’s just his lane that is clearing out. One by one, each car gets out of the way for his Mercedes and he is breezing his way home. The notion of a beautiful twenty-six year-old being interested in him was one thing, but parting the 101 like some low-rent Moses? Rosenfarb will never believe this. He didn’t believe it himself. Otherworldly phenomena were for psychics and movie franchises, not bottom-feeding car salesmen. More likely, this was one of those positive state-of-mind deals where a person is able to block out the annoying stuff, turning negative encounters, e.g. traffic jams, into the illusion of pleasurable ones like lanes clearing. Yet the notion of positive thinking was as foreign to Overman as Kabbalah or Voodoo. He felt at once exhilarated and nauseous. The unknown was navigable, but now that it had morphed into the bizarre and unexplainable, he was no longer on such firm footing.

As Overman arrives home and pulls into his parking space, he realizes he is hyperventilating. He has never before experienced anything supernatural, spiritual or lucky. Religion left him cold. To Overman, clinging to ancient beliefs was a tasteless cocktail of quaintness and science fiction. Naturally, he had heard over and over again about his “bad karma,” which he had surely earned from the poor life choices that flowed out of him like water. But as Overman had observed, existence for most people was, by necessity, secular and mundane. The bulk of it was spent going to work, paying bills and trying to keep the kids away from STDs and crack pipes. If God spoke to humankind in dreams, visions, or via the burning bush, and there were revelations to be had, he had never seen evidence of it.

He stumbles out of the car, now enervated from his startling brush with the fantastic. Apparently the unexplainable could be quite exhausting. It dawns on him that if he can’t get his energy back, Rosenfarb will kick his ass as usual. Perhaps then things would go back to normal. The receptionist would forget him, he’d have to wait in traffic like everybody else and Ira Ethan Overman would resume his uneventful march toward death. He was deeply conflicted, excited by these strange new developments, yet spooked as to why they were happening to him of all people.

Decked out in color-coordinated Nike tenniswear, Rosenfarb was working his hamstrings as Overman sauntered up to the court. The window man always liked to make a big show of how limber he was, then follow it up with the acid aside that Overman did not stretch enough. This never failed to rile the nerves and send Overman into an early tailspin, an important gambit because Rosenfarb hated to lose. Who could blame him, really? After a day of client and spousal battery, what could be worse than being defeated by an out-of-shape car salesman whose entire being reeked of defeat? Rosenfarb would drop maybe a few sets a year, but they always played two out of three, and only once in the last seven years did Overman win a match. Now Jake was hopping up and down like one of those ingénue Sharapova types. In a few moments he’d be grunting ecstatically with every stroke. He looked like a dope but felt like a champion. Overman shook his hand and took his racquet out of his bag.

“Aren’t you going to stretch?” Rosenfarb asked, by now a parody of himself.

“I stretched at home,” Overman lied, fooling no one.

They began their usual warm-up, half-volleying at the service line. Rosenfarb recounted his day, not bothering to ask whether Overman wanted to hear about it.

“Hunter-Douglas didn’t have the Duettes ready, but I look like the schmuck.”

You only look like the schmuck if you are the schmuck, Irma Overman used to say. It certainly seemed true in the case of Rosenfarb. Wait till I tell him about my day, Overman thought, deciding it would probably be best to save his Maricela bombshell for later.

They move back to the baseline, warming up groundstrokes and taking serves. Rosenfarb hops around again, preening like a moron. He spins his racquet, Overman calls “up” and like clockwork, the “W” on the grip faces down. Rosenfarb elects to serve, swaggering back to the baseline like the cock of the walk.

Rosenfarb’s serve is much like everything else in his distorted worldview. He thinks of it as a gorgeous, searing weapon when it is, in fact, a pedestrian stroke that meanders over the net. When Overman effortlessly returns the serve, Rosenfarb counters with an unspectacular shot back, Overman tries to put it away, Rosenfarb hits another mediocre shot, then Overman hits it out or into the net. More often than not, such is the pattern. Consumed by boredom, Overman succumbs to Rosenfarb’s tedious style of play and makes an unforced error. Meanwhile, Rosenfarb feels like Roger Federer. It is beyond annoying, but literally the only game in town, because Overman doesn’t have anyone else who wants to play with him.

“These go,” Rosenfarb announces, holding up the ball. “Have fun.”

Like he ever wanted Overman to enjoy himself. Like Overman ever knew how.

Rosenfarb tosses the ball in the air and hits a decent serve to Overman’s famously weak backhand. Overman focuses on the ball and drives it back to Rosenfarb. Rosenfarb steps around his backhand and hits a pussy forehand. Overman steps around that and blasts an inside out forehand down the line.

“Love-15,” Rosenfarb calls out, proceeding to serve to the ad side.

Again to the backhand, Overman drills it back to Rosenfarb’s feet, leaving him helpless.

“Love-30,” says Rosenfarb, starting to get annoyed.

He double faults and it’s Love-40. The window man serves and volleys, Overman easily lobs it over his head and wins the game.

And on it goes. Overman scores every point and wins 6-0, 6-0. Rosenfarb insists on a third set, and once again loses every point. Three golden sets, as they are known, but rarely experienced in the world of tennis. Rosenfarb looks like he’s about to kill himself. An exhausted Overman manages to spit out a few words. “Imagine what the score would’ve been if I’d stretched.” Adding insult to injury wasn’t necessary: it just felt so good.

“I’ve never lost every point in a match,” Rosenfarb sputters in disbelief.

Even though the outcome was just desserts for this preening diva, the man had become so unraveled that Overman couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. There’s a reason this happened. It has nothing to do with you.”

Rosenfarb doesn’t know what to make of this. Is Overman saying he actually anticipated this lopsided victory? That overnight, he was somehow transformed from plodding, unathletic schlub to grand slam level player?

“This isn’t about tennis,” Overman says, trying to console him.

“Stop patronizing me, Ira,” Rosenfarb snorts.

“I’m not. Something has happened to me.”

“You’re making it worse. Just shut up.”

“Fine. I’ll meet you at Jerry’s, the one across from Cedar’s.

Jerry’s was the deli, Cedar’s Sinai the hospital, both overpriced as far as Overman was concerned. Thank God he didn’t have any more children being born and only had to deal with fifteen-dollar pastrami sandwiches. Rosenfarb ate light anyway, always pretending to be on some ludicrous diet Rita heard about in her Pilates class.

Rosenfarb is already seated when Overman arrives. His face is ashen, a shocking contrast to the forced conviviality that had always been Rosenfarb’s stock-in-trade.

“You all right?” Overman asks.

The waitress, a young, lip-plumped Kim Basinger lookalike, comes over to take their order.

“No, I’m not all right, you prick,” Rosenfarb snaps. “What the fuck happened out there?”

The waitress offers to come back in a few minutes but Rosenfarb says he needs food and brusquely asks for the triple-decker corned beef and Swiss.

$18.75, Overman silently notes to himself. “I’ll have the blintzes.” He smiles at the waitress, patting his paunch. “Just what I need, huh?”

She scurries away, convinced that Rosenfarb is some kind of loose cannon.

“What the fuck, Ira? You’re too cheap to buy performance-enhancing drugs. I don’t get it.”

“I’m not on drugs,” Overman replies. “It’s hard to explain. I don’t fully understand it myself.”

“Do you know what my record is against you? 232-1.” Only Rosenfarb could hold on to a stat like this. “That’s matches. Maybe you’ve taken 10 sets off me since we’ve known each other.”

Overman explains that this unlikely result is part of something bigger. “I’m telling you, Jake. There’s been a change. I suddenly have this new focus, this new power, if you will.”

“You? Power?” Rosenfarb scoffs. “Ira, you’ve been fired from practically every job you’ve ever had, your wife left you, your kids barely speak to you and you live in a place where plants grow out of the carpet. What kind of power could you have?”

“I won every point tonight, Jake.”

“I had a hard day at work. Don’t make it into more than it was.”

“Ever since my Lasik surgery—”

“Which I believe you had done at the 99 Cents Store,” Rosenfarb interrupts.

“— I’m able to make things happen. I think about something, I feel this rush through my whole body that saps me of all my energy, but then the thing I want to happen, happens.” Overman recounts his bonding with Maricela, followed by the parting of the 101 south on his drive home.

Rosenfarb finds all of it absurd, as implausible as Rita having sex just because she feels like it. “So what are you telling me? You had bargain basement eye surgery and now you have special powers?”

“I just feel like a different person.”

“From car salesman to magician,” Rosenfarb laughs. “Hey, you’ve got all this power, maybe you’re a superhero. Why take the freeway home when you could fly? You know, I’ve always suspected you were from another planet.”

What a supreme dick, Overman thinks, now glad he slaughtered the guy on the tennis court. He wished there were a way to shut this asshole up once and for all. An idea suddenly occurs to him. It would have seemed crazy yesterday, it might be crazy now, but it was worth a shot.

“Do you think I could get a date with our waitress?” Overman asks.

Rosenfarb sees the curvaceous Ersatz Kim Basinger approaching, bearing corned beef and blintzes.

“In what universe do you think that could be an option, Overman?”

Overman doesn’t dignify the remark with a response, choosing instead to focus on Kim as she rests the plates in front of them.

“Will there be anything else?” she asks.

“Spicy mustard for me. Anything for you?” Rosenfarb snickers at Overman.

“Nothing, thanks, it looks great,” Overman says, looking deep into her eyes. “Do we know each other from somewhere?”

“I don’t think so,” Kim smiles back. She starts off then quickly turns back. “You know there is something about you that seems familiar...”

“Let me guess. He looks like your old fart Uncle Larry,” Jake chortles, thrilled to have added his ever-extraneous two cents.

“No, not really,” Kim replies, moving away to take another order.

Rosenfarb gives Overman a knowing, “you stupid shit” nod. “Ira, I think maybe you need to see a new therapist. Rita’s been very happy with hers.”

And a lot of good that’s done her. Was it the therapist who came up with the whole sperm swallowing for diamonds arrangement, Overman wonders?

Kim returns to the table wielding a brand new squeeze bottle of spicy mustard. “Here you go, sir,” she says, placing it in front of Rosenfarb. She then looks at Overman and produces a hand-written note. “My phone number. In case you ever feel like getting together.” Kim smiles seductively at Overman and heads back toward the kitchen.

Rosenfarb is convinced that Overman and Kim pre-arranged this as a practical joke.

“When have I ever been that clever?” Overman asks, a valid point on any given day.

But Rosenfarb cannot deal with what he has witnessed with his own eyes and ears throughout this evening. It is as if everything he has gleaned over a lifetime has been rendered false in one fell swoop. “I don’t know what you think you’re up to Overman, but we’ll settle this on the court next week.” He stands up and motions toward Kim, hoisting the gargantuan corned beef triple-decker in the air. “I’ll take this to go.”

Having left his friend a discombobulated mass of Ashkenaze jelly, Overman had much to contemplate on the ride home. He ruminated on the fact that there had been volumes written on the subject of bad things happening to good people, but were there any texts that addressed when good things happened to someone like him? If an all-loving, merciful God couldn’t prevent pain and suffering but was nonetheless responsible for Good, what had a weak, soulless, unremarkable man like Overman ever done to deserve the gifts he had been given today? Granted, it was only one day and things could turn to shit tomorrow, but at the very least, he had been thrown a major cosmic bone, for which, even in his mystified state, he was thankful.

There are certain individuals for whom high school is a Defining Moment. On some level that could be said of Overman, for it was in the halls of Long Island’s Lakeview South (there was no lake anywhere and the only view was of a shopping center) that young Ira perfected the art of blending into the woodwork, thereby avoiding blame or arousing ire. While his neighborhood friend Jake Rosenfarb was an inferior student with no discernable talent, he made the most of his subpar skill set. Rosenfarb was unafraid of talking to girls, something Overman was never able to master, even into adulthood.

Jake had a simple opening line that seemed to work every time.

“You nervous about the test?” he’d inquire of Sharon Kramer, the pouty brunette from World History class with the best rack in Lakeview North or South. She would confide that although she knew the material, she worried that it wouldn’t translate to the testing environment. Rosenfarb would then admit his own academic insecurities, suggest studying together, and three chapters later would be exploring globes Vasco Da Gama only dreamed of.

In the fall of their senior year, Rosenfarb claimed to have gone around the world quite a few times with Nancy Morrison, a spirited redhead from his economics class, who, according to Lakeview legend, had an insatiable sexual appetite. Many years later, by the time she became Nancy Overman, she had had her fill of fleshly pleasures and considered any sort of physical contact an unnecessary annoyance. The fact that his best friend had deflowered his wife was not a pleasant thought for Overman, yet it seemed right in keeping with the path his entire life had taken. After all, he didn’t have to pursue Nancy. He made his move knowing full well that a bothersome past would inform a troubled future. This was to be cemented when the Overmans and Rosenfarb ended up in Los Angeles together.

Ultimately things evened out, which is not to say that life got better for Overman, but worse for Rosenfarb and Nancy. Jake wound up marrying a gold-digging interior decorator and Nancy became stepmother to the spoiled, druggy kids of her new internist husband. And Overman was free. Alone and miserable, but free.

Back in high school, Rosenfarb was a decent athlete, better than Overman of course, but not varsity material in any sport. Still, the jocks liked his vapid affability and always invited him to parties. Occasionally he would drag Overman along – never a problem because rarely did anyone notice Ira skulking in the corner. There was one particular soirée where the guys on the basketball team had some girl all tanked up in a bedroom. Rosenfarb had taken off early to console Sharon Kramer on her recent B minus, leaving Overman alone to pick through the Fritos and onion dip. Suddenly, someone was elbowing him, directing him upstairs.

He walked into a bedroom and discerned what seemed like a bizarre tribal ritual, but was, in fact, a contemporary adaptation being performed by plastered suburban high school kids. Overman knew Janie Sweeney from English class. Amiable and shy with a solid grasp of English literature and zero self-esteem, she was sprawled on her back in a semi-conscious haze. What Overman witnessed before him was nothing like the anonymous, mass-marketed porn he had come to know and love. These were his frothing classmates, pounding the poor drunken girl who had written that brilliant paper on the Brontë sisters. Overman started to panic. What would happen when the other guys finished and they turned to him? If he didn’t participate he would be branded as weak, gay, or a potential snitch.

He tried to tiptoe out of the room when a huge hand slammed the door shut. The next thing he knew all eyes were on him. Overman was on deck, a late-inning addition to the lineup in a new sport the Lakeview boys had created for their own amusement.

“You know, I’m not feeling that well,” Overman managed to squeak out.

“That’s ‘cause you’ve never seen a pussy before,” countered Marty Merkowitz, the point guard and ringleader of the party. “Unzip your pants and get over here.”

Merkowitz had been in his Bar Mitzvah class. How does a person go from the bima to orchestrating a gang rape? Overman wondered. There was no time to ponder the hows and whys. They were all waiting for him. It was Overman’s move.

He awakens to a new dawn, having been blessed with a good night’s sleep for the first time in as long as Overman can remember. Uncharacteristically pumped and looking forward to the workday, he considers trying to access his would-be telepathy to clear the freeway on the drive to Calabasas. Then the Ghost of Overman Past warns him not to attempt too much too soon. He enters the dealership with guarded optimism, throwing off a casual “hi” to Maricela, anxious to see the reaction on Day Two of his Pennysaver-induced Life Change. The open, inviting smile the receptionist flashes his way leaves no doubt in his mind that the streak is continuing.

People around here had better start getting used it, Overman thinks to himself. I am no longer the invisible irritant who demands to be ignored. I have Lasiked my way into something greater, the potential of which has yet to be fully realized. He turns to see Hal Steinbaum coming his way, wielding a can of Diet Coke. What does this idiot want now? Overman wonders. If he bugs me, maybe I can will some sort of illness on him. Nothing serious like say, tuberculosis, but maybe a cold. Flu, if he really gets on my case.

“Nice job moving that 450 SL,” Steinbaum exclaims, slapping Overman on the back.

“Thanks, Hal,” Overman says, thinking it’s about time this putz acknowledged his accomplishments.

“There’s hope for you, yet!” Steinbaum barks, laughing as he works his way toward Maricela’s desk. “How’s my girl this morning?” he salivates.

Steinbaum is so damned obvious that Overman imagines buckets of drool dripping out of his mouth as he addresses the receptionist. What Overman can’t imagine, however, is where his fantasy will lead. In the middle of Steinbaum’s weak attempt at flirting with Maricela, his mouth literally starts to foam. He takes out a handkerchief to dab it, but there is too much saliva for the Mercedes dealer to soak it all up. The car dealer is gushing as his junior salesmen step over one another wielding boxes of tissues, each wanting to be the first to express his concern for the boss. Maricela stifles a giggle as Steinbaum excuses himself and scampers off to his office. Overman is in shock. Could he possibly have willed such a thing to happen? Was the ability to embarrass assholes like Steinbaum an additional perk of his discount metamorphosis? Or had he simply anticipated that which was about to happen? The thought of it being his doing leaves him ecstatic, but winded.

He thinks about asking Maricela to lunch. Hell, why not dinner? You can only do so much quality bonding over a Chinese Chicken Salad in half an hour. But she has a boyfriend. A buff, tattooed boyfriend, Overman reminds himself. What if she resented the forwardness of his even suggesting they get together? Perhaps the key to the connection they made yesterday was his lack of aggressiveness; the fact that he carried himself like the anti-Steinbaum. On the other hand, maybe the new perks gave him license to behave any way he wanted. It was possible that he could tell the boyfriend to go fuck himself and then, as just witnessed in the Steinbaum incident, watch that very thing happen before his eyes. It was wild, uncharted territory.

Overman decides to hold off on lunch or dinner invitations and take some time to consider the implications of what is unfolding. He also recognizes that whenever these inexplicably good things happen to him, they take a substantial physical toll. Padding back to his cubicle, Overman feels like he has just done fifty push-ups. He then realizes that he has never done fifty push-ups in his life.

As he plops down in the cheap rolling office chair Steinbaum bought from some overstocked lot dot com, the phone rings, perhaps the SL buyer calling to take delivery.

“Overman, may I help you?” he brightens.

“Yes you may, you fat fuck.”

“What do you want, Rosenfarb?” Overman’s sure he’s still pissed and is calling to arrange a re-match.

“I can’t stop thinking about that waitress.”

“What waitress?”

“What waitress? I’m sorry, I forgot who I’m talking to. Oh, now I remember. The broke, paunchy schlamazel who can apparently land any young chick he wants.”

“You mean the waitress from last night?”

“With the lips,” Rosenfarb reminds him. “She was incredible. Can I have her number?”

“Jake, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“You never were one for sharing.”

“I wasn’t going to call her. I did that to make a point,” Overman informs him.

“You weren’t even going to call her and still you don’t want to give me the number? How do you sleep at night, Overman?”

“What about Rita?”

“You despise Rita.”

“But you don’t. Do you really want to see this waitress?”

“No. I just wanted to see if you’d give me the number. And now I have my answer. Nice talking to you.”

Rosenfarb hangs up on him. What a piece of work this guy was. Overman might assume the friendship was over if he didn’t know better. Beating this head case at love three sets in a row guaranteed that Rosenfarb would continue to be part of his life, like it or not.

The phone rings again. “Overman,” he answers curtly. Better to get this over with.

“Hi,” says the sweet familiar voice on the other end.

“Hi,” says Overman, looking up. He sees Maricela smiling at him as she talks into the phone.

“I didn’t want to come over there because Hal might follow me. Are you doing anything after work?”

“After work?” Overman stammers. “Let me check my calendar.” He shuffles through a day planner that has never been written in. “What do you know? I happen to be free tonight.”

“I thought maybe you could come over to my place, have a glass of wine—”

“I’d love to, but…don’t you have a boyfriend?”

“Yeah. I really want him to meet you.”

There is a long pause. This was not how it was supposed to go, according to the calculations of a man reborn. Thus far, the unique experiences that had recently come his way had been trouble-free. This one was the most exciting, yet had a giant wrench thrown into it.

Maricela sees Overman staring into space. “Is there a problem? Do you not want Rodrigo to be there?” she asks, seemingly willing to cut the boyfriend out of the picture.

“Oh, no, I’d love to meet Rodrigo,” Overman sputters, immediately thinking what an idiot he is because she gave him the out.

“Great. I’ll email you the address. Come by around 8.”

While Overman deliberated on what his evening might bring, Jake Rosenfarb pulled into the driveway of his Laurel Canyon home, relieved to be away from the screamfest to which he has been subjected for most of the day. He had long ago learned that if his upscale Los Angeles clientele weren’t one hundred percent happy with their new plantation shutters, they would become as angry as if they were actually being enslaved on a plantation. It made no sense, but these people seemed to blame their inner unhappiness on subcontractors. All he could think about now was getting in the house, plopping down on the family room sofa and pouring a single malt scotch.

Rosenfarb is barely through the door when he sees a frowning Rita standing in their brand new $350,000 kitchen, arms folded as if she is about to scold him.

“Hello darling,” he musters, girding himself to hear what he’s done wrong now.

“Take me out to dinner. I don’t feel like cooking.”

“Honey, I had a horrible day. I just want to relax,” Rosenfarb pleads.

“You’ll relax at the restaurant. How about sushi?”

“I don’t want sushi.”

“Italian. We’ll go to Angelini Osteria.”

“Too noisy. And I don’t feel like Italian.”

“Fine. Let’s get you a steak.”

Rosenfarb didn’t want a steak. No food sounded appealing to him, but Rita was determined to get out of the house. He tried to think of what would be the fastest possible dining experience. She quickly rejected the In ‘N Out Drive-Thru. Rita had to sit down and be waited on while his head throbbed. Suddenly, it dawned on him.

“Jerry’s Deli.”

“You went there last night with Overman,” Rita says, confused. “You still have the leftover sandwich in the fridge.”

“Which I would be glad to eat, but you want to go out.”

“I don’t think they have anything for me,” Rita informs him.

“Their menu is thirty-two pages long. I’m sure you’ll find something.”

Rita reluctantly agrees. Rosenfarb knows exactly what he is looking for and it’s not on the menu. He is obsessed with Corned Beef Kim Basinger, partially because of her attractiveness, more so because she is attracted to Overman. Suddenly his headache is gone and he informs Rita that he wants to change into something more comfortable.

A half-hour later, peacock Rosenfarb in his $250 Nat Nast silk bowling shirt is tearing his hair out as his wife puts in the world’s most complicated salad order with Corned Beef Kim, who seems to have no recollection of him whatsoever.

“No onions, no dressing, extra spinach, light beets, double jicama…” etc, etc.

The waitress looks even more stunning than last night, prompting Rosenfarb to inquire as to whether she recommends the rye bread or the bagel chips to complement his matzo ball soup.

“They’re both good,” she replies, not tipping her hand.

Unsurprisingly, Rita has an opinion or two of her own. If he gets the rye bread, he’ll want to butter it, and he doesn’t need the cholesterol. The bagel chips are dry and less fatty but sometimes they’re burnt. “Are the bagel chips burnt?” she asks Kim.

Kim doesn’t think so, promising to do her best to find some unburnt ones.

“The rye bread might be safer though,” Rita re-considers, as if the bagel chips were somehow irradiated with nuclear contaminants.

“I’ll bring you both and you can decide,” says Kim, the perfect hostess, wanting to get away as quickly as possible.

“That was nice of her,” Jake comments.

“She’s just lazy. Wasting the company’s money. If she were my employee, I’d fire her ass. I’m going to wash my hands.”

Rita gets up to go the ladies’ room. Rosenfarb’s chance to make his move. As soon as his wife is out of sight, Jake intercepts Kim on her way to another table.

“Excuse me, don’t you remember me from last night?”

Kim’s expression is as blank as white roll-up shades.

“Jake Rosenfarb. I was with another gentleman—”

“Mr. Overman,” she smiles, apparently delighted at the thought of him. “Do you think he’ll call me?” she inquires hopefully.

“I don’t know. Can I just ask you one question?”

“Sure. Seeing as how you’re a friend of his, you can ask me anything you want.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why does a young girl like you want to hear from Overman?”

“It’s nothing specific,” she sighs. “There’s just something about him. He’s special.”

Rosenfarb bursts out laughing. “Darling, your triple-decker corned beef and pastrami with cole slaw is special. But Ira Overman? Please.”

“Why do you find that so hard to believe?”

“Maybe because I’ve known the man for over forty years and I’ve never once seen or heard of him doing anything evenly vaguely special.”

“Perhaps the fact that he doesn’t broadcast it is a sign of his humility,” Corned Beef Kim reasons.

“Look, I don’t mean to burst your bubble—”

“You seem kind of threatened. And jealous.”

“I happen to be a very successful entrepreneur. More successful than he is, I’ll have you know.”

“I’m not interested in your tax return,” she replies. “Here’s the deal. When Mr. Overman looked at me, I sensed a certain power.”

Power. There was that word again, the one Overman had used — only this time it had been seconded by a complete stranger. Rosenfarb is sure he has entered some sort of alternate universe. He feels as if he is driving through a thick fog, straining to find the white lines and praying he doesn’t topple over the guardrail.

The waitress blasts the window dresser out of his queasy reverie. “Mr. Rosenfarb, a handful of men are extraordinary, and then there’s the rest. Maybe you can learn from him,” she finishes, going off to take an order for stuffed derma.

Rita returns from the ladies’ room to see the same ashen expression that Overman saw when he entered Jerry’s the night before. “You look like shit,” she informs her husband. “Did you eat a bad pickle?”

Rosenfarb shakes his head, wondering what kind of pickles Overman has been eating.

The Overman E350 is driving Topanga Canyon Boulevard. Not anywhere near the expensive, woodsy, former hippie haven, but far north, deep in the bowels of the West Valley. Maricela Flores lives in Chatsworth, an odd mishmash of horse ranches, estates and business parks with a smattering of smaller single-family houses and inexpensive apartment buildings. He finds a liquor store and realizes he needs to stop. Sure, she’s got wine, but Overman needs to bring something out of politeness. How did he get involved in such a thing, he asks himself? He is going to spend an entire evening with a twenty-six year-old girl and her boyfriend. Plus, he has to be polite and shell out money for that privilege.

Overman surveys the vodkas, thinking a classy cocktail might serve as a nice icebreaker for the evening. He can score a gallon of Gordon’s rotgut on sale for eighteen bucks or a petite but stunning bottle of overrated Grey Goose for twenty-eight. That Overman spends more than ten seconds thinking about it speaks to his dreadful instincts. But tonight, in honor of being invited into a beautiful young woman’s life, boyfriend or no boyfriend, he comes to his senses and the Grey Goose wins out. He throws in a tin of Altoids, two of which he pops in his mouth while glancing at the condoms he might be purchasing had he not expressed his eagerness to hang with Rodrigo. What is he thinking? Maricela is young enough to be his daughter. Overman pulls a wad of cash out of his wallet and checks his look in the mirror behind the register. He determines it best to lose the tie and ballpoint pen before knocking on Maricela’s door.

The Mercedes fits neatly into a space in front of Le Monde Garden Apartments on billboard-infested DeSoto Avenue. Despite its location on a busy, ugly thoroughfare, Overman can’t help but notice how much nicer the place is than his. And Maricela’s just a receptionist. With no alimony or child support, he reminds himself. He works his way over to the apartment buzzer. 303. Flores. No boyfriend’s last name. She lives there alone. Promising, unless the boyfriend is some sort of professional freeloader. Overman presses the buzzer.

“Who is it?” bellows the ominous voice that could only belong to the imposing Rodrigo.

“Hi there. It’s Ira. Ira Overman. From Steinbaum Mercedes.”

“Who the fuck is Ira Overman?” he hears the boyfriend ask.

“One of our salesmen,” Maricela says. “I told you. We’re having wine with him.”

“I ain’t havin’ wine with no fuckin’ salesman—”

“Come on up.” Maricela cheerily buzzes him in.

Overman considers making a run for it, but it’s too late. Maricela has stuck her head out the window.

“I’m glad you came, Ira.”

“Me, too.” I am so fucked right now, he thinks, sorry he ever agreed to such foolishness. “Are you sure this is okay?” he asks. “’Cause I’ve got a million things to catch up on at home.”

“Name one,” Maricela snaps.

She’s got him. Even if he could think of something it would sound ridiculously phony.

“I suppose I could stay a little while.” Overman takes the longest three-floor elevator ride of his life. He is expecting that when the door opens, he will find himself face to face with Rodrigo and a machete. But what he sees instead is Maricela smiling at him in a tight black tank top and low-rise jeans that expose a stomach so flat there is nothing left to crunch.

“Hi.” She gives him a kiss on the cheek and a full-on hug, smelling like the sweetest wildflowers he could ever imagine. Having never actually smelled a wildflower, imagination is his only frame of reference. Maricela takes Overman by the hand and leads him through the open door to her apartment. Rodrigo is in the kitchen, guzzling a beer.

“Rodrigo, say hello to Ira,”

The boyfriend nods disinterestedly.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Overman offers with car salesman-like geniality.

Rodrigo doesn’t bother looking at him, grabbing a jacket off the chair. “I’m going out,” he announces, heading out the door.

“Nice meeting you,” Overman calls out.

“As you can see, I have horrible taste in boyfriends,” Maricela confesses.

“Everybody has their issues,” Overman offers.

“He’s a pig. That’s his issue.”

Outside the office, Maricela is as direct as Overman is phony.

“I brought you something,” he says, thinking it best to drop the subject of Rodrigo.

Maricela’s eyes light up as she is presented with the elegant Grey Goose. She is in love with the hand-painted bottle, and its contents happen to be her favorite premium vodka. She caresses the glass with a tenderness that more than justifies the $27.95 price tag. Overman starts to envision what those hands might do with human flesh, but wisely thinks better of it.

There are no mixers in the house so they decide on shots with Pabst Blue Ribbon chasers, ironically the lagerly equivalent of the Gordon’s rotgut he left on the shelf. Overman pours and they head for the sofa. As Maricela’s body moves, it generates more molecules of lilac or lavender or whatever that heavenly smell is.

“So,” she says.

An ominous first line in that it is an invitation for Overman to dictate play. Where will he direct the conversation?

“So,” he fires back, an ingenious deflection.

“Tell me something about yourself.”

Now he is truly fucked. “Let’s see,” says Overman, having no clue which uninspiring facet of his being to lead off with. He downs his first shot hoping the liquor will produce something exciting, or at least help him summon the on-demand vulnerability that comes so naturally to his friend Rosenfarb.

Overman gives it his best. “Maybe this sounds crazy, but until yesterday, I felt like my whole life amounted to nothing. Now it seems like my luck is going to change.”

Maricela smiles. “That’s awesome. You know, I kind of saw that in your eyes after the Zero Downapalooza meeting.”

“Believe me, it had nothing to do with Steinbaum and his inane gimmicks.”

“Hal’s an asshole,” she nods. “You don’t have to tell me.”

It’s official. This girl is much sharper than she lets on. In addition, she has now made Overman feel comfortable enough to share some choice biographical tidbits. He imparts how the Depression mentality of his parents turned him into a “people pleaser” who feared confrontation. This set the table for accepting jobs he didn’t want, entering into relationships he wasn’t excited about, adopting a nose-to-the grindstone mentality rather than seeking a more fulfilling life.

Maricela shares her story as breezily as she juggles responsibilities at the dealership. She grew up in Panorama City, California, one of seven children born to a Mexican father and Filipina mother. Dad drove a roach coach that stopped at construction sites to feed the Mexicans who were building homes for white people. Mom cleaned houses and brought the kids along whenever she could. Maricela was a happy child. She was a high school cheerleader who did reasonably well in school, then made her big mistake getting married at nineteen and not going to college.

“I was so naïve. I thought Jacob was going to take care of me. That we’d have babies and live happily ever after.”

“Jacob?” Overman has to ask. “Jewish?”

“His dad was Jewish, his mom was black.”

“What happened?” Overman asks, strangely high on the image of Maricela’s rock hard body davening at High Holy Day services.

“Turns out Jacob was running a meth lab and they put him in prison.”

She wasn’t kidding about her taste in men. And this was the one she married.

“Thank God we didn’t have kids,” she sighs.

Overman tells her he has two: Peter, in his junior year at Brown, and Ashley, graduating from Harvard-Westlake and bound for Columbia in the fall. In his case, having children wasn’t the mistake. Not being the father he wanted to be was the thing he’d always regret. “I never was the kind of dad they could look up to. I never achieved a greatness they could admire.”

“I guess it all depends on how you define greatness. My dad drove a taco truck and we all looked up to him. He took care of us. He kept us safe.”

Maybe it was as simple as that. Perhaps all the bullshit he had been fed about modeling success for one’s children was just that. Bullshit.

“Sounds like you’ve been pretty sad most of your life,” Maricela concludes.

“I have been,” Overman concurs. “I guess happiness just doesn’t agree with me.”

“I think you’re way too down on yourself.”

“My mantra is ‘Low Expectations.’”

Maricela lets out an irresistible belly laugh.

“I’m serious,” Overman insists. “That’s why I was so shocked when you came over and talked to me. I mean every guy in that place wants to—”

“No one in that dealership will ever come within striking distance, I guarantee you that.”

Overman is impressed. She’s smart and discriminating.

“I guess that’s not totally true,” she corrects herself.

“Cantalupo?” Overman blurts out, immediately regretting it.

“Fuck no. Are you kidding me?”

“Of course I was kidding,” his laugh transparently fake.

Maricela clarifies. “What I meant was that right now you’re next to me on this sofa which makes you technically within, you know, striking distance.”

She giggles, throwing her head back in that adorable way. Overman laughs really loudly now, thinking he must sound like one of those cartoon hyenas. Regardless, he has to let her know he gets the joke.

For a split second he wonders if maybe it isn’t a joke. Then Maricela grabs him with both hands and draws him into a ferocious kiss. Stunned by the unexpected outburst of passion, Overman breaks for a quick breath and a reality check.

“What about Rodrigo?”

“Fuck Rodrigo,” she cries out, starting to unbutton Overman’s shirt.

“What if he comes back?”

“He won’t.”

“How do we know that?”

“Your luck’s changing. Remember?”

The girl had a point. Overman feels his pants being unzipped.

He starts to kiss her perfectly sculpted neck, lingering on its smoothness as he gently lifts the tank top. Discovering she is bra-less, his manhood springs to attention, much as it did in the hopeful days of youth, long before the decades of rejection. He cups his hands over Maricela’s small, firm breasts, suddenly feeling something cold. He looks down to find himself staring at two gold nipple rings.

“Do they freak you out?” Maricela asks.

“No. I just don’t want to hurt you,” he responds, his first opportunity to say something gentlemanly in as long as he could remember. And never in his life did he imagine “gentlemanly” and “nipple rings” being part of the same thought process.

“The only thing you could do to hurt me is leave before you make love to me.”

Overman’s not going anywhere. He pulls down her jeans, revealing a lacy, pink thong that perfectly bisects the treasured orbs that the rest of the sales force has only dreamt about and blasted off to while having intercourse with their wives. And here was Overman, the treasure in front of his face. He begins by kissing the multi-colored butterfly tramp stamp, slowly moving his tongue down under the thong and all over her ass. He is so hard he feels like he is going to explode. Unable to wait another second, he pulls down the panty and dives in. As Overman furiously laps up her sweetness, he imagines himself a spectator, watching the event as it unfolds. Overman the spectator can’t help but wonder why the beautiful young Maricela is giving her body to Overman the sorry, middle-aged lump. One hears all the time about younger women with older men, but in most cases, the man is either wealthy or good looking, rarely wears Elevator shoes and at very least, possesses some redeeming qualities. Overman can’t think of anything in his character that that would entitle him to the joy of entering this gorgeous creature from behind. But that doesn’t take away from the joy. Not for one minute. Filling her with his hardness, he will never forget this moment, witnessing the deepest, most soulful moan he has ever heard.

It is the final thaw of spring, the common lawns of the Queens apartment buildings morphing into one immense playground. The pent-up youthful energy stored over the particularly cold winter of 1958 explodes onto 71st Crescent, the Fresh Meadows cul-de-sac that Ira Overman calls home. Here he is king of the world, an entity in its prime. It is only later in life that he comprehends the poignancy of reaching one’s prime at five years old. At this moment he is completely absorbed in the wonder of his universe: a place where friends appear instantly from across the hall, where trucks arrive each day delivering milk, selling ice cream, even hawking carnival rides. There was no greater pleasure for young Overman than the ride truck pulling in to the crescent. Most people had to go to fairs or amusement parks to get this kind of dizziness induced, but Overman got it brought to his doorstep. For a nickel, he could get a nauseating spin on the tilt-a-whirl and be up in his room five minutes later.

They lived in a small two-bedroom apartment but Overman had everything he needed. He got to spend quality time glued to the wood black and white console, spellbound by the venerated Mickey Mouse Club. For some reason there was no Mouseketeer named Ira, giving the boy his first inkling that he might be different from the Donnies, Bobbies and Richies of the world. But by and large, he felt a kinship with the happy, big-eared gentiles who sang and danced their way through each episode. At the end of every show came the highlight: the commercial for the Mecca to which he was determined to one day make his pilgrimage, the hallowed ground of Disneyland. Tomorrowland and Tinkerbell and spinning teacups. If such a place indeed existed then the world offered limitless possibilities. After turning off the TV set, Ira always felt whole, imbued with Mouseketeer spirit and a renewed sense of purpose. To his young mind, this was a life in full.

How did this pleasant, ordinary beginning take its plunge toward mediocrity? Overman perseverated on this question throughout his fifty-five years. Most likely, the fall had been set in motion by Irma’s second pregnancy, followed in quick succession by the announcement that Saul had put down a deposit on what was to be their own single-family home. Ira would never forget that morning. The excitement in the apartment was electric, both parents regaling him with images of the earthly paradise the family would soon inhabit. Irma and Saul described a mystical, utopian subdivision on the North Shore of Long Island, filled with parks and shopping centers, speaking of it in the celestial terms Ira reserved for Disneyland. Their enthusiasm was infectious, convincing Ira that Long Island would be a glorious way station between Queens and Anaheim, the homeland where he would ultimately settle amongst the Mouseketeers.

The incredible journey takes place on a crisp March Saturday morning. An exuberant Ira is about to dash outside and twist his body around the monkey bars when Saul and pregnant Irma inform him that they are going to pile in the Plymouth and drive out to see the new house. The boy’s heart starts to pound, bursting with anticipation. If 71st Crescent had a tilt-a-whirl, his new Long Island wonderland might have its own rollercoaster. Maybe a little steam train that stops on Main Street, where friendly shopkeepers offer candy and cupcakes to all the kids in the neighborhood. Twenty-five minutes from now, he would get to see it all.

Saul pulls off the Long Island Expressway at the Lakeview exit and heads down a two-lane country road toward the Melvin Terrace subdivision. There’s not much to see as far as Ira can tell. A few houses, a pond, a cornfield. No tall people in animal costumes. In fact, no people at all. Saul turns left on Melvin Terrace Lane, which will no doubt reveal the kingdom of pleasure they will soon call home. Ira had never seen a palm tree in Queens, but perhaps they had them on Long Island at Melvin Terrace.

Minutes later, the family gets out of the car and Ira finds himself looking down at a dirt pit, surrounded by other pits and lots in the more advanced stages of framing.

“Isn’t it fantastic?” his father beams. “This is all going to be ours.”

No trees at all. No train. No sidewalks. Nothing.

“That’s the backyard,” Saul cries, proudly pointing to more dirt.

Irma explains that no one else will be living in their building since it is, after all, a house. There will be other kids moving in across the street and next-door, but the only one on the other side of the hall will be his new brother or sister. Irma seems to like this idea as much as Ira hates it. This was not the interim pre-Disney lifestyle he had pictured.

Ira is mute and sullen in the back seat as they head home to Fresh Meadows. No one seems to notice, Irma wrapped up in her ideas for wallpapering the kitchen, Saul mulling over which type of grass to plant for his lawn. None of it makes sense to Ira. As far as he can tell, the apartment community of Fresh Meadows is far more like Main Street, U.S.A. than Melvin Terrace. Why leave an enclave brimming with friendly faces for big dirt lots where families were confined to their own pits? He knew the dirt would eventually be filled with houses, grass and sidewalks, but to what end? Perhaps as he grew older he would understand why people placed such great value on putting distance between themselves and others, and furthermore, why they felt the need to change what was already working. There was so much young Overman didn’t understand. This didn’t bother him nearly as much as the sinking feeling that as he grew into adulthood, he would enter a whole world he would never understand.

No surprise, Long Island and Overman are not easy partners. Everything about the place fills him with uneasiness and dread. His six year-old stomach, bloated from the huge breakfast Irma force-fed him, is churning as she walks him to school for his first day. He knows no one. The tilt-a-whirl truck has been cruelly eradicated from his life. There is no reason for being. He is the Jean-Paul Sartre of the Melvin Terrace first grade.

As they approach MT Elementary, Ira tells his mother that he doesn’t feel well. She assures him it’s a case of first day jitters and that all will be well once he meets his teacher and settles in. They arrive at the classroom and he is introduced to a perky young woman named Mrs. Jarvis, who assures Ira that he will have a great time and love school. As she leads him by the hand into the classroom, he looks through the window and sees his mother leaving, limply waving goodbye.

“Ira, would you like to meet your fellow classmates?” Mrs. Jarvis smiles.

Overman nods, suddenly feeling his face turn a whiter shade of pale. Before he or anyone can fully comprehend what is happening, Ira is vomiting all over Mrs. Jarvis. The cereal, eggs, bagel and cream cheese have been melded and reborn in projectile form. The class half-laughs, half-gasps, Mrs. Jarvis doing her stoic best as she tries to smile through the puke. She tells the class she’s going to get some paper towels, but not before Overman vomits yet again. The good news is, he no longer feels bloated. The bad news is that she has left him alone with his new peers. She is gone only a minute and he survives without incident, but this is the first impression that the children of Long Island have of Ira Overman, an impression that will follow him throughout his public school career.

The vomit story indeed went on to become lore, affording each student the opportunity to embellish it with charming apocryphal additions like: “And then he peed on her.” Nevertheless, by the time Overman reached the fifth grade, he had more or less come to terms with suburban life. One reason for this was that he had finally found a subject he deemed worthy of his time and effort: Glorietta Zatzkin. Even at ten years old, Glorietta possessed an undeniable femininity, potent enough to be recognized by the boys and envied by the girls. And the fact that she lived down the block from Overman gave him a leg up. For the record, he had been the first to point out that Estelle Zatzkin, Glorietta’s mother, had huge breasts, which he declared a harbinger of magnificent things to come. In November of 1963, much to the chagrin of other potential suitors, Overman was lucky enough to be assigned an art project with Glorietta. He worked as slowly as possible, attempting to stretch out the assignment as long as Mrs. Jarvis could bear. The two of them were happily painting and gluing away when the news came in. President Kennedy had been shot. Glorietta let out a whimper and threw her arms around him. Overman held her tightly, genuinely sad about the president who seemed like a cool young guy, yet also cognizant that he would never be in this position if not for the assassination attempt. “It’s going to be all right,” he told her. He had heard somewhere that women liked you to say that.

“You really think so?” she sniffled.

“Uh-huh,” he assured Glorietta, clutching her ever more tightly.

Thirty minutes later, word arrived that President Kennedy had been pronounced dead. Glorietta gave him the “you’re so full of shit” look that would become painfully familiar to him over the next forty-five years. He was just trying to be comforting. What else could a person say in that situation? Besides, someday, probably a few presidents down the road, Glorietta would remember who she instinctively went to for consoling; whose arms enveloped her calmly and soothingly, in spite of the fact that he was full of shit.

When Overman arrived home, his mother was at the kitchen table, crying. She was one of the many women in Melvin Terrace who lived under the spell of JFK. As far as Irma was concerned, Kennedy was an icon who could do no wrong, the only drawback being that he wasn’t Jewish. Why was it so important that everyone be Jewish? Ira wondered. Irma’s Polish mother, his Grandma Gussie, actually believed that everyone in America was Jewish. She called JFK President Kaufman, Ed Sullivan was Ed Solomon; even Mickey Mouse was Mickey Weiss.

Ira’s little brother Steven sat on his mother’s lap and tried to wipe away her tears. Ira agreed with Irma that it was a horrible tragedy, but his mind was elsewhere. He was picturing Glorietta Zatzkin with Estelle Zatzkin’s breasts. How if she already had those breasts, they would have been pressed up against him in school today. Suddenly, Overman was getting an erection. The president had been shot dead and he had a boner. And to add insult to injury, his mother noticed, letting out a reflexive, “Oh my God!”

Ira slinked off to his room, waiting for dinner and the end of another awkward day in an increasingly peculiar life.

The Belzberg home sits high on a perch in the hills, west of La Cienega, but east of Doheny where the more mansion-like residences are situated. It is an ideal house for entertaining, a u-shaped structure on one level, built around a central pool with a grassy area just beyond it that overlooks the entire city. On a clear day one can see all the way to the ocean, and at night the lights twinkle like some magical Never Neverland. Perhaps when Overman bought the property, he had subconsciously channeled his childhood vision of a utopian Disneyland. This was to be his refuge, the sacred space to which he could always return after a hard day’s work as a vice-president of some grateful corporation. As he trudged up the drive carrying a couple of centerpieces, he reluctantly admired how lovely the garden looked. Nancy always had a knack for hiring good landscapers. The idea of putting her own hands in dirt never occurred to her.

Overman opens the door and is greeted by Stan.

“Ira, glad you could make it.”

“It’s my daughter’s graduation party,” Overman reminds him. “What do you mean you’re glad I could make it?”

“Don’t be so sensitive. I was just being polite.”

Stan takes the two centerpieces and Overman goes to the car to get more. The guy who is living in his house is glad he could make it. How patronizing is that? Does he have any idea who he is talking to? He thinks he’s dealing with the old Overman, the Overman whose wife he stole, whose life he stole. But this Overman’s life has meaning, and a power that he is only beginning to understand. This Overman is irresistible to women and has had the best sex of his life with a knockout barely older than his children. This Overman is on a roll.

Nancy marches out to the car to retrieve a couple of centerpieces. “Hello, Ira.” She gives him a brittle kiss on the cheek. “These are very nice.”

“How’s Ashley?” Overman inquires about the daughter who hasn’t spoken to him in eight months.

“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” Nancy responds, never missing a chance to up the dysfunctional ante.

“I will. I just brought it up because I hope she’s happy.”

“If you wanted her to be happy, why were you such a shitty father?”

The old Overman might have let such a comment slide. Those days were over. “It’s our daughter’s graduation party. Can you find a way to not be a castrating bitch for one day?”

Then the unthinkable happened. Nancy, having never seen this assertive side of her ex-husband, said something he couldn’t ever remember hearing out of her.

“I’m sorry, Ira. You’re right.”

If it all ended tomorrow, he would die with a smile on his now un-spectacled face. But the way his fortune was turning, Overman wanted to go for more, whatever that meant and however it played out. The main thing was not to revert to old patterns. As he and Nancy rounded up the rest of the flowers and set them on the tables, he contemplated for the umpteenth time how he had made such a horrible mess of things. The truth was, he had been a shitty father. But he never wanted to be. He had expressed to Nancy his reservations about having children, but she steamrolled right by them, writing off his doubts as an immature case of the jitters.

“You’re just afraid of the responsibility,” she reprimanded him. “It’s time to grow up.”

Overman hears Stan regaling one of his friends with tales of the free cruise he and Nancy took, courtesy of the nice folks at Pfizer. The shameless internist had it down to a science. Send me to the Mediterranean; I prescribe Lipitor instead of Zocor, Zoloft instead of Prozac. The little pills that cost people thousands of dollars had sent the Belzbergs around the world two and a half times over. Through the sliding glass doors, Overman sees Ashley giggling with a few of her friends. Does he march out and say hello, casually wave, or wait for her to come inside? As he weighs the options, he feels a tap on his shoulder.

“Hi, Dad.” Peter is there with his new girlfriend, an adorable Asian who at first glance seems far too well adjusted to be at this gathering. “This is Kiana.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Kiana,” Overman says, shaking her hand.

He is on speaking terms with his son, the only problem being that they have nothing to say to one another.

“What’s new?” Peter asks, feigning interest. Overman tries to think of an appropriate response, never his strong suit.

“I had Lasik surgery,” Overman offers, pointing to his naked face.

“Why?” Peter asks incredulously. His father had never been one for changing appearances and hated to spend money on anything.

“I thought it might turn me into a superhuman stud,” Overman announces. Why the hell not? He can say whatever he wants. No one takes him seriously anyway, and on the off chance he really had become superhuman, he’d be able to deal with whatever consequences there were.

Peter looks at him like he is out of his mind, just the way Peter always looks at him. Kiana laughs politely, thinking it’s some sort of joke that Jews tell.

“I take it you two met at Brown,” Overman interjects, moving past his outrageous declaration.

“Yes,” says Kiana. “We’re both pre-law.”

“Just what the world needs: more lawyers,” Overman laughs.

Peter and Kiana don’t find this funny.

“Nice seeing you, Dad,” Peter says, ushering Kiana over to the buffet.

Overman shakes his head. And this was the one who was talking to him. He sees Ashley on the patio. As she turns her head to greet one of her friends, his eyes make contact with his daughter for a split second. She quickly looks away. How did it come to this? How did a well meaning, if unremarkable man land in such a place? He was never malicious toward his children: he simply lacked the tools to be a competent parent. Did that warrant such a bitter estrangement?

Overman is struck by the urge to make things right, to repair years of miscommunication and no communication with some grand, sweeping gesture. He wonders if there is something awesome he can do, the paternal equivalent of clearing the left lane. If gorgeous Maricela could suddenly be attracted to him out of the blue, might not Ashley Overman want to repair the dismal relationship with her father? Perhaps all it would take was looking into her eyes, just like when he looked at the receptionist or the waitress at Jerry’s. Then again, what if he only had one kind of look and his own daughter mistook it for something depraved and incestuous? Trying it would be a risk, to be sure.

“Overman, you sly asshole!” a familiar voice cries out.

Rosenfarb is on his way to greet him when the window man is stopped by his former lover, Nancy Morrison Overman Belzberg, who kisses him full on the mouth right in front of Mrs. Rosenfarb. Rita doesn’t give a shit as long as Nancy’s husband continues to supply her with free samples of Zoloft. Overman wonders how much the doctor has been told about Nancy’s history with Jake. He also knows it’s a matter of moments before Rosenfarb comes over to hassle him about a re-match or the waitress or some other stupid thing, so he takes the opportunity to slip outside and talk to his daughter.

Ashley and her friends seem to be involved in some kind of group text messaging.

“Hi honey,” Overman, says boldly, the “honey” perhaps too presumptuous in light of their eight-month chill.

“Hi Dad,” she responds curtly, immediately going back to her cell phone.

Overman won’t be deterred. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but when you get a second, I’d like to talk to you.” Not only was this more than he had said to his daughter in eight months, it was delivered with the same assertive quality he had employed with Nancy.

Ashley looked up. “Sure.”

He couldn’t be positive, but despite her monosyllabic answer, it appeared as if they had connected. Ashley starts to make a move, possibly in his direction when Rosenfarb yanks him by the arm and pulls him aside.

“We have to talk.”

“Why do we have to talk, Jake?”

“Because there’s something wrong with you. In a good way,” Rosenfarb clarifies. “That waitress thinks you’re special. She thinks you have power.”

“She’s young. She doesn’t know anything,” Overman replies, trying to get rid of this garden pest he has been foolish enough to call a friend.

“I considered that, but then I opened my mind to the other possibilities.” He takes a deep, portentous breath, then stares at Overman. “What if, Ira? What if?”

“What if what?” Overman is completely flummoxed.

“I can’t talk about it here,” Rosenfarb whispers. “You and I need to have a meeting,” an oddly formal tone to his pronouncement.

“What kind of meeting?”

“We need to discuss what your plan is. Map out the future.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Overman asks. “What do you have to do with my future?”

Rosenfarb has gone from annoying to certifiable. “I’ll tell you all about it at the meeting. Tomorrow. Lunch. I’ll come out to Calabasas. My treat.”

While well versed in his friend’s legendary noodging skills, Overman accedes, just to get it over with. He looks for Ashley but she has disappeared into a different group of friends. Rosenfarb remarks to Overman that Nancy is looking really good. “I always loved her vagina,” he sighs, as if remembering a favorite wine he used to sip as a young man.

This “meeting” was bound to be unbearable. The only positive was that agreeing to Rosenfarb’s demand bought Overman some breathing room for the rest of the afternoon. He would still have to make conversation with Nancy and Stan’s friends who treated him like some sort of leper unless they needed a deal on a car, but to the new Overman, this was amusing rather than insulting. Krakauer the stockbroker, Morganthal, the entertainment lawyer, Gerstein, the dermatologist: they had all become the people they were destined to be and weren’t going any further. Overman, on the other hand, had been re-hatched. His future was tabula rasa. For all he knew, he could now will a mole to be removed, rather than having to pay Gerstein eighty bucks a pop. He makes a mental note to try that sometime.

Overman picks at the buffet, keeping an eye on Ashley, waiting for an opening. As he examines some sort of wild mushroom puff, she enters from the patio. She is by herself, and from the looks of it, has come in to see him.

“Enjoying the party?” she asks.

“Oh yeah, this is great,” he replies, doing his best to appear enthusiastic.

“I’m happy you came,” Ashley smiles.

“Me, too.” Overman takes a deep breath, then goes for it. “Listen, do you think maybe we could have dinner one night?”

“Absolutely. Right after I get back from Israel.”

“Israel?”

Ashley explains that she is going on her birthright trip, an expedition available to any Jewish child under the age of twenty-six for the purpose of embracing his or her roots. Overman doesn’t have a problem with this. He has heard that stringent safety precautions are taken to protect young American tourists. What strikes him, however, is how out of the loop he has become. His daughter is about to leave the country and he had no prior knowledge of it. No one consulted him, asked for any input whatsoever. But why would they? He had allowed himself to drift apart from his children, letting it go far enough that he was embarrassed to call them after having been out of touch for so long. And this was the price.

“You’re going to have a great time,” Overman tells her, figuring it’s the right thing to say.

“I hope so. Anyway, I should get back to my friends.”

“Is that Jennifer Marcus?” Overman asks, indicating a blond girl on the patio.

Ashley nods that it is.

“I haven’t seen her since she was nine. How’s her dad? I always liked Charlie.”

“He’s a prick,” she informs him.

“Maybe that’s why you and Jennifer stayed friends all these years,” Overman postulates. “Because of your lousy fathers.”

“He tried to touch my boobs when I was sixteen. I’m sure you never did anything like that,” Ashley says, walking back out to the patio.

Overman is shocked to hear this about Charlie Marcus. Charlie was a respected ophthalmologist, known for his political activism and philanthropy. He was the husband every wife wanted, the father every kid looked up to. And it turned out he was some form of Closet Merkowitz. Overman decides to interpret this news as an opportunity to pat himself on the back. Yes, he has been a crappy parent, a social ignoramus, a selfish boor, but he never tried to feel up an underage girl. Life was good.

The Kennedy assassination might have marked a turning point for the country, but to Overman, it would be remembered as The Day of Losing Glorietta Zatzkin. Of course he had never “had” her in any sense of the word. They were in the fifth grade, partners on a few school projects and happened to live around the block from one another. He harbored a serious crush, but so did every other boy at Melvin Terrace Elementary. Whether or not Glorietta realized the extent of their group lust was conjecture, but regardless, she remained a nice, bright and polite young girl who had simply decided that she was no longer interested in Ira Overman. She never said anything mean or ignored him. As far as he knew, she never talked behind his back. She just had a way of letting him know that there would be a line of demarcation between them, and the line seemed more pronounced with each passing day.

This saddened Overman, particularly when after the sixth grade, Glorietta returned from summer camp having developed the luscious breasts that he himself had prognosticated. As he walked through the halls of Lakeview Junior High School, guys came up to congratulate him about being the first to make the call.

“You were right, Overman. She’s totally stacked,” said Tommy Oshefsky, who had the desk next to his in homeroom. “I wish I lived around the block from her.”

“What’s her cup size?” Jimmy Rizzoli asked Overman, like he might actually have access to such information.

Overman made up a number just to drive them crazy. “I’m guessing she wears the kind of bra than makes them look smaller, so I’d have to go with 36 DD.”

In truth, Overman was the one being driven crazy, less out of lust than confusion. What was it about him that was putting her off? Did he smell? Was he ugly? He didn’t have buckteeth or an overbite like Tommy Oshefsky. He wasn’t hairy and chubby like Rizzoli. Ira wanted answers but had few places to turn. If he asked any of his peers, they would then know that he wasn’t as tight with Glorietta as he used to be, which could only serve to lower his standing with kids who weren’t very high on the ladder to begin with. So Ira went with the only option he could think of.

“Who could not like you?” Irma Overman barked, shoving milk and cookies in his face. “I’m not saying somebody doesn’t like me,” Ira replied. “I’m just asking if somebody didn’t like me, what about me wouldn’t they like?”

“It’s the Goldstein boy, isn’t it?” Irma blurts out. “Jerry Goldstein. I never liked him and I’m not crazy about the parents either. The country club and the Cadillac and the fancy patio furniture—”

“It’s not Jerry Goldstein. And that’s not the point—”

“Frankie Cosentino!” She’s sure of it. “What do you expect? The father hangs a big lighted cross over their garage at Christmas time. Don’t they know Jews live in this neighborhood?”

“Mom—”

“Drink your milk. Do you want me to talk to Frankie’s mother?”

“No. I’m sorry I brought it up. I’ll talk to Frankie myself,” Overman says, just wanting to end this debacle. It would be the last time he ever went to his mother for advice.

As seventh grade progressed, Glorietta began to associate with a different crowd, all from outside the neighborhood. The boys were jocks, the girls destined to be cheerleaders. Glorietta would wave politely whenever she saw Overman on the street or walking to school, but it seemed eerily like the caste system he had read about when they studied India. And Ira was an Untouchable. Late at night, alone in his bed, he would reflect on what he could have done differently. What if instead of trying to comfort Glorietta, he had said: “I’m sorry, but the president is going to die a quick yet miserable death.” Could that have helped his case? He thought not. The bitter truth was that Glorietta had dropped him because she knew she could do better. He couldn’t fault her for wanting to improve her circle of friends. He just pined for the halcyon days before she realized that was an option.

Months later, Ira was in the driveway helping his father wash the latest Overman Plymouth when Estelle Zatzkin rounded the corner, walking the family’s new miniature schnauzer. The sight of her prompted Saul Overman to jump up, say hello, and coo enthusiastically at Pumpkin Zatzkin. As far as Ira could remember, his father had never particularly liked dogs. But whatever he was saying now was making Estelle smile and Pumpkin pee. Estelle was looking particularly curvy this morning, her resplendent cleavage glistening in the morning sunlight. She spotted Ira rinsing out one of the wheel wells.

“Ira, come say hello to Pumpkin,” she called out.

Young Overman dutifully marched over to pet the schnauzer. He liked dogs well enough, but seeing Estelle only reminded him of losing Glorietta.

“Pumpkin loves kids,” Saul crowed, as if he gave a shit.

Estelle had just told him this and Saul wanted to keep the conversation going as long as possible, much like Ira did during his art project with Glorietta. Ira did not fault his father for sneaking peeks at the tiny beads of sweat that had made their home between Estelle’s wondrous breasts. Yes, Saul had a wife and she was Ira’s mother, but the cold hard fact was that the Zatzkin women were irresistible. All the men in the neighborhood envied her husband Murray, who, despite his modesty and lack of affectation, was one of the most prominent furriers in Manhattan.

“It’s great to have Pumpkin in the neighborhood,” Saul beamed. “Good girl,” he said, scratching the dog’s tailbone.

“Actually Pumpkin’s a boy,” Estelle corrected him.” And he won’t be in the neighborhood very much longer.”

Ira sensed something. The axe handle was about to come down.

“We bought a house in Crestwood Knolls,” Estelle informed them.

Ira’s heart sank. Crestwood Knolls was a new development with properties starting at a half-acre. It couldn’t have been further from Melvin Terrace in terms of status and attitude, but the crowning blow was that even though the homes were only two miles away, they landed in a different school district. Now, unless Ira happened to run into her at an inter-school basketball game or the local Baskin-Robbins, he would never see Glorietta again.

“Congratulations. You must be thrilled,” Saul says, Pumpkin starting to hump his leg.

“We’re excited. But we’ll miss everyone here—”

Estelle looks down and sees the schnauzer wrapped around Saul’s leg.

“Pumpkin!”

She bends down to give him a light whack, which in the process gives Saul and his son a view they will never forget. These were breasts that would not be out of place in Playboy. Or the Louvre.

“The good news is, we’ve sold our house to a lovely family. They have a son who’s your age, Ira.”

When the moving vans came, Overman spent the day at Howie Finkel’s house, conveniently situated directly across the street from the Zatzkin’s. Finkel was three years younger and always wanted to hang out with the older kids, so Overman figured he’d do him a favor. In return, he got to satisfy his strange desire to watch the Zatzkin furniture being moved, hoping for a glimpse of things touched by Glorietta. He had been in the house once or twice and could identify certain pieces — drawers she had opened, a dresser where she might have laid out a bra and panty set for the next day. It was his way of saying goodbye.

When the movers drove away, Overman felt a strange sense of relief. He no longer had to be visually reminded of the rejection on a daily basis. Soon, new people would be moving in and this, too, would help him heal. Every once in a while he would swing by and check out the house to see if anybody was living there. And then one day, the new kid rang the Overman’s bell.

Irma opened the front door, revealing a courteous and friendly young man who said he heard there was a boy his age living there.

“Yes, our son, Ira. Nice of you stop by. And what’s your name?”

“Jacob Rosenfarb,” he replied. “Everyone calls me Jake.”

Overman has a client at his desk when the dreaded moment arrives. Jake Rosenfarb struts in donning the Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses Rita insisted he buy in order to appear trendy. Rosenfarb’s first stop is the reception desk. He wasn’t about to drive all the way out to Calabasas without getting a generous eyeful of Maricela. She is wearing a white lacy bra that peeks out of her skin-tight pink tank top, displaying her high, firm breasts to delightful effect. To Rosenfarb, the thought of this taut, brown body wanting anything to do with Ira Overman seemed even more ludicrous than the waitress at Jerry’s Deli. This one actually knew the man and his multiple deficiencies.

“May I help you?” she asks the leering window man.

Jake suavely removes the Dolce and Gabbanas. “I’m here to see Overman.”

“You must be Rosenfarb.”

Wow. Overman has told her about him. Maybe Ira wants to switch over to the waitress and donate the receptionist to him. The textbook definition of a mitzvah, if ever there was one.

“You’re the guy he beat 6-love in straight sets,” Maricela says, a little too loudly for Rosenfarb’s tastes.

Rosenfarb scowls and marches over to Overman’s desk. Overman has just sent his client over to financing.

“How’re you doing, Jake?”

“I’m fine,” Rosenfarb barks. “My car’s out front. We’re going to Malibu for lunch.”

“Okay,” Overman says, grabbing his jacket and following Rosenfarb out the door. “How come you want to go all the way to Malibu?”

As they approach Rosenfarb’s BMW 750i (bought just to irk his Mercedes salesman friend), he sees that Jake is opening the passenger door rather than going to the driver’s side. He tosses Overman the keys.

“You’re driving,” Jake announces.

Overman shakes his head. “Is this because you want Steinbaum to see me driving a BMW? Just so you know, he doesn’t give a shit, as long as I’m closing deals.”

“That’s not the point,” Rosenfarb assures him, explaining that he has something far more important in mind. “Take Malibu Canyon Road.”

As they get off the freeway and Overman turns onto Malibu Canyon, Rosenfarb’s motive begins to present itself. In front of them stands a blinking sign that reads: “Road Construction. Long Delays.”

Rosenfarb knows his friend doesn’t like to take a long lunch and the trip across the canyon is eighteen minutes each way with no traffic. If Overman is the powerfully changed man he claims to be, he will be able to clear the canyon and get them to Malibu without delay. If he can’t deliver, he has to come clean about what is really going on.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Overman protests.

“You make certain claims, you have to be able to back them up,” Rosenfarb explains. “You told me you cleared the 101 freeway.”

“I said I think it happened. Maybe I imagined it. And even if I didn’t, who’s to say I can do something like that on demand?”

“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

Overman is apoplectic. “Jake, whenever I’ve tried to will something to happen, it’s taken everything out of me. It’s debilitating.”

“Are you saying I’m not worth it?” Rosenfarb asks, suddenly the wounded lover.

“What do you want from me?” Overman implores.

“I want you to make sense out of this. You owe me that much.”

Why did he owe Rosenfarb anything? For reminding him in explicit detail how he was the first to enjoy Nancy’s zesty, fruit-forward vagina? For screwing him out of an easy commission by buying a Beemer instead of a Benz? For being a sore loser at tennis? It was absurd. Still, there was a part of Overman that wanted to see if he could perform in front of someone else, even if that someone happened to be the unbearable Jake Rosenfarb.

He grips the wheel tightly, staring straight ahead at the gridlocked canyon and road maintenance vehicles in the distance.

“I don’t see anything happening,” Rosenfarb shouts, practically splitting his eardrum.

Nothing is happening, much as Overman tries to “will” it. He is stone silent as they creep along at five miles an hour, Jake starting to sigh with boredom. The more Overman concentrates, the more drained he feels.

“Yeah, well, I’ve always believed that a person can’t be afraid to dream,” Jake yawns. “This dream was a dud, so sue me.”

Overman tries to conjure a clear lane to Malibu, but the car is barely inching forward.

“Why don’t we play the Celebrity Game to pass the time?” Jake suggests. “I name a celebrity I’ve worked with, you guess the type of window treatments I installed.”

“I don’t think so, Jake.”

“Morgan Fairchild. I’ll give you a hint. Not a drapes gal.”

“This is stupid.”

“Not at all. You’d be surprised how quickly the time passes. The answer is ‘vertical blinds.’ Tom Selleck.”

“I don’t know, wood mini-blinds,” one of the few window treatments Overman can identify by name.

“You are so wrong. Selleck hates blinds.”

At that moment, a siren starts blaring, giant red fire trucks suddenly appearing in Overman’s rear-view mirror. One by one, cars begin pulling over to the side of the road, the Rosenfarb BMW following suit. Then, as the two trucks pass in front of Overman, he gets back on the road behind them and within moments, the Beemer is sailing toward Malibu, hurling Rosenfarb into a sea of befuddlement.

“My God, Ira, you did it! I’ll never doubt you again.”

“There was a fire, Jake,” Overman reminds his excited passenger.

“But there wouldn’t have been one if you hadn’t willed it.”

“I didn’t will a fire.”

“Don’t be modest. The self-deprecation thing gets old.”

“Jake, why would I want to be responsible for a disaster that could cause millions of dollars in damage and potentially take the lives of innocent people?”

“Because you wanted to prove something to a friend.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Thank you, Ira. Your generosity leaves me awestruck and humbled.”

There is no turning back. No matter how many ways Overman tries to toss this off to coincidence, Rosenfarb is having none of it. There is no denying what the window man has just witnessed through his goofy, overpriced glasses, and as promised, he is going to reward his pal by buying lunch at Geoffrey’s Restaurant, one of Rita’s swanky haunts. He lets Overman know that had his claims of willpower been a crock of shit, Plan B was a fajita pita at the Malibu Jack-in-the-Box, Dutch treat. But the man behind the wheel, the long shot on whom Rosenfarb had doubled down, had delivered the goods and deserved to be recognized.

It is a balmy, sun-drenched afternoon, the perfect day to be sitting out on Geoffrey’s patio overlooking the Pacific. Awash in his friend’s lunacy, Overman decides to immediately stick it to Rosenfarb with a double Belvedere martini, coupled with their priciest ahi tuna appetizer. While waiting, he guzzles down two glasses of bottled water to replenish the fluids he burned up in his efforts to will the car through the canyon.

Rosenfarb can’t bring himself to eat, drink or even order. He is lost in thought. “So who are you?” he asks his friend.

“What do you mean? You know who I am,” Overman spits back.

“I know your alias,” Rosenfarb continues. “But who are you really?

Overman can’t abide this idiocy. “Can we speak English, Jake? What are you talking about?”

As the waiter places the martini in front of Overman, the window man explains.

“Bruce Wayne was Batman. Clark Kent was Superman. Menachem Schneerson was Moshiach according to many people. Who are you?”

“Let me get this straight. You think I’m some kind of superhero who’s been disguising himself as a failure for fifty-five years just to fool people?”

“Do or do you not own a cape?” Rosenfarb asks, with McCarthy-like precision.

“Why? You think I can fly?” Overman laughs.

“That wasn’t my question. Batman wears a cape, but he can’t fly.”

“Then what’s the point of the cape?” Overman wants to know.

“He wears a cape because he’s Batman and he wants to look like a bat,” Rosenfarb explains.

“But bats fly. If his name’s Batman, he should fly.”

“Batman doesn’t fly. He dresses like a bat and uses powerful gadgets, end of story.” Rosenfarb is starting to get mad. As a child, Jake collected comic books and was considered the neighborhood expert on all creatures super and fantastic. A person could name any superhero and Rosenfarb would bark out the character’s assumed identity, followed by a precise description of his or her powers.

“I’m trying to help define you,” Jake tells Overman as the ahi arrives, decoratively presented on crisp, greaseless wontons. “We need to know where you fit in the scheme of things so we can figure out your next move.” On a historical note, he informs Overman that he is not the first Jewish superhero to arrive on the scene. Ira is pre-dated by a character named Atom Smasher, real name Al Rothstein, Blue Jay, AKA Jay Abrams, and Wiccan, the esteemed William “Billy” Kaplan.

“Can I bring up one small point?” Overman interjects.

Rosenfarb nods, picking at his friend’s ahi.

“These superheroes that you know so much about? They’re fictional characters.”

“So?”

“So I’m not a superhero. I’m a regular guy whose luck has changed.”

Rosenfarb decides that this would be the ideal time to educate Overman on Jungian archetypes and how his new powers are modern incarnations of previous human experience. As he launches into a pretentious discourse on Celtic mythology and its contemporary equivalents, Overman’s eyes glaze over. He can’t help but wonder why, if Rosenfarb knows so goddamned much, he is installing blinds for a living.

Rosenfarb can tell from Overman’s bored facial expression that he isn’t making much headway with Joseph Campbell so he switches to a more brass tacks approach.

“Here’s the bottom line, Ira. Superman could do a whole lot of great shit, but he had enemies who hated him, like Lex Luthor.”

Overman reminds Rosenfarb that he already has scores of people who hate him, having nothing to do with the alleged supernatural powers his friend has ascribed to him.

“Fair enough,” Rosenfarb admits. “But what if you have a kryptonite?”

“Huh?”

Rosenfarb explains the way it works. If you were able to do things normal humans couldn’t, the possibility existed that some object or herb or chemical that was harmless to normal humans was now capable of hurting you. And it was imperative that Overman recognized this.

Overman shakes his head. “I’ve just got to ask—”

“Of course. You must have lots of questions,” volleys Rosenfarb the expert.

“You’re putting me in the same category as Superman—”

“No way. You can clear traffic. But you can’t fly.” Rosenfarb pauses for a moment. “Can you?”

“Rosenfarb!” Overman is fed up. “Just because you’ve read lots of comic books, doesn’t mean I’m a superhero.”

“Don’t get bogged down in semantics, Ira—”

“It’s not semantics. Have you ever met a superhero?”

“Besides you?”

“Yes, besides me.”

Rosenfarb goes silent. Overman decides to make use of the precious available airspace.

“Have you had coffee with Atom Smasher? Have you golfed with the Fantastic Four?”

“Why would I? They’re already a foursome—-”

“You know what I’m talking about, Jake. This is apples and oranges. Fiction versus reality.”

Rosenfarb says that all he is trying to do is make sense out of an extraordinary situation. “I just think I can help you, Ira.”

Overman can’t imagine how. Rosenfarb lays it on the line. With power comes responsibility and decisions have to be made as to the hows, whys and wheres of using it. Rosenfarb’s take is that based on his own vast knowledge of superheroes, their failures as well as successes, he is in a unique position to advise Overman on how to proceed.

“And what’s in it for you?” Overman asks, curious to know what Rosenfarb has up his sleeve.

“You’re my best friend. I’m here to serve.”

“And?” Overman knows him too well.

“And nothing. I only wish for your success.”

“That’s very nice of you—”

“Because I know you’re the kind of person who shares his success with others.”

There it was. The window man wanted his piece of the pie. “And how exactly will I share my success, Jake,” Overman wants to know.

“There’s plenty of time to talk about that,” Rosenfarb scoffs it off. “Right now we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

As the waiter brings the check to the patio, a thought occurs to Overman. If he lets Rosenfarb pick up the tab, it is an implicit acceptance of the deal on the table. The broad strokes of the deal are that Overman is at the precipice of enormous change and will need help navigating the dangerous twists and turns in the road ahead. The fine print suggests that Rosenfarb’s “guidance” is a euphemism for constant meddling with the ultimate goal of capitalizing on Overman’s abilities.

“Why don’t we split it?” Overman says, making an honest attempt to grab the check.

Rosenfarb, much too quick on the draw, will have none of it. “You’ll get the next one. Heck, maybe you won’t ever have to pay for meals again. You can just “will” the restaurant to comp you,” Rosenfarb laughs.

It is a grim vision of the future. Something good finally happens to Overman and he’s got Rosenfarb tailing him around like a dog, angling for dinners and free trips to Vegas. This guy was annoying enough at a party or on the tennis court. Overman decides to nip it in the bud before it gets out of hand. As soon as Rosenfarb stiffs the valet and they’re back on the road, he states his case.

“Jake, you know I’ve been thinking—”

“Willpower Man,” Rosenfarb interrupts, beginning to spitball superhero names. “Nah, too cumbersome. Maybe we need a ‘the’ name. You know, like the Hulk.”

“Jake, I don’t want any help with this,” Overman states.

“I don’t mind, Ira. Really, it’s my pleasure to share my insights with you. Hey, here’s a great idea: Over Man. You had the name all along.” Then he thinks better of it. “Maybe it’s not so good, because it has the negative connotation of implying that things are over.”

“I appreciate your offering to help, but this whole series of events has been a very personal kind of—”

“Overman, you know nothing about superheroes,” Rosenfarb snaps. “You need a sidekick,” he declares, as if it some kind of legitimate occupation.

“A sidekick?”

“You’re not prepared to do this alone.”

“With all due respect, I’ll be the judge of that,” Overman replies.

“Jesus Christ, what’s the matter with you? Batman, one of the greatest superheroes of all time had a sidekick, but Mr. Fancy Pants here thinks he can go solo.”

“Superman didn’t have a sidekick,” Overman points out.

Rosenfarb reminds him that he is a far cry from Superman. “That’s like me comparing myself to... John Hampson for Christ’s sake!”

“John Hampson?”

“The first American to patent Venetian blinds,” Rosenfarb spits out, as if Overman is an idiot for not knowing this information.

“I’m just going to say it one last time. You’re making a mistake.”

“Duly noted,” Overman assures him.

A tinge of paranoia creeps into Rosenfarb’s disappointment. “You don’t have another sidekick in mind, do you?”

“I have no other sidekicks,” Overman assures him.

The rest of the ride to Steinbaum Mercedes is more than a little icy. That said, Overman is pleased because he has laid down the law, refusing to let this interloping bug put a damper on what is his and his alone. “How’s Rita?” Overman asks, an admirable attempt at meaningless conversation.

“She’s having her tits redone for the third time. I can’t believe the amount of money I’ve spent on those things. Especially since I never get to go near them.”

Overman feels a rush of sympathy for his friend. Yes, it could be a ploy to get him to reconsider, but the truth is that Rita knows no bounds in what she will take from her husband, giving little if anything in return. If he were Rosenfarb, he’d jump at the chance to be a sidekick, too. But he is not Rosenfarb and grateful for that.

“Thanks for lunch. I’ll definitely get the next one,” Overman says, jumping out of the passenger seat.

“Call me if you need anything,” Rosenfarb pouts.

“Take care, Jake.”

As Rosenfarb speeds off, Overman is sky-high. His elation has nothing to do with alleged superpowers. It comes from his successful deployment of a self-defense mechanism. An unlikely sexual encounter and the ostensible willing of a fire were one thing, but having the balls to impede a seasoned guilt monger like Jake Rosenfarb was in another league entirely.

The rest of the day unfolds, presenting Overman with a slew of realizations. Realization Number One is that Maricela and Rodrigo are still together. When he picks her up at work she reacts as if there were never an Overman inside her. Yet she relates to Overman with a new warmth and understanding, as if they are the deepest of friends with an unbreakable bond. Overman rather likes this. While some men, after a night of marathon sex with a score like Maricela, might feel the need to continue the affair, Overman has stored it in his brain as a once-in-a-lifetime trophy: an unforgettable memory that will serve as his gateway to a life that matters.

Realization Number Two is that he feels like he can now sell a car to any customer he wants. It is just a matter of how much stamina he can muster to invoke the necessary willpower. Which leads to Realization Number Three: that he needs to get in shape so he can build strength. Realization Number Four is the proclamation first voiced by Rosenfarb: in the event that Overman actually has extraordinary abilities, where, when, why and how he chooses to use them will be of paramount importance.

On the way home, Overman checks in at the Jungle Gym to investigate some sort of fitness program. A clueless shill named Chuck tries to rope him in for three years at $250 per, but is sorely outclassed. Even the old Overman could browbeat this rank amateur down to a hundred a year, the new one closing the deal at a cool $79. From the gym, it’s off to the comic book shop and the video store, where Overman stocks up on “Iron Man,” “Batman 1-3,” “The Incredible Hulk,” the two “Spidermans,” and as a nod to diversity, the poorly received “Hancock.” While he firmly rejects Rosenfarb’s superhero theory, he recognizes it as a possible learning tool. In fiction as in life, the powerful are faced with difficult choices, so it might be useful to see how pop culture archetypes approach moral dilemmas. The heroes naturally take the side of Good rather than Evil, their equally powerful nemeses skewing to the wicked and self-aggrandizing. While Overman never imagined himself using any of his “skills” for nefarious purposes, he knew there were gray areas and was curious to learn how others approached them.

Sitting down to study his fictional forbears, what is most striking to Overman is that virtually all these characters came from backgrounds far more dysfunctional than his own. Peter Parker was a nerd, mocked incessantly by his peers before becoming Spiderman. Bruce Wayne saw both his parents murdered before he turned into Batman. Iron Man’s mother and father died in a car crash. By comparison, Overman’s background seemed downright bucolic: the misfires of his life hadn’t converged into a spectacular pile of shit until he grew into adulthood. The other universal theme he discovered was that the transformation from helpless to invincible inevitably led to vigilantism. Power was a natural breeding ground for revenge. Overman pondered whether this was where he might be headed. To be sure, there was a laundry list of bastards who should have treated him better: teachers who picked on him, bosses who fired his ass, friends who betrayed him. If he truly had superpowers, he could go back and serve justice one scumbag at a time. But would it even be satisfying to avenge their idiocy so many years later? It seemed like a lot of energy for precious little gain.

Overman chose to envision his future in more modest terms. It would be enough to sell a bunch of cars, put some money away, maybe move out of the shithole apartment and buy a condo. Nothing fancy, but enough to carve out a life. It never seemed to be enough for the heroes of those comic books and movies. Of course if it had been, the story would be over and the publishers and movie studios couldn’t make any more money. Playing devil’s advocate, Overman then reminded himself that his personal evolution was just starting to kick into gear. Limiting his options at this early juncture reeked of Thinking Small. No need to close the door on anything right now. Stay fluid, be open to the opportunities that present themselves. The first order of business was to keep selling cars and get in shape.

He is about to crawl into bed when the phone rings — not the cell, but the landline that has been dedicated to wrong numbers since the day public television took him off their call list, having finally realized that his fifteen-dollar donation was a once in a lifetime affair.

“Overman,” he answers, as if it’s the finance department buzzing him about a lease deal.

“Sorry to call you this late, Mr. Overman. This is Dr. Gonzales from the Clearview Vision Center.”

The car salesman brightens. He never got to thank the man who was seemingly responsible for the Overman game-changer.

“Dr. Gonzales. I’ve been meaning to call you. I’ve been so pleased with your work.”

“I know,” Gonzales responds. “One of your friends has been calling me every day about Lasik surgery because he loves the job I did on you.”

“Oh, no,” Overman whimpers. He knows what’s coming.

“The thing is, his vision is fine and there’s no reason to do anything. But he won’t listen. Can you give me any advice on how to handle Mr. Rosenfarb?”

“If I were you, I’d leave the country,” Overman replies, only half-joking. Overman explains that the window man is imbued with the tenacity of a pit bull, a quality he unleashes whenever he has an idea, no matter how small or how stupid.

“He thinks that if I cut open his eyes, he’ll be able to have sex with beautiful young women,” Gonzales says, bewildered. “It’s crazy.”

“The man is ill,” Overman avers. “My advice is not to take his calls and sit tight. Maybe he’ll have some sort of breakdown.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I’m sorry for any trouble this has caused you.” Overman hangs up, wracked with guilt for what he has thrust upon the poor doctor. He wonders if he can use whatever is in his arsenal to tame Rosenfarb, but he knows in his heart that going toe to toe with Jake requires a lot more horsepower than he currently has under the hood.

When the alarm goes off at 6, Overman springs into action. He throws his car salesman gear into a small duffle bag and by 6:45 is walking through the door of the gym. He waves to Chuck, now the embodiment of shame for the beating he took on the annual membership fees, then proceeds to the locker room to store his work clothes. It is Overman’s first visit to a locker room since high school and he is quickly reminded why he never missed it. The smells were identical, that curious blend of soap and stench, and the sights had worsened considerably. This was Ira’s introduction to preening fifty year-olds with shaved pubes standing in front of a mirror, admiring their pecs and appraising their junk. Gay? Maybe half of them. Self-absorbed? Across the board. This was, after all, Southern California, where youth was not permitted to go gently into that good night, but hung onto with a ferociousness that turned its worshipers into wannabes. For the first time in his poor excuse for a life, Overman felt glad that he was different. Unlike the posing guy with the bald genitalia, scrounging for a kernel of existential validation, the new, improved Overman felt like he possessed something singular. It didn’t have to be stared at or paraded around, just sharpened and strengthened.

Overman brushes past Sir Baldy and makes his way out to the gym floor. He’s going to start with the tricep bar that pitiful Chuck showed him how to operate. He sets the weight at a light twenty pounds to start. Overman’s been told that at his age it’s about reps, not how heavy he can lift. He does ten pulls then takes a break, using the opportunity to drink in the Jungle Gym scene. Lots of plastic tits, old guys with dyed chest hair, young moms trying to get back to their pre-baby weight, a former professional wrestler, a middle aged female ex-bodybuilder named Carla who seems to know everybody and won’t shut up. After his second set of tricep pulls, she drops by to add him to her friendship circle. It turns out that after her bodybuilding career, Carla became a private detective. Upon leaving the gym, she will drive to City of Industry to spy on a beer distributor who’s banging his secretary. She feels super fat and she shouldn’t have had that onion bagel yesterday and she’s single, no surprise. As Carla flutters off to pester someone else, the wrestler known as Bo arrives to introduce himself to Overman. He welcomes Ira with a quick survey of the landscape, pointing out which of the plastic-titted gym junkies are porn stars, which are actual junkies.

Moving on to the next machine, Overman tries to make sense of this strange world that has apparently embraced him with open arms. While he’s able to finish his bicep sets without making any new acquaintances, it occurs to him that people seem to fancy their personal training in noisy, showy, social environs. While Overman knew he’d be working out amongst others, he pictured a parallel pursuit of individual goals rather than the yammering interaction before him. At the shoulder machine, he manages to clear his head. This was what he wanted: to concentrate on the business at hand and rid himself of the clutter that would fill up brain space as the day wore on.

The last time he exercised on a regular basis was when he joined the wrestling team as a freshman in high school. Wrestling was where they sent the slight and the puny, an apt description of fifteen year-old Overman, providing one was to add “pimply” to the mix. Clocking in at 5’3, 105 pounds, he couldn’t be taken seriously for football or basketball, but ostensibly had the potential to shine at a sport where the requirement was to bulk up, yet go down a weight class. In Overman’s case, it meant the 98-pound weight class. Getting there required rigorous workouts, dieting and staying after school for practice until it was dark outside. Since wrestling season fell smack in the middle of the frosty Long Island winter, by the time Overman had finished rolling on the sweaty mats and being humiliated in the group shower, he would find himself walking into the black night, wet hair hardening into icicles as he shivered his way home.

Conceding that listening to Carla, the private detective, yap about her onion bagel is preferable to the sweaty, frozen night walks of his past, he then spots, to the left of the barbells, a man who looks familiar and foreign at the same time. He’s sure he has seen this face many times before, but the body, the clothes, the hair — they just don’t add up. It is only after a fellow exerciser tells a lame dirty joke and the man laughs that Overman identifies him as Gary Sheslow, his ex-therapist. There is no mistaking the wheezy cackle of the legend whose most memorable line was, “We have to stop now.” This goniff, currently hoisting two-pound free weights and sporting a hideous dye job, had accrued thousands of Overman dollars during a span of nearly twenty years, only to conclude that his client was hopeless and toss him out on the street. In Sheslow’s defense, Overman had ignored or refused any piece of advice the therapist offered, precipitating a lengthy and expensive stalemate. The end had been unpleasant, to say the least. Sheslow denied Overman’s request to refund his money, instead recommending a psychiatrist and daring his former client to sue him.

What would the dipshit have to say now? Here was Overman, poised to climb his personal Everest while Sheslow the Clown was dipping his head in Kiwi shoe polish. He is tempted to go over and broadcast this salient point, but Sheslow has made an unforeseen exit to the locker room. Overman is not so tempted that he wants to follow his former shrink, confident that their day of reckoning will come further down the line. The therapist is not gone a minute when Overman notices a pleasant-looking brunette lying down to use the leg machine. She looks familiar as well. He knows they have not met yet she somehow conveys the essence of a brunette from his past. As the young woman pushes the platform with her feet and both calves extend, it triggers the rush of an earlier Overman memory, hands-down the saddest moment of an adolescence that had been defined by the Sad Moment.

Janie Sweeney is on her back in an alcoholic fog. The cacophony of the male chorus eggs Overman on as Marty Merkowitz shoves him on top of her. The others pin him down and he is forced to unzip his fly in order to make his inauspicious presence known. Janie emits a slight, but unmistakable cry at the moment of entry, a whimper not unlike that of a small wounded animal. The sequence of events had lodged itself within him and tortured Overman throughout his subsequent years. Why didn’t he get away? How come he didn’t report the incident? Moreover, if it had affected him this deeply, how badly had it damaged Janie Sweeney? Janie’s parents moved to New Jersey for the next school year and he never heard anything about her since. Not that he tried very hard to track her down.

As Overman picks up the five-pound free weights to do his lateral lifts, it dawns on him: on that fateful night when his good friend Rosenfarb abandoned him by the onion dip, he had been forced into penetrating another against his will. Since it was out of his control, didn’t that make him a victim as well? He had never thought about it in such terms, but technically, Ira Overman had been raped.

However one chose to interpret it, Overman’s first sexual experience with a woman was an act of violence and criminal behavior. Neither Spiderman nor Batman could boast that kind of dysfunction in their pasts. Overman wasn’t proud of it. The mere thought of that sperm-filled night rendered him pale and lifeless. But the resurfacing and ongoing crystallization of this memory also made him want to exercise harder and toughen up. Nobody would rape Ira Overman ever again, not even figuratively.

There is a pristine pleasure in being able to radiate confidence after a lifetime of unhappiness and insecurity. When Overman marches through the doors of Steinbaum Mercedes that morning he is still pudgy, his hair still thinning, yet he carries himself as he supposes a superhero might: not boastful (that was Rosenfarb’s domain) or unnecessarily talkative (Detective Carla’s yammering was still ringing in his ears), but self-assured and businesslike. He realizes that the change he has undergone has yielded a dividend he’s never before known: dignity. Working on a car lot, this quality was arguably in even shorter supply than superpowers. In fact, no salesman at Steinbaum had ever experienced such a thing in a co-worker. His new demeanor baffled the entire dealership. Not only did Overman refuse to kiss the boss’s ass, he didn’t seem nervous about meeting sales expectations in a recessionary marketplace.

A young couple walks in to purchase a car they clearly can’t afford. The Garrisons have decent enough credit but should be using it toward something like a Ford Focus rather than a $50,000 automobile. Big fucking deal. Overman has done this dance a thousand times. Suck them in with zero down, put them into an upside-down monthly payment that gets higher as they “advance in their careers and have more disposable income.” Nine times out of ten the buyer can’t afford to keep up with the increases and winds up selling the car back at a loss or having it taken from him by the bank.

Even though he is far from a superhero, Overman feels obliged to consider: Would Spiderman engage in such deplorable activity if he worked at Steinbaum? Selling this car to these people would be tantamount to Batman taking candy from a baby while he’s fucking the baby’s mother. Overman is not desperate to close this deal. The deals would come when they were the right ones.

“Mr. and Mrs. Garrison, I really don’t think it makes sense for you to buy a car from us,” Overman says, within earshot of an incredulous Hal Steinbaum.

The Garrisons are naturally surprised. They thank him for his forthrightness and he is pleased. Overman then decides to amble over to say “hi” to Maricela, who looks exceptionally fetching this morning.

“Hey, how’s everything going?” he smiles. It comes out naturally now. Sincere, completely unforced, they are friends and words flow as they are meant to.

“I’m good. It’s nice to see you,” she smiles.

“You and Rodrigo seem to have come to an understanding.”

“I guess. He’s a shithead but I’m working on him.”

“People can change,” Overman assures her, now having experienced the concept firsthand.

“Want anything from the Coffee Bean?” he asks. “I was thinking of driving over.”

“A vanilla ice-blended sounds great.”

“You got it,” Overman winks, starting for the door.

“Ira.”

He turns around.

She whispers. “I’m glad we got to make love.”

“Me, too. You’re incredible.”

Her whisper becomes even softer.

“There’s so much more I’d like to do to you.”

“Oh Jesus,” he moans, suddenly interrupted by a noxious whine that could only belong to Hal Steinbaum.

“Overman, get in my office.”

“I was about to go to Coffee Bean. You want anything?”

“I want to rip you a new sphincter. You let those laydowns walk.”

“They couldn’t afford that car.”

“Get in there,” Steinbaum points, as if scolding a small child.

“I’m going to Coffee Bean. I’ll talk to you when I get back.”

“You walk out that door, you won’t be coming back, Overman.”

The gauntlet had been thrown down. If he had been faced with the identical scenario last month, he would have blown off the Coffee Bean run and followed Steinbaum back to the office with his tail between his legs. Not so in the current configuration of things. Now he asks himself: If the Incredible Hulk wanted an ice-blended, would he bag it in favor of being reprimanded by a moron? It seemed unlikely.

“I’ll talk to you later,” Overman says, blithely sauntering out the door.