SEPTEMBER 13, 2023 – It was 1:30 a.m. when my phone’s ringtone woke me from a deep slumber. It was Cliff.
“What the hell?” I answered.
“What’s happenin’?”
“Apart from no longer being sound asleep, not much. What’s up?” I said, still trying to find my bearings.
Cliff explained that he’d just returned to his office in Rutherford after one of the biggest razzle, dazzle events he’d ever produced: a 50th birthday party for some ridiculously rich client. “I was swinging by the office here and noticed that every single light was on inside 42 Baghdad Street—and I do mean every single light, from the basement to the third floor. I thought maybe you were still there, so I let myself in, searched the entire house, called Uncle Bruce’s name, called yours but no answer. Then I saw that the door to the ‘viewing room’ was closed. The TV was on and I just couldn’t bring myself to open the door, because if I did I’d be walking in on the middle of a gay porn flick.
“Eric, can you imagine why Mr. Cheapskate, who is forever turning lights off where any building tenants might want them on and who is always grousing about his electric bill, would turn on every light in the house while he’s up there watching a porn flick?”
“Cliff, this just in.”
“What?”
“I know this will be a complete surprise to you; something you’d never imagine, not in a million years.”
“What?”
“The man’s insane.”
Cliff howled. When he regained his senses, he apologized for waking me up, and I told him it was okay: when I went back to sleep, 42 Baghdad Street would be all lit up in my nightmares.
The next day, Sunday, I lingered in the reassuring company of Jenny and Garrison, then enjoyed a nice lunch with our niece, Erica, who lived farther down the west side of Manhattan. Later in the afternoon I ventured over to Rutherford to talk brass tacks with UB.
UB’s vehicle—a van borrowed, Cliff had informed me, from the elusive Hans—was gone, so I checked in with Cliff. I knew he’d be on hand catching up on work.“You can relax,” he said. “Uncle Bruce has been AWOL since noon today. I’ve been too busy to call him, but he’ll show up sooner or later. While he’s gone, you should check up on the latest money flow to that blood-sucking Serbian drug addict.”
“That and bank and investment statements. Cliff, we have no idea exactly what he has or where it’s stashed. All the dough he’s sending to Alex—where is it coming from? Every time I’m out here I search for statements but everything’s scattered to the winds.”
“I know this much: he has a ton of money at Boiling Springs Savings, because that’s where he goes before he walks across the street to Western Union. And he’s got a broker who he’s always talking to. Uncle Bruce is always talking about his investment strategies, and I know he’s really tight with his broker because at Christmas and on Uncle Bruce’s birthday the broker sends him over-the-top gifts. Uncle Bruce tells me about it, how his broker treats him like royalty, not knowing, of course, that Uncle Bruce is crazy-ass insane. What that all tells me is that Uncle Bruce does quite a lot of business with the broker which tells me that Uncle Bruce has quite a lot of money socked away somewhere. But Eric, half of it is probably your mom’s. Which gets back to the talk you need to have.”
“I know, I know. Plus, I’ve gotta figure out if he has a will and if so, how much he has going to Alex.”
“Now you’re really scarin’ me,” said Cliff, “the master of horror.”
“Most likely, if he does have a will, it’s in his safe deposit box at the bank, but there should be a copy lying around.”
“Add that to your to-do list. We’ve got to find out, because if Alex is in that will, we’ve got a major problem and you know what we’ll need to do.”
“What?”
“Rip that goddamn will to shreds.”
“Cliff, hold on. It’s not that simple. Besides, what you suggest would create all sorts of serious legal, ethical issues. What if Alex has a copy? What if some lawyer has a copy? What if Uncle Bruce went to a lawyer and had a will drawn up and the lawyer is holding on to the original or even a copy?”
“Eric, gimme a break. Uncle Bruce is too cheap to hire a lawyer. Besides, he thinks he knows more than any lawyer. I mean he thinks he is a lawyer, just like he has everyone thinking he’s a doctor. If he has a will, he made it all by himself, and if we find it, Eric, this ain’t Minnesota. You wanna talk about what’s fucking illegal and unethical? How about a drug addict living in London taking advantage of an insane old man and stealing obscene amounts of money from him that we can’t seem to do a goddamn thing about it? Tell me that isn’t a reason for that blood-sucking asshole to spend the rest of his life in prison, and you’re worried about ripping up the will of a guy that you and I both know is out of his mind—a will that no one except you and I would even know about?”
“Except Alex,” I said. “But Cliff, unless and until we uncover a will, we don’t have to get into what we’d do or not do if there were one.”
“You got it.”
With added purpose, nonetheless, I borrowed Cliff’s key ring and found my way up to UB’s “office.” He promised to keep a lookout for UB’s return so I could be alerted.
In the ensuing excavation session, I uncovered nothing about what he had in the bank or in investments. But I did find more unsettling evidence of funds going out the door and over to London: the latest Western Union receipts—about the only papers in the chaos that found their way into a collection of labeled folders (by this time, one for each year the funds flow had been in effect). Since my previous visit less than a month before, another 25,000 pounds had been wired to England.
After about an hour into my unsuccessful search for bank and investment statements I uncovered . . . a will. Actually several. Or more precisely, several drafts of a will, each printed off UB’s ancient printer connected to his antique Apple computer. A floppy disk revealed yet more drafts. The drafts kept switching around minor sums between Cliff and Angelo[1], but to my relief and puzzlement, never anything to Alex. The changes between Cliff and Angelo must’ve reflected UB’s constantly changing sentiments toward the two. After Cliff had responded to one medical emergency or another, Cliff’s “stock” in the will would go from $10,000 to $20,000. When Cliff was on the outs, his amount would drop back to $10,000 or disappear altogether. Likewise, after Angelo had raced over to patch a hole in the roof in the middle of a rainstorm, I imagined, his number went up. When the sun was shining in conjunction with Cliff heroics, Angelo’s sum would retreat accordingly.
In all of this, I surmised that there was no extant valid will—in the office or a safe deposit box. I further concluded that UB was incapable of finalizing a will. He was too skittish about “death” or even talk about death. And as I’d known since Grandpa’s death 18 years before and Gaga’s demise 12 years before, UB “didn’t do” funerals or memorial services. I realized that his avoidance of all things relating to death might be a factor in his inability to address trust and estate issues generally and even Mother’s inheritance specifically. Such matters involved people dying or people who were already dead, and his own will, of course, would relate directly to his own inevitable rendezvous with the Grim Reaper. To take sign, seal, and make a will official, I thought, would in his mind create a jinx guaranteeing his premature death.
Once I’d convinced myself that UB was unlikely to “will away” money or property to Alex, I was able to see some humor in all the changes involving Cliff and Angelo. Working off what appeared to be the most recent draft will, I couldn’t resist getting a laugh out of Cliff. I called his cell.
“What’s happenin’?”
“I found a will.”
“You’re kiddin’ me.”
“I’d never do that. Anyway, I have good news, good news, not such good news, bad news, and good news.”
“Okay, I’m ready.” Cliff was already laughing.
“The good news is that Alex is not in it.”
“You are shittin’ me.”
“I kid you not. No Alex.”
“Of course, that’s because he’s getting all his money up front.”
“Exactly. Yet another reminder, as if we needed one, that we need to bring that to an end before all the money’s gone. But, Cliff . . . at least he’s not in the will.”
“Okay, I agree. That’s good news. What’s next?”
“More good news.”
“O . . kay . . . What?”
“You’re in the will.”
“Imagine that. But something tells me there’s a catch.”
“That’s the not so good news. He’s got you down for only 10 grand.”
“Ha! I knew it! The cheap bastard,” Cliff laughed.
“Cliff, I’ll just say for the record, that that amount is just plain offensive, given all your sacrifices over the years.”
“Yeah, I think I’ve spent that just on keeping Uncle Bruce out of jail. Just kidding, of course. It’s probably closer to 20.”
“Cliff, you’re too much, and I don’t have to tell you that you’re taking this all very much in stride.”
“Okay, I think you said something about bad news. What’s the bad news, aside from the fact that I’m only getting 10 grand?”
“No, the 10 grand wasn’t the bad news. That was just the not so good news. The bad news . . . you ready for this?”
“I’m ready—maybe.”
“The bad news is that Angelo gets 20.”
This time Cliff roared, and his infectious laugh sent me into hysterics as well. We laughed so hard we laughed at how hard we were laughing.
Cliff was the first to surface for oxygen. “Eric, this is too damn funny. Angelo beats out Cliff. I love it! From now on I’ve gotta be nicer to Uncle Bruce.”
“Yeah, like not buggin’ him any more about sending money to Alex. But in the end I’ve got good news.”
“You’re in the will?”
“No, though I agree, that would be good news. No, the truly good news is that the will isn’t signed, so Angelo gets nothing, but of course, neither do you.”
“You can’t make this stuff up.”
“No you can’t, Cliff. No one can.”
“It’s the world according to Bruce.”
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
[1] UB’s on call (for cash) handyman on call. (See 8/25/23 post).
