Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [112]
I see a cigarette on the floor, unsmoked, and bend over to pick it up.
“. . . that somebody named ‘Pighead’ had made for you . . .”
I freeze. My heart rate quickens. I throw the cigarette back onto the floor, leap out of my chair, go to the machine.
“What, what, what about Pighead, who is this?” I’m poking at the machine, raw panic, where’s the STOP button? “Stop!” I yell over the voice as it continues to drone on. I finally hit the right button and the machine is silenced.
“Okay, okay,” I say. Calm down, easy. I carefully look for the REWIND button, make absolutely certain that it is not the DELETE button. I push it. The AT&T digital answering machine rewinds instantly.
I gently push PLAY once again, lean my elbows on the counter, my head just under the kitchen cabinet, as close to the machine as I can get.
“Hello, um, this call is for a Mr. Augusten Burroughs. Mr. Burroughs, my name is Mercer Richter, and I’m calling from Robison Jewelers on Spring Street. The piece of jewelry that somebody named ‘Pighead’ had made for you, it’s finally ready to be picked up. Now, I tried the first number that Mr. Stathakis gave me but it’s apparently been disconnected, and this is the only other number I have, so I hope I’ve got the right person. Feel free to call me at 555–8389. Bye, bye.”
When I take my elbows off the counter, my hands are shaking so violently that I just stare at them, fascinated.
What was that man talking about? What is happening?
I go to the phone and lift the receiver, then realize I didn’t write down his name or number. I’ll have to play the message again, except I can’t. It’s just too confusing.
I’ll go to Robison Jewelers on Spring Street. I know just where it is.
Robison Jewelers is a small, exclusive jewelry store with a poured concrete floor, Knoll chairs and tiny pinprick halogen lights.
A petite, attractive young woman with a pageboy is at the counter. I approach.
“Hi, a man called me about some piece of jewelry or something that I’m supposed to pick up . . . I didn’t get his name.”
“That would be Mr. Richter. One moment and I’ll see if he’s available.” She quickly spins away, her bouncy little pageboy swinging.
There’s a tall guy in a dark suit standing by the door; he must be a security guard. I’m surprised I didn’t notice him when I first came in, but then I’m not surprised.
A silver-haired man appears behind the counter, holding a black box. We introduce ourselves and I shake hands. “I understand you have something for me.”
He chuckles softly, curiously. “Actually I do, I have it right here. Oh, but I’m sorry to ask, could I just see some form of identification?”
I reach in my back pocket, pull out my wallet, hold my driver’s license toward his face. He looks at it, then at me, then back at it. “That’s fine, thank you.
“Yes, so um, Mr. Stathakis came into my store, oh, must have been months ago,” he says, smiling kindly. Then concerned, “By the way, how is Mr. Stathakis, he wasn’t feeling well at all when he was in here. As a matter of fact, he could barely—”
“He’s dead,” I say flatly.
“Oh. Oh my goodness, Oh my. I’m terribly, terribly sorry to hear that. I had no idea. Oh, I’m terribly sorry.”
“Sir, I’m not feeling well myself today, I have to actually be someplace fairly shortly, so if . . .” I trail off.
“Of course. So like I said, he came in a few months ago, and he had this very specific piece of jewelry that he wanted made . . . for you, Mr. Burroughs.” He laughs softly again. “Like I said, he was very specific. And, it’s a mighty unusual piece, I must say. But our craftsmen did a beautiful job, if you’d like to see.” He opens the box.
I lean forward. Whatever it is, it’s wrapped in velvet. “Here we go, let me just remove this pouch and . . . there you have it. There’s an inscription on the back, certainly the most unique inscription we’ve ever done.”
At first, I can’t tell what it is except that it’s large and gold. I reach my hand toward the object in the box, but before I touch it, I see clearly exactly what it is.
It’s a gold pig’s head. A Pighead.
It comes