Wackos to Obliterate: Book Two (Chapter 5)

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After taking Limey for her morning walk, Trink sat at the kitchen table eating some granola and yogurt while he watched one of those lame, nationally broadcasted morning news shows on TV. He always complained that much of what they featured seemed to be weird info-commercial crap, like what world cruise seems to be popular this year with the over-60 age group. He needed to get ready for work, but Madelyn and he had grown accustomed to watching TV while eating breakfast, so he sat there a little longer than he should have watching a segment about the type of dresses that seemed to be “all-the-rave” at some movie or television awards ceremony. Just as he was about to take his empty dishes and dump them into the sink, an update about Forest-for-the-Trees started to air.

“I got to go,” Trink said, walking back into the dining area in which Madelyn was still seated and staring at the TV.

Madelyn held her coffee mug in both hands; hovering it near her mouth. “You can be a few minutes late, this is important.” As they watched the segment, their deepest anxieties concerning the situation appeared to play out.

“I’ll give Colin a call right now and tell him an emergency came up. He won’t be happy, but I’m sure one of the graveyard shift’s guys could take my slot, or he himself could work for a change. You get ready and we’ll give Mr. Milbank a little visit,” Trink said as he held his cellphone and speed-dailed the manager.

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As they sat waiting for Clive to get off the phone, Trink just stared at a large, framed graph that hung on the wall behind his financial adviser’s head. It showed a comparison between different types of investments with a concluding message that stocks were the best overall; therefore, don’t be a dummy and let us help you make the stock portfolio ideally suited to your needs.

After Clive got off the phone and was available to ideally service their financial needs, it became painfully clear there was little left that needed servicing.

Trink decided to avoid the small talk and get to the point. “Our biggest worry is the reverse mortgage we took out to help make the last big payment you convinced us . . .”

“Advised you,” Clive interrupted.

“No, I think ‘convinced’ is a more accurate term since we had never considered doing that . . .”

“You kept bothering us until we agreed,” Madelyn added. Just then the phone started ringing again.

“This is a pretty difficult time to chat about the situation, I think. Let me take care of some of the business at hand and I’ll pay you a visit later this afternoon. That morning news report has gotten a lot of people unnecessarily panicked,” Clive said as he reached for the landline phone on his desk.

“If the person on the other end is in a similar situation, I think there is good reason for it,” Trink said in a tone dripping with resentment.

On the drive back home, the visit to Clive’s office kept replaying in Trink’s mind. The part that bothered him most was when Clive said he’d be happy to put them in touch with a company interested in purchasing their mortgage from them.

“It really pissed me off when he said he knew of several individuals who had inquired about anyone with real estate underwater or in distress.”

Madelyn shook her head in agreement. “I wanted to kill him when he said he was sure we could make a good deal on selling our mortgage since there was a real market out there for flipping the homes of ‘known’ entities.”

“He implied we fit into that category: ‘known entity under distress,’ but he didn’t make it clear who was responsible for that distress.”

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Trink had just gotten back from walking Limey when Milbank pulled his BMW into their driveway. The last couple of weeks had been such a strain for Clive. He had always been very conscientious about his work. He knew that most of his colleagues were more concerned with growing their own nest eggs rather than those of their clients, he, however, took his role of adviser very seriously; working long hours to ensure he found the best investment fit for each.

In the case of the Mars’ couple, he was convinced the “Forest” package was ideal since it was reputed to be much like a well-diversified mutual fund with returns that were about as high as a hedge fund, but without the risk (supposedly). Since they did not seem to want an investment plan in which they needed to play an active part and just wanted something that would guarantee them a decent income for their old age, “Forest” seemed perfect. After all, they had no dependents, lived frugally, had their mortgage mostly paid off, and Mr. Mars was receiving a pretty steady stream of royalty payments. They could pay regular installments and not have to worry about it. Of course, that was before the royalties stopped arriving. After that, it appeared a new approach was in order.

As the doorbell rang, he hoped they were not home; unfortunately, the door opened and Clive was greeted by the still beautiful Madelyn.

“Mr. Milbank, we’re glad you could take the time from your busy schedule to stop by and help make some sense out of this fiasco. Please come in, Trink is in the den. This way, please,” Madelyn said, indicating the direction with her right arm.

“Thank you very much, Ms. Mars, I think I remember the way,” he replied, following where she pointed.

As they entered, Trink looked up from the teacher’s desk. “Please, sit down at the sofa.”

“Would you care for something to drink?”

“Anything would be nice,” he said, sitting down.

“I just made a fresh pot of coffee. Do you want any cream or sugar?”

“Black’s fine,” he said, placing his briefcase on the hardwood floor next to the sofa. As Madelyn left to get the coffee, Clive glanced around at some of the rock ’n’ roll memorabilia covering the walls: concert posters, promotion pictures of the TRinkets, even a couple of gold records framed and hanging behind the desk and between a large picture window that looked out onto the landscaped back yard. “I said it before, but this is a beautiful home.”

“That’s why I don’t want to lose it. I just want to say, while Madelyn’s out of the room, I’ll be very, very pissed if we have to let this place go. It took us too long to find it,” Trink said, getting up from the desk and walking over to sit down on a stuffed chair to the right of Clive.

“I assure you that won’t happen.”

“Why then did you say as much this morning?”

“No, I didn’t mean that; I just mentioned, if you were willing, I knew some people who’d be more than happy to arrange something that may be to your liking.”

“Did I miss anything?” Madelyn asked, carrying a tray with three cups of coffee and a small dish of homemade brownies.

“Neither knives drawn nor guns discharged,” Trink said.

“Not yet, anyway,” Madelyn replied. “Before we get carried away, let’s enjoy a little coffee. I hope you like brownies, Mr. Milbank,” she said, setting the tray down on the coffee table.

“I try to avoid sweets, but . . .”

“You’ll love these, trust me. Madelyn makes the best brownies,” Trink broke in with a grin on his face.

“No, no, that was Alice B. Toklas,” Madelyn corrected.

“Oh, that’s right. That’s where the recipe is from.”

“Yep, about 1954, I think,” she added.

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Thirty minutes later, the THC started to make its presence known to Clive. He had told them it was still vague what was to occur now that the originators of the “Trees-in-the-Forest” fund were indicted with multiple Federal charges of fraud. They were free on bail, but were scheduled to appear in court in a couple of weeks.

“So, you have no idea if or when we’ll know our money is safe,” Trink asked, starting to feel the effects of the brownies kicking in.

“Say what?” Clive replied, sounding a little preoccupied with something.

“We can’t sit around and wait forever without some cash flow,” Madelyn said.

“We don’t want to get kicked out of our house because we can’t make payments on the reverse mortgage. Man, I knew it was a mistake to do that; we almost had the fuckin’ place paid off and you turned around and convinced us it would be wiser to get that nice chunk of money to put into the ‘Forest’ bullshit. Man, we were stupid as fuck. What kind of a financial manager are you, man? You sold us down the river,” Trink said getting more worked up the longer he spoke.

Clive looked at the two of them and was amazed at how angry they were; actually, he was surprised at how they both appeared to consider him as an enemy or an intruder into their world. Why was he suddenly feeling this paranoid sense of animosity? It was true he had been pressuring them to put more investment in the mutual fund, but he was sure it was for the best; after all, it was a closed fund very few people could join. Personally, he would never have been capable of paying into it. He had felt more than a tinge of resentment they were able to do so just because Trink was lucky enough to be in a group that had been popular but mediocre at best. On the other hand, they expected miracles from him to guarantee their money would continue to grow. Now, however, it appeared he failed them.

“I’m really sorry,” he mumbled, looking down at the silk rug on the floor under his feet.

“Hey, Clive, you’re not the one who took the money and stashed it in a Swiss bank account or somewhere; at least, I don’t think so,” Trink said, noticing by the way Clive was staring at the rug that he was starting to get zonked.

When he failed to respond to that comment but continued to look at his shoes, Madelyn said, “You know, maybe he did.”

“Huh, me? No, I didn’t take anything, but I really feel funny right now.”

“You know, you seem really high. Have you taken something? You’re not suicidal, are you?” Trink asked, looking closely at him then turning to Madelyn, shaking his head gravely.

“You think he came over here to fall on his sword, to die in our house?” Madelyn asked, looking him over very closely. She gave Trink a wink, got up, walked over to Clive and started to rub his back a little as he continued to look down and stare at the rug on the floor.

“Time to change the channel, huh, Clive ol’ boy?” Trink said, winking at Madelyn.

“I wonder what could be wrong with him. Do you think it’s the guilt?” she asked, rubbing his back as she sat on the arm of the sofa.

“I’m sure it’s happened before.”

“Why doesn’t he say anything? Do you think we should call an ambulance?” Madelyn asked in mock concern.

“Maybe he’s been poisoned.”

“It could be the brownies. I didn’t make them; I bought them on our way back from his office.”

“I ate some, but nothing happened to me.”

“That’s because you’re a tough old bird, not a sensitive financial type like Mr. Milbank here,” Madelyn said as she continued to rub his back. Either in response to her back rubbing or to the concern she pretended to show, Clive leaned his head toward her in an attempt to be cradled by her like a child in need of protection.

“You’re not saying he’s gay, are you?” Trink asked as he gave her another wink.

“What’s wrong with me? Please don’t let it take me away again,” Clive blurted out and tried to bury his head under the arm with which Madelyn had been rubbing him. She slipped off the arm of the sofa and squeezed herself between it and Clive.

“You poor baby, we’re here to keep you from going crazy,” she said, starting to move her body like a mother rocking a small child.

“You think he’s schizophrenic?” Trink said, enjoying the chance to play with Clive’s head. No doubt he had never smoked pot before; definitely, he had never eaten brownies, which were having a much stronger effect on him than they expected.

“Oh, it’s coming again. Don’t let it take me,” Clive groaned again.

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Eventually, they convinced him to lie down and sleep it off.

“I wonder what rock he crawled from under. I can’t believe, in this day and age, a guy could grow up with no experience of getting high.”

“No doubt, he was raised by Quakers, Amish, or some such retro sect,” Madelyn replied, shaking her head as she sat back down in the den. “He’ll be better soon.”

“I wish I could say the same about our finances.”

“You got to find out what Marden has in mind.”

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Links to the previous chapters of Book Two

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4

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Copyright (©) by Kenneth Wayne