SEPTEMBER 5 2023 – After the warehouse tour (See 9/3/23 post), we encountered an Asian woman exiting her car parked in the driveway behind the warehouses. “Young-hee!” Cliff called out. “What brings you back here?”
I recognized the name. (See 8/26/23 post). Our introduction triggered what could have been an even more revealing conversation than what ensued, but just as the exchange was getting interesting, Cliff’s phone rang. He glanced at it to identify the caller. “I really gotta get back to my office,” he said, holding his phone in anticipation of another call. “Eric, you coming with me?”
I had my own pressing business calls to return, so as Young-hee handed me the homemade soup she’d come to deliver for UB, I wound down the conversation, said thanks and good-bye and scurried to catch up to Cliff just as he reached the back entrance to Fun Ghoul/Cliffhanger Productions’s street-level offices facing Park Avenue.
I’d never been on hand when the place wasn’t frenetic. It reminded me of a loop-scene from a Hollywood movie version of a stock exchange trading floor, where a steady stream of “buy” and “sell” flooded the set; or of the circular gate area at the Rome airport where I once observed gate attendants shouting (by intercom) arrivals and departures in an apparent decibel competition with the effect that travelers (even those with a full command of spoken Italian) in the waiting area couldn’t make heads or tails of any of the announcements.
The “gate area” or “trading floor” inside Fun Ghoul[1] featured a constant shout-out of questions and answers among staff regarding pressing concerns: the availability of a favored Elvis impersonator for an upcoming event; how much to pay a clown guaranteed to please the high-end parents of high-end kids at a high-end birthday party in a high-end section of northern Bergen County; whether to refund a high-maintenance customer because a malfunctioning machine at an event staged by Cliff had churned out only red cotton candy, not red-white-and-blue, as promised.
Then, as if from behind the curtains but actually from the sidewalk outside, “Françoise”—adorned in full “pirate” livery and make-up—made one of his regular appearances on the stage of Cliff’s wild world. The script was ordinary chit-chat, but the pirate outfit was so worthy of an Oscar, “Françoise’s” mere entrance never failed to interrupt the frenetic work of Cliff’s crew.
Cliff’s staff invariably stopped for me as well, despite my unremarkable sartorial traits. The people were warm, cheerful and genuine, and the collective effect always put me in a better mood than the one I’d worn beforehand. The present occasion was no exception.
After a brief exchange of niceties, which included a comparison between harsh Minnesota winters and mild New Jersey, I excused myself to return some business calls. To achieve privacy, I passed through the doorway between the office and the adjoining space where countless costumes hung from multiple racks. For maximum sound-proofing, I stepped among densely packed Disney characters thick enough to double as winter outerwear and called a banker client back in Minnesota. For all he knew I was sitting in my modern office nine stories above the plaza in front of the Federal Courthouse in downtown Minneapolis. Little could he have imagined that as we discussed the structure of a pending splashy high-rise real estate deal, I was standing in the suffocating company of Goofy, Mickey and Donald at the ground floor level of a weary old warehouse complex in Rutherford, New Jersey packed with long-forgotten remains of eras past.
By the time I’d dispensed with all my business calls, the closing bell had rung on the “trading floor” of Fun Ghoul. The staff had cleared out and only Cliff remained—on the phone—in his back office. Earlier, we’d laid plans to depart at six for the hospital where we’d confront UB with the “contract” containing the terms of his return to 42 Lincoln. While Cliff described expansively over the phone a grand vision for some future entertainment event, I hopped on my laptop to send my sisters an update on the world according to Bruce. “It is approaching 6:00 EST,” I wrote . . .
and Cliff and I are about to leave for the hospital to deliver the rules governing UB’s future. Ironically, the last time we tried this, we were also intending to deliver soup from a nearby deli. You all know the story that unfolded. A social worker intervened and called the cardiologist, who “ordered” us not to deliver any news that would “upset the patient.” Okay, here we are again trying to muster the chutzpah (New Jersey style) to deliver a difficult message to a REALLY difficult person, and guess what: soup is involved again.
Young-hee, UB’s Korean friend, insisted that we take some lentil soup that she had specially made for UB. Incidentally, I just met her for the first time. She told me all about “Mr. Holman.” I quizzed her about various subjects, including what she knew about Alex. Her insistent responses told me that she didn’t HAVE A CLUE.
“So, Young-hee,” I asked. “What do you make of a 30-year old man hanging out with an 80-something-year old man? Do you think the relationship revolves around money, maybe?”
“Oh no!” she said, waving her finger back and forth. “You know Mr. Holman. He no give nobody any money, ever!” She laughed.
“I know, I know,” I joined in. “You’re right. He has never been one to give anything away.”
Just then I thought about the two additional folders thick with overseas wire transfer confirmations—two folders that had gone uncovered during last week’s trip out here and which two folders Cliff and I had fallen upon just a few hours ago. (We have yet to total them, but Cliff thumbed through a few and called out, “My God. Here’s one for $1,800 and here’s another for $2,500 . . . 780 pounds . . . . 2000 pounds . . . . My God!”)
Young-hee asked if she could ride with us but gave me a ready out when she added, “if you’re coming back here.”
“No, actually, we’re going straight to Cliff’s from the hospital,” I said.
“Okay, then. I go separately or maybe tomorrow.”
I wanted to ask Young-hee a long list of questions, starting with, “What the hell happened to Hans? Wait a minute. I mean, who the hell IS he anyway?” . . . moving on to “What’s the deal with all the silverware—is it yours? Cliff says he has no idea whose it is, but you were in the restaurant business right here and you defaulted on your lease and the restaurant is done and gone, so putting two and two together I’d think all those utensils are yours, but I can’t imagine that there’d be ROOM for all of it in your former premises” . . . to “Hey, what’s with the shark’s tooth among your lower incisors? Is that a piece of peppermint gum stuck on your teeth or is it a rogue tooth?” . . . to “UB told me this morning that in his office there’s an envelope stuffed with $20,000 cash from you in settlement of your defaulted lease, except Cliff and I searched high and low for it and could not find it, though we sure stumbled into a ton of other interesting stuff, so, anyway, 1. Did you pay him that much cash or had you just promised to do so? and 2. If you did pay it, what would he have done with it except walk it across the street and hand it to Western Union to send to Alex?” . . . to the over-arching question, “So, Young-hee, exactly how DO you fit into this whole picture?”
But we have more important things to attend to right now.
Cliff and I are working with the nursing service to arrange around-the-clock care (initially) when UB is released—definitely not today, possibly Saturday, probably Monday, after I leave.
I’ll keep you posted.
Love,
Eric
Shortly after I hit the send button, Cliff ended his call and exited his office. “What’s happenin’ Eric?”
“What’s happenin’ is we’re about to confront Uncle Bruce in a manner he’s never faced before in his life.”
“You got it! Let’s go. It’s show time. Got that soup?”
Soon we were aboard Cliff’s black SUV merging with a vengeance into rush hour traffic.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
[1] Fun Ghoul was Cliff’s costume and accessories rental business. Cliffhanger Productions, housed in the same facility, was the ever burgeoning side of his enterprise. It focused on large-scale events, such as municipal street fairs, mega-corporate parties, and high-powered charity galas. Henceforth, for visual ease, “Fun Ghoul” will be the shorthand reference to both enterprises. In any event I’ve rarely encountered a smarter, more creative, more energetic entrepreneur than Cliff. Through his hard work and outgoing personality, he’d built up an extraordinary network of public officials, politicians, prominent business people and sports and entertainment celebrities. No opportunity was ever overlooked by Cliff, especially when it was staring him in the face from across the street. When the 2000 Bush campaign came through Rutherford to stage a mini-rally at the bandshell in Lincoln Park across from the Holman properties, Cliff happened to pull in just as the rally people were putting up signs and bunting. He walked over and told them with his usual conviction how lame it all looked. They hired him on the spot to set things right. Within the next 90 minutes, he’d re-positioned the whole production so effectively, the state campaign manager wanted to put him in charge of all Bush rallies statewide. “You’re assuming I’m a supporter,” Cliff said. “and besides, I’m way too busy, but thanks anyway.”
