Tricky Business Read Online Free

Senile Dying Center.
    â€œDoesn’t look so bad to me,” he said. “A little rain maybe.”
    â€œArnie,” said Phil Hoffman, age 81, “are you blind? It’s a goddamn hurricane out there.”
    Phil was Arnie’s best friend—only friend, really—at the retirement home. They’d met when they were assigned to sit together in the dining room, at a table for four. The other two seats were filled by a man named Harold Tutter, age 77, who could not remember anything for more than fifteen seconds; and a very hostile woman, known to Phil and Arnie only as the Old Bat, who believed that everybody was trying to steal her food.
    â€œIt’s not a hurricane,” said Arnie. “It’s a tropical storm, Hector. How bad can it be, with a name like Hector?”
    â€œI don’t like the names they use these days,” said Phil. “I liked it better when it was just girls. Donna, that was a good hurricane name. 1960.”
    â€œChrist, 1960,” said Arnie. And for a moment, he and Phil reflected on 1960, when they were young bucks at the height of their physical powers, capable of taking a dump in under an hour.
    During the silence, Harold Tutter looked up from his oatmeal, turned to Phil, and extended his hand. “I’m Harold Tutter,” he said.
    â€œA pleasure to meet you, Harold,” said Phil, shaking Tutter’s hand. “I’m the Hunchback of Notre Dame.”
    â€œThe pleasure is mine, Mr. Dame,” said Tutter, turning back to his oatmeal.
    â€œIt’s a little rain, is all,” said Arnie, looking out the window again.
    â€œIf you’re thinking the boat is going out in this,” said Phil, “you’re nuts.” He reached to get a Sweet’n Low packet from the container in the middle of the table. Seeing his hand move her way, the Old Bat hissed and covered her bowl with both arms.
    â€œI don’t want your food,” Phil told her. “Prunes, for Chrissakes. I’d rather eat my socks.”
    The Old Bat gathered her prunes closer to herself, ready to fight for them.
    â€œThey call them dried plums now,” said Arnie.
    â€œWhat?” said Phil.
    â€œPrunes,” said Arnie. “I saw an article. They call them dried plums now.”
    â€œWhy?” said Phil.
    â€œPublic relations,” said Arnie. “People today, they don’t want prunes. So now they call them dried plums.”
    â€œThey can’t do that,” said Phil. “Prunes are . . . prunes. ”
    â€œI’m Harold Tutter,” said Tutter, extending his hand to Phil.
    â€œJesus,” said Phil.
    â€œGood to meet you,” said Tutter, turning back to his oatmeal.
    â€œBut do you know where they come from?” said Arnie.
    â€œWhat?” said Phil.
    â€œPrunes,” said Arnie.
    Phil thought about it.
    â€œPrune trees,” he said.
    â€œNope,” said Arnie. “From plums. There’s no prune trees.”
    â€œYou sure about that?” said Phil. “Because I’m pretty sure I saw trees somewhere that were prune trees.”
    â€œYeah?” said Arnie. “Where?”
    Phil thought some more. “ National Geographic, ” he said.
    â€œHarold Tutter,” said Tutter, extending his hand to Phil.
    â€œGood for you,” said Phil. “May I present my girlfriend, the Wicked Witch of the West.” He gestured toward the Old Bat.
    â€œIt’s a pleasure, Miss West,” said Tutter. He reached his hand toward the Old Bat, who recoiled, yanking her bowl toward her so that her prunes fell into her lap. Tutter returned to his oatmeal.
    â€œI used to get National Geographic, ” said Arnie. “Marge always said it was so I could look at the titties.” Marge was Arnie’s wife of 53 years. She had died when Arnie was 79, and four months later his children had moved him into the Old Farts Senile Dying Center.
    â€œI remember,”