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I watch him from the corner of my eye, wondering, What the hell do I do with Marv? He works. He's got money. Certainly, he owns the worst car in living history, but he seems satisfied enough, considering he won't spend any of that money of his to buy a new one.
So what could Marv want?
What could he need?
With every other message I waited for the solution to come.
With Marv, I'm not sure. For him, I have a different feeling. It moves close and resides somewhere I seem to walk past all the time but never notice. I must see it every day, but there's a big difference between seeing and finding.
In some way, Marv needs me.
I don't know what to do.
It goes on for the next twenty-four hours, this complete indecision. New Year's Eve has come and gone. The fireworks have swept the sky in the city. Drunken louts have decorated my cab, shrieking happiness that can only end in bedsheets soaked with the breath of beer and the weight of tomorrow.
Everyone went to Ritchie's place this time, and I made sure to drop in around midnight. His folks were having a party. I shook Marv's, Ritchie's, and Simon's hand. I kissed Audrey on the cheek and asked her how she managed to get the night off. Pure luck, apparently.
After that it was back to work and home to the Doorman in the early hours of morning. That's where I am now. We share a prolonged celebratory drink, and I say, "Here's to you, Mr. Doorman. May you live another year." He drinks up, heads over to the door, and lies down.
I'm pretty circumspect for New Year's Eve. I guess I'm not really in the mood for celebrating this year. Part of it's thinking of my father, as he's not here anymore for these kind of days and nights. Christmas. New Year's. Not that he was ever sober enough to really have an impact, but it affects me nonetheless.
I take the towels in the bathroom down as well as the fairly scungy tea towel in the kitchen. That was one of my father's idiosyncrasies, or superstitions. Never leave anything out to dry as the sun comes up for the new year. A hell of a legacy, I know, but better than nothing.
The other reason for my mood is the thought of Marv and what to do.
I sift through many things--what he's said lately and what he's done.
I think of the Sledge Game and the sheer patheticness of his car. And his preference for kissing the Doorman rather than forking out for the Christmas card game at his place.
Forty grand in the bank, but always pulling back when it comes to money.
Always, I think, and the question strikes me a few nights later as I watch an old movie.
What is it that Marv intends to do with forty thousand dollars?
Yes.
I have it.
The money.
What does Marv need to do with the money?
That's the message.
I remember what Daryl and Keith told me about Ritchie. They said I should know because he was one of my best friends. This nearly cajoles me into thinking I should also know what Marv needs with the money. Maybe it's right under my nose, I wonder, but nothing is immediately apparent, and I understand that with Marv, my knowledge of him is what I have to use to get the message out of him.
I might not know the message, but I know Marv and the options I can go through to figure this out.
On my front porch, I sit with the Doorman and the setting sun. I consider three tactics for Marv.
Tactic 1: argue with him.
This could be done quite easily by bringing up the subject of his car and why he refuses to buy a new one.
The danger here is that Marv could become so heated that he'll just storm out of the room and I won't learn anything. This would be nothing short of disastrous.
The advantage of this option is, first of all, that it could be fun, and it might actually make him buy a new car.
