The Nimrod Flipout by Etgar Keret

Author:Etgar Keret [Keret, Etgar]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780374222437
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Published: 2002-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Teddy Trunk

I’m driving south on the old road, toward Ashdod. In the passenger seat next to me is Teddy Trunk, listening to a tape and drumming on the dashboard. He knows this road like the palm of his hand, from the time before the army, when he lived around here and used to drive to Tel Aviv with his friends every Saturday night. They’re the ones who gave him that name, “Teddy Trunk.” Today, no one calls him that anymore, not even just “Teddy.” Today, most people call him “Mr. Schuler” or “Schuler.” His wife calls him “Theodore.” I don’t think he really likes her to call him that.

We’re on our way to a local council near Gedera to close a deal. I should probably say that he’s closing a deal and I’m driving him there. That’s my job. I’m a driver. I once had a route delivering dairy products; the money was better, but I just wasn’t into getting up at four every morning and arguing with all those cheap-ass grocers about small change. Teddy once told me I’m a person without ambition, and that he’s jealous of me because of it. I think that was the only time I felt like he was patronizing me. Most of the time, he’s actually pretty all right.

On my very first day on the job, I opened the car door for him and he told me not to open doors for him, and also that he always sits in the front, even when he’s reading or looking over papers. When we’d stop to eat, he always paid. I wasn’t really crazy about that, and in the end we agreed that for every five times he paid, I’d pay once, because he earns about five times more than I do. That was his idea, and I said fine. It made sense to me.

The first time I treated was at a steak place in some gas station in the south. Shitty food, and the waiter, right before we paid, pegged him. “Well, what do you know. I’ll be damned if it isn’t Teddy Trunk.” Teddy kind of smiled at the waiter and nodded, but I could tell he wasn’t exactly thrilled to see him. We had an arrangement that if one of us paid, the other left the tip, and on the way out, I noticed that he didn’t leave the waiter anything.

“What an asshole,” I said to him later in the car. “Why? He happens to be a pretty nice guy,” he said, without really meaning it, “maybe the best student in our grade. Funny he’s stuck here as a waiter.” I wanted to ask him about the tip, but it seemed a little out of line, so I asked about the name instead. “I don’t like that name,” he said instead of answering. “Don’t ever call me that, OK?”

That evening, before I dropped him off, he softened up a little and told me that when he was a kid, he was once late for school.

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