Jack Steele 6101 words
240 Regency Drive
Marstons Mills, MA 02648
508-280-8645
A Happy Life
By
Jack Steele
This happened a long time ago. It’s ancient history. Water under the bridge. As far as I know Dick is still alive, but both the aunt and the uncle are long dead and buried, side by side it should be noted, but there are precious few left around here who would even know who they were, never mind care about that. Dick’s girlfriend at the time died a couple of years ago, and the one time I was silly enough to mention him to her, she acted, not too convincingly, as if she barely remembered him. She winced, after forty years she winced just at the mention of his name, imagine that, and I didn’t even get close to finding out what if anything she knew.
He lost interest in her, that much was always clear, and then after a few weeks of making her miserable, he disappeared. He was sent off to boarding school, so everyone said, which sounded suspicious to say the least, but I was just a kid. If I’d asked too many questions, they might have shipped me off too. Not really, but it was unthinkable to get too pushy with adults in those days, and even if you did, they wouldn’t tell you anything, so for all I knew he might have joined the French Foreign Legion or maybe the circus. I would have liked that, either one, but as far as I know, he didn’t do anything that colorful or dramatic. Or at least I didn’t learn anything resembling specifics until much later. “I’ve been all over and done a little bit of everything,” is all he said two years later, clearly proud of himself, when he showed up in my dorm room at college to borrow forty dollars. A lot of money back then, he’s lucky I had it. But except to confirm my doubts about the boarding school story, not a word did he divulge about where he’d been or why he left, unless you count “all over” and “just had to” and a shrug.
I didn’t get the money back until the early seventies, when we finally met up again in San Francisco, but even then I didn’t get the story. He handed me two twenties and threw in a few drinks and dinner at a little North Beach Italian place. We even went to the racetrack, Bay Meadows, which they’ve shut down now I hear, and I met his girlfriend of the time, an artsy chic brunette, nice enough if a little distracted, and beautiful, as was always the case with Dick. He was all set by that time, having come into his considerable inheritance at twenty-four, but he still didn’t tell me why he left home or where he went.
That didn’t come out until about five years ago, which is the last time I’ve seen or heard from him, and I suspect he was thinking it was now or never, that we might never see each other again, the clock was ticking. That’s why I took the opportunity to bring it up to his old girlfriend shortly after I’d heard his side of the story. It wasn’t just the two drinks I’d had that made me do it. Time was running short for all of us. Maybe this would put something to rest for her, ease her mind, or maybe she’d just be curious, like me, but approaching her was obviously a mistake. I’d always liked Dick, everyone had, which may be why I assumed that she’d be as interested as I was, and I wanted to tell somebody who might care, never dreaming it would hurt her, just the mention of his name, after all that time. Not so ancient history for her, obviously, if she had to lie to me about remembering him. Stopped me in my tracks, I don’t mind admitting. I didn’t say another word about him, never told her anything. I’d felt a little abandoned myself when he left, truth be told, but I was just a friend. I hadn’t planned on marrying him.
*****
Dick’s uncle was one of those tall, lean, handsome men who might be cold, shy, or just reserved. It was hard to tell, but the one thing he was for sure was rich, as was Dick’s father, on account of the oil they found under the family cotton fields. All cotton back then, but mostly maize now, as it already was when the uncle was driving around in his green Coup deVille, playing at still being a farmer. I say that, but people have told me that he was actually a pretty good farmer, made some money at it, but even so, he didn’t need the money, and by reputation he hardly ever got out of his Cadillac, and when he was in it, about all he ever did was sip Hiram Walker, which he always bought in pints, maybe because they fit better in the glove compartment. He also, so they said, fooled around with young Mexican girls that he helped get across the border. I don’t know about that, but I do know why there were rumors. There always seemed to be females of that type around the barn where he kept his equipment, and I got plenty of opportunity to see them because whenever Dick and I wanted to go hunting or just camp out and drink beer on any of the land, it was more or less expected that we stop by the barn and tell somebody first. I kept thinking that one day we’d walk in on something embarrassing, but we never did.
In my opinion, despite rumors and appearances to the contrary, Dick’s uncle led a pretty straight and narrow life. Not only did he farm when he didn’t have to, but he stayed married to the same woman for over forty years, achievements that impress me now more than they would have back then. What impressed us then, Dick and me both, was that he’d been a navigator on a bomber during the war—he flew thirty some odd missions over Germany--and that he was a regular at a weekly high stakes poker game at the country club. I think the poker game impressed us more than the war, perhaps because its danger seemed more imminent and therefore more real to us. When we heard on good authority what it took in cash just to sit down at the table, we had a hard time believing it, even though the source was extremely reliable, and I’m sure it was true. And on top of that, the men took it seriously in a way that made me wonder why they did it, since it sounded more like torture than fun. Like boot camp, or two a day football practice in August, only the head bashing wasn’t physical, except very rarely. One of the other regulars, the loquacious father of a friend of ours, told us that by far the best poker game ever invented was five card stud. It separated the men from the boys, he said, mostly because of how simple it was, and how therefore, over time, pure meanness and cunning always won out. Dick’s uncle, he added with a knowing grin, was a man who could more than hold his own in any stud game.
Of course none of that helped Dick know his uncle any better, assuming, and I don’t, that he wanted to. I think Dick wanted his uncle to be exactly what he was, a colorful character, someone you could enjoy seeing but didn’t have to touch, like a film star. And that’s pretty much how the uncle wanted it too, as near as I can tell. Strange as it may seem, I don’t recall ever hearing him say anything to anyone, I honestly don’t remember hearing him speak, and when spoken to, he’d always move back as if he’d been gently pushed, and at the same time either grin or not grin, usually over his shoulder. That was it, the extent of his contact with other people, at least in public. Grinning or not grinning back at them as he moved away.
The aunt was something else, but she didn’t have a lot to do with other people either. Quite a prize, nevertheless, I’m sure most people thought, and I did too, would still if I didn’t know how sexist it sounds, but those were different times, and she was a prize, and may even have thought of herself as such. To look at her you’d think she was Greek or Italian. Dark and voluptuous, but sweet too and wholesome. You’d have sworn that she would speak with an exotic foreign accent, but she didn’t. She didn’t seem to me to speak with any accent, which suggests that she wasn’t from that far away, San Antonio, maybe, or Houston, but I don’t recall anyone saying, not even Dick. What was important to people was that she was clearly a city girl and seemed a cut above Dick’s uncle in class. Some said she was “cultured,” others that she “came from money,” according I’m sure to their own priorities. In any case, she apparently wore stylish and expensive clothes and knew something about classical music, including how to play several different instruments. She was also deemed “sweet,” according to my mother, but a person who “kept to herself.” I remember seeing her a few times at church, usually with her two small children around her, and there’s no doubt that she stood out from the crowd. She had natural poise, no pretensions, and showed no discomfort about anything. No anxiety. I’d never seen anything like her, not in real life, and couldn’t keep my eyes off of her, and when she smiled at me, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I honestly don’t know how any man, or boy, could not have fallen in love with her at first sight.
At the time Dick didn’t tell me anything about her and not much about his home life in general. I knew what everyone knew. His parents died in a plane crash when he was fourteen, one of those little private planes that are always getting lost in the mountains, so he moved in with his aunt and uncle and their two children. That was about it. He never mentioned getting along or not getting along with them. He spoke of his uncle as the colorful character I’ve described, and with the same detachment, almost as if they had no relationship at all. He said nothing about his aunt or his cousins. The cousins were little kids, and I don’t remember them registering on my radar at all, except as cute satellites of their mother. My knowledge of the aunt was all from my own observation. Dick contributed nothing. Aside from all that, I knew they were rich and we weren’t. They had a cold water drinking fountain in their house and a swimming pool in the back yard. They took long vacations to places like California and New York in the summer and their maid came every day and wore a uniform. Just to name the things that impressed me the most.
*****
All along I was pretty sure that something important, probably bad, had happened. I never believed the boarding school story, and although it was possible, it seemed unlikely that Dick had run off for the usual teenage reasons. Things couldn’t have been that bad, not without me getting some hint of it. We saw each other nearly every day, and he never seemed to me or anyone else particularly unhappy. Besides, if it had been some crazy impulse, if he’d lost his temper over being treated badly, or thinking he’d been, sooner or later he’d have come to his senses. He wasn’t crazy, he’d have come back, but he never did. Not only that but as far as I know, even after both the aunt and the uncle were dead, he never again set foot in this town. He got his money at twenty-four and promptly became one of those rich semi-hippy entrepreneurs, most of it age appropriate, all of it fashionable, starting with boutique drug dealing and a record shop and ending with an ultra-exclusive spa on some Valhalla sort of island in the Caribbean. And he spiced that up from time to time with potentially risky personal adventures. Nothing political or socially conscious. That wasn’t Dick’s style. More like mountain climbing, sailing, or skydiving, when he wasn’t chasing women at some exclusive beach or ski resort.
As a friend growing up he was one of those guys who know more than they ought to, or than you think they should, considering how lazy he was. Full of energy, always up to something, but lazy about work, and I began to suspect that he had a little bit of the con man in him, in particular in how he seemed to know more than he actually did. I won’t say he never read a book in his life, but what he read almost exclusively was encyclopedias and dictionaries, things he could cherry pick for what might be useful. He had no patience at all. At least not the kind it takes to allow an idea to develop slowly over time or to follow a long and winding story, which sometimes got on my nerves, but oddly enough, almost paradoxically, his saving grave, what made me like him in spite of that, was that he had a genuine curiosity about almost everything. He was always eager to talk about the books I’d read and he hadn’t. He was a good listener.
But we were an odd couple. As a rule I avoid overbearing personalities like the plague, and he was nothing if not that, but he was so smart, or at least quick, and so adept at knowing exactly when to be sincere and when to be ironic, that I couldn’t help but like him. Only once or twice did I lose my temper and lash out at him for being a phony, an insipid phony, I think I said, all show and no go, skin deep charm, glib, but after looking surprised, even shocked for a moment, he got himself together and rolled with the punch. He admitted it, and then he flattered me by saying I was the only one who’d ever seen through him. Bullshit or not, and I don’t think it was, not entirely, it actually brought us closer together.
My best guess about what had happened, until he finally told me the truth, was it was between him and the girlfriend, even though she acted, both back then and when I approached her forty years later, more like the one who’d been jilted, so why would he be the one to do something crazy and run off? Still, it was all I could think of, and there were scenarios that might fit. Had he date raped her, or at least pushed too hard in that direction? Gotten her pregnant? Had he been forbidden to see her, for one of those or other reasons, and told by her father to get out of town? Those are the things I was thinking of, so you can imagine my surprise when he told me what it really was.
As I’ve said, I was fascinated by his aunt, almost in love with her, or at least had a huge crush. But of course she was unattainable, in another realm. The perfect woman, at least a version of it, standing there on the church lawn with her children: pretty, soft, smiling. A sweet yet sensual earth mother if there ever was one. An ideal. At the time it seemed unbelievable that I, he or anyone else, including her husband, could have sex with such a woman. I was very young then, obviously.
Plus, if I haven’t already made it clear, I’ll go on record now as saying that I always thought of Dick as fundamentally conventional. Both then and now. He was smart and cool enough to be interesting, but not someone who would seriously deviate from the norm. He’d never lose control, never, as we used to say, go off the deep end. I know that for most of the time we were close, it was assumed that he and his girlfriend would get married and live happily ever after. They had dates every Friday and Saturday night and usually saw each other for a while on Sunday afternoons. They met between classes whenever possible and ate lunch together. They talked on the phone on weeknights for as long as her parents allowed. His plan had been to get a law degree and come back home and become one of the fixtures of the community. Wife and kids, a good citizen.
The day he told me what really happened he admitted that during those two years or so he lived with his aunt and uncle, he hardly ever saw them or his cousins. Not their fault, he was quick to add. He rebuffed all attempts they made to include him. His uncle wasn’t a bad guy. Pretty much what we saw when we were teenagers, what he appeared to be in public. Not unkind, but reserved almost to the point of not being there, which suited Dick fine. He didn’t want a substitute father. Or mother. He just wanted to be left alone, still grieving maybe, and that caused a problem with the aunt. She was different from her husband. She was friendly even when Dick was rude to her, which always took the form of ignoring her. He just didn’t respond. It was a big house with a full time maid, and it was easy enough for him to go his own way, even for meals. And of course he’d never, ever, thought of his aunt sexually, not even in the wholesome way that I did. He knew she was attractive, no one could miss that, but she was a grownup, a wife, a mother. He also knew she meant well, but he still did his best to stay away from her. He didn’t want be cornered into hating her, and maybe his uncle too, for not really being his parents. He just wanted them to leave him alone.
Then one day she asked him to go with her to the movies. He thinks she asked him innocently. It was a foreign movie showing at a second-run theater. She felt uncomfortable going there alone, she told him, but he knew it was only a ploy to establish some sort of relationship with him, a boy who might be bright and popular at school, but who wouldn’t warm up to anyone at home. She could feel his anger, she told him later, for his loss, or some such bullshit. He might be doing fine on the surface, but clearly he missed his parents and needed her help. It was a summer afternoon, and the movie was La Dolce Vita. She wasn’t really all that interested in the movie, she eventually admitted, but she thought it might appeal to a precocious boy who read a lot and had adult tastes, which is how everyone saw him. He listened to jazz, not top 40. He went to the city alone to shop for himself. He talked about hydrogen bombs and capital punishment. The film, she hoped, would be just sophisticated enough to make her seem cool, like an older sister. That’s the role she had in mind. She’d wanted to establish herself not as a mother but as an older sister. Someone he could talk to about “deep things.”
He couldn’t explain to me why he went, which makes me think he’d already been thinking about her in ways he won’t admit. Or maybe after all he was getting desperate for contact, even affection, but all he admits to is being pissed off, not so much at her as at being trapped, since for some reason this time he couldn’t say no, and he was worried for a while about showing his anger, maybe even walking out of the movie. But that didn’t happen. Something else did, and from even before the first scene, the one of Marcello in the helicopter with the statue of Jesus hanging from it by a rope, Marcello waving to the women on the rooftops as he flies over Rome. The theater was nearly empty, they sat in the center near the back, and according to Dick, it was all they could do to keep their hands off of each other. I have to take his word for that, and he insists on we, that it was mutual, not just him. He says he felt it immediately, even before the lights went down, just from sitting next to her, and then when the lights did go down, there they were, virtually alone in a dark and air conditioned cocoon.
He wasn’t the least bit nervous. He didn’t think about making a move. He felt no awkwardness. No anxiety. Just an overwhelming attraction that was satisfying in itself. It was like being on drugs, he told me, like when you can enjoy having an appetite for things, for everything, but never do anything. The backs of their hands touched where they rested on the seats down by their legs, but that was all, and he could have sat there like that forever. I nodded as if I understood, and I did, but not because it had ever happened to me. At least not that whole hog, that pure, and certainly not that forbidden. I understood it only in the way everyone does, as a spectator, a witness to romance, and, I suppose, as a human being. Most of us have an odd sympathy, at least theoretically, for the idea that love justifies everything and should conquer all. We even cry when it doesn’t. We’re always on the side of the lovers, even when we aren’t really, or wouldn’t be if push came to shove, when we believe in our more sober moments, in real life, that civilization would surely crumble if such a thing were ever allowed. Children disobeying parents. Teenagers copulating all over the place, running off together when no one understands, committing suicide in the face of separation. Not to mention wives cheating on husbands, their lovers crawling through bedroom windows; or husbands cheating on wives, meeting young hussies in cheap motels. And in this case, an older married woman seducing a teenage boy, or at least that’s how it would be seen legally. But in any case, these things never stop for long with hand touching. That’s true love for you. Naked bodies insist upon being attracted, pulled together. They want to touch no matter the cost.
Some such thing got hold of Dick and his aunt, incubated so to speak while the movie was playing, or grew like wildfire from its incubation, and when they got home they went straight to his room without a word. They hadn’t touched yet except for the backs of their hands, but they both knew exactly where to go and what to do. She immediately lay down on her back at the foot of the bed, her legs hanging off the edge. She’d worn a dress to the movie, and when she lay down she pulled it up around her waist and pushed her underwear down over her legs. He said he’ll never forget that first time, standing at the foot of the bed looking at her, which shocked me. I really don’t know what to make of that. I’m not sure why he had to share that particular detail, but we’d had a few drinks by then, so maybe that was it. Regardless, to this day, five years later, I sometimes wake up in the morning thinking about it. I never saw her like that, needless to say, but I can’t get the picture, what I imagine she looked like, out of my head.
He ran off with little more than the shirt on his back, but not until he’d had sex with her in his room for four solid weeks. “Four solid weeks,” his exact words, and I didn’t have the nerve to ask what that meant exactly, how many times. Every day? More than once a day? In spurts? I was left to wonder, as I had at the picture in my head of her naked legs dangling off the edge of the bed. It was summer. He had no school and no summer job. A rich boy, his main activities water skiing and drinking. His aunt didn’t work. She was plenty busy with her kids and her cello practice. His uncle was gone most of the day. There were only the maid and his cousins to consider, not serious impediments evidently, but I suppose they always had to listen for the unexpected. It would be cool in his room, the blinds or heavy drapes drawn to keep the sun out. And quiet in the big house. Sealed off. Just the hum of the air conditioning, now and then the refrigerator coming on, or water running from who knows where. Did the bed squeak?
He ran off because he was scared, saw no end to it in sight, and was convinced that his uncle would find out and kill him. Maybe kill both of them. The word guilty never crossed his lips. His uncle kept a gun in the glove compartment of the Coupe de Ville next to the pint of Hiram Walker. Dick never regretted leaving, surely he did the right thing for everyone, he told me, but there were times, many times over the years when he wondered what happened after he left, and I was never much help about that. The time I saw him in San Francisco in the seventies I was able to tell him his girlfriend had married someone she met in college, but nothing about his aunt and uncle that had anything to do with him. Just that they seem to be doing fine, same as always, and then the last time I saw him I had the news that they were dead. Apparently he’d never made an effort to get in touch with him.
We drank beer that last time at a café bar in a shopping mall in Dallas. I was in town to visit relatives, and I just happened to see him on a bench in front of a big department store. He said, vaguely, that he was passing through town on business. We’d recognized each other immediately, and he promptly called the girlfriend he was waiting for on her cell and told her where we’d be. Then after we had two beers he called her again and told her he’d meet her later back at their hotel.
Finally, I learned a little about what he’d done when he ran off. For a while he took anything that came along just to eat, even picked cotton once, but finally he landed a warehouse job in California and that kept him in decent shape until he got his family money. For that he had an attorney in California do all the contacting and never had to talk to anyone back home. It was all just signing and getting papers notarized. He did have to send a picture and fingerprints. Get a copy of his birth certificate. The aunt and uncle knew then where his attorney was and how to get in touch with him, or at least try, but no one even wrote him a letter. I didn’t ask if he’d written to them. The way he told it, judging from my read on his attitude, indifferent at best, I assumed not.
But I can’t help but think the death of his aunt and uncle meant something to him, or maybe it was just the fact of mortality in general. He looked solemn for a moment or two when I told him and that was it. He wasn’t inclined to talk about them at all, neither fondly nor with resentment, and all I got was a polite nod when I reported that after he left life seemed to go on in that family as if nothing had happened, as if their story about sending him off to school was true. I told him about continuing to see his aunt at church with his cousins and his uncle in his green Coup de Ville, but he didn’t press me for details, nor did he seem much interested in trying to figure out what his uncle might or might not have known. I like to think that the whole thing weighed on him, running out on the only people he had for a family, people who were at least very fond of him, his whole life, but I’m not so sure.
For my part, I was burning with curiosity. If the uncle didn’t know about his wife being unfaithful, why didn’t they try to contact him when he got his money? If he knew, how could things have seemed so normal around there? I listened pretty closely for a long time and heard no hint of a rumor. Life went on in their house, or so it seemed from the outside, almost as he’d never existed. I gave Dick plenty of openings to explain. I wanted at least to hear his thoughts on the subject, even if he knew no facts, but even after a few beers, he wouldn’t bite.
*****
There’s something else, something that used to visit me in the middle of the night, but now might come at any time, day or night, and it may be what prompted me to write this. I saw La Dolce Vita in college, but after Dick told me the story of the affair with his aunt, I rented the DVD, and what struck me, what scared me really, was the character named Steiner, the intellectual whose life Marcello thought represented happiness. Marcello the failed writer, now a cynical paparazzo, meets all his troubles with a sad and often cynical shrug, but Steiner with his beautiful family, his charming wife and two young children, wholesome to the core but so sophisticated, a gracious host of intellectual salons, takes advantage of his wife’s absence one day to murder his children and commit suicide. All picture perfect order on the surface, an evil or despairing mess below.
It’s not that I envied Dick his life of leisure, his beautiful young girlfriends, or his casual indifference, if that’s what it was, even to his nearest relatives. I don’t envy him, never did in any serious or adult way, but I’ve just come to realize that I might hate him, and I’ll tell you why. Dick really is a phony. Insipid to the core, and I resent that he fucked his aunt without appreciating her. He wasn’t vulgar about it, not in the telling of it. His theme that day was wonder, as it should have been, a teenage boy losing his innocence to an older woman. So far, so good, but here’s the problem: I didn’t feel that wonder, and I don’t think he did either. In his telling, she was hardly there, except for those naked dangling legs. I’m left to imagine the expression on her face, how it differed from the poised happiness I saw every Sunday on the church lawn. I don’t mean I crave details of a lurid nature. But I want to know, for example, was she shy? Ashamed? Not brazen, of that I’m confident, but perhaps she had no reservations and no regrets. Like Dick, no guilt. Perhaps she was every bit as beautifully sure of herself as she always was on Sunday mornings with her children. Believe me, it’s very easy to hate Dick for not including that in our talk, in his account of what happened, and I don’t really care if it was from not knowing or not caring, or just an inherited general reticence. It’s inevitable that I hate him for his indifference, even if it’s only feigned indifference to me.
*****
The fact that I am a model of order and sobriety, a solid citizen if there ever was one, so different from Dick, is what frightens me about stories like that of Steiner. We can never say for sure what we would never do, but it’s a fact that I never, as I usually think of it now “pulled a Steiner.” All my kids are grown. I’ve lived a charmed life. Nothing really bad has ever happened to me. No wars. No business failures. My wife hasn’t had breast cancer. No prostate problems for me. No sons killed in wars. No drug addicts or alcoholics in the family. Not even a pregnant teenage daughter. I’ve prospered in the richest country the world has ever known. I’ve practiced law here for forty years and at one time I was the most powerful Democrat in the county. My wife runs the family business I inherited. She’s joked our whole marriage that I picked her only because she was studying to be a pharmacist in college, planning ahead being one of my most common and annoying traits, and it’s true that her chosen profession was fortuitous. She’s run my father’s drug store as well or better than he ever did. Just keeping it open was something of a feat, although nowadays, as the town becomes gentrified, being downtown and old-fashioned has become an asset. We always have and still do deliver to anyone and everyone, and we give credit to all but the most hopeless deadbeats. We’ve had a lunch counter all these years, even when it didn’t pay, and for as long as I can remember I’ve sat at the counter a couple of times a week and had a pimiento cheese sandwich and a chocolate milk shake for lunch. The tourists and the city people who’ve bought homes near here, old ones near downtown to fix up, come in regularly because it’s “authentic.”
Our drug store is like a time capsule. A throwback. An anachronism. I’ve heard it compared to a Norman Rockwell painting until I want to scream, but hardly any of the real townies come in here anymore. The chain pharmacy at the mall is cheaper and more convenient and has twice as much general merchandise and better parking. We’re the real phonies. We’re a museum more than a business, right down to the authentic way we make the banana splits and butterscotch sundaes. On the surface I’m the perfect Steiner, even with my kids grown and moved away, and the drug store fits right in. I can sit here and hold court on just about anything, the courtly old attorney with his smattering of Latin, his ability to recite lines of Keats and Byron, even a little e. e. cummings, discuss the classics and the latest films with only a smidgen of condescension.
And tourists and the new city people flock here, seeming to sense how wholesome we are and that they’ll find, no matter how hard they look, no forbidden fruit. No forbidden anything, nothing hidden under that clean cut pristine surface we gladly offer for their inspection. We’re wholesome to the core, they soon find out. We ID for rubbers, and we don’t even sell cigarettes or Playboy anymore.
We’re not just wholesome, we work at it, but still, knowing me as well as you must by now, it may not surprise you to learn that while I eat my sandwich and drink my milk shake, if you look at me at just the right time, you might catch an odd grin on my face, a mischievous grin, some might call it a smirk, when it crosses my mind that it would be amusing to see some sort of mayhem break out in the old time drug store. It could take any of a number of forms: a filthy homeless person screaming the filthiest swear words imaginable, a sudden shotgun blast from some lunatic, an impromptu striptease by a meth-crazed fat lady, I wouldn’t care, just so I had a moment, no more than a split second would be sufficient, to see authentic fear and panic on the faces of our customers.
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