Almost Like Being in Love (25 page)

‚I’m sorry,‛ he said softly, kneeling in front of us. ‚We couldn’t stop the
hemorrhaging. Jordan died at approximately 3:26.‛ After the customarily
awkward condolences, he stood up and left us alone. Charleen and I turned
to each other.

‚Whose turn is it to plan the memorial service?‛ I asked idly. Charleen
shrugged.

‚I picked up the last two,‛ she replied. ‚You owe me one.‛ Then she took my
hand and we went back to staring at the swinging doors.

For the next three and a half years, I was Jack Kerouac without a Neal Cassady: I smoked pot, I watched my friends die, I hitchhiked to California, I hunted for Travis, I got drunk when I couldn’t find him, I went to law school, I got laid, I felt for swollen glands, I watched my friends die, I stayed away from the Harvard Center for Business Administration so I wouldn’t run into Clayton, I pretended I didn’t see him when I ran into him anyway, I passed the bar exam, I got laid some more, I searched for lesions, I got my blood tested, I grew up, and I watched my friends die. It was all quite tragic and inevitably romantic.

“Don’t I remind you of Lenny Bruce?” I asked Charleen. At my insistence, we’d gone to a smoky jazz club so I could wear dark glasses, drink rosé wine, and brood.

“Impersonating whom?” she retorted. “Rosalind Russell?”

But Clayton and I couldn’t possibly stay apart forever, and we both knew it. Shortly after I began clerking for my first law firm (Schnitzler, Fickman, Something & Something), I stopped by Wordsworth Harvard Square on my way home. Normally, you wouldn’t have caught me dead in the philosophy section, but I was just lonely enough to look toward Socrates for answers: Why was my Walkman broken and why had another friend gone off life support and why did they forget to put the mushrooms on my pizza and—

“Hey,” said Clayton from somewhere behind me. I could smell his soap before I’d even heard his voice.

“Hey,” I mumbled, turning to face him. We stood there staring at one another awkwardly for a good fifteen seconds. He’d put on at least ten more pounds of muscle (like he needed it) and he was wearing the Moody Blues T-shirt I’d bought him in Woodstock. We each seemed a little wearier than the other remembered.

“You look great,” he sighed, eyeing me from top to bottom while I was doing the same thing to him.

“So do you.” It wasn’t really necessary to figure out where all this was going. After you’ve spent four years kissing somebody’s perineum, the subtext talks louder than the words do. And I was way too tired to fight it.

“Have coffee with me?” he suggested hopefully.

“Are you going to ask me to move back in?”

“Only if you don’t ask first.”

I didn’t, but he did. So I requested five minutes to think it over, and then I said yes. It was the Moody Blues T-shirt that did me in.

Charleen’s right—Harvard was a long time ago. Besides, I’m not a troublemaker any more. Those days are over.

NEW YORK STATE DEMOCRATIC COMMITTEE

ALBANY HEADQUARTERS

151 STATE STREET

ALBANY, NEW YORK 12207

June 2, 1998

VIA FACSIMILE

Craig S. McKenna, Esq.

McKenna & Webb

118 Congress Park, Suite 407

Saratoga Springs, New York 12866

Dear Craig:

I’m looking forward to our Thursday meeting. However, it appears as if we’ve gotten our signals crossed. Though we’re always interested in filing suit against the Republican Party, that’s not why I contacted you. We want you to run for State Assembly on behalf of the Fifth Congressional District.

Sorry for the misunderstanding. See you Thursday.

Very truly yours,

Wayne Duvall

8

Travis

THE PERILOUS JOURNEY OF TRAVIS PUCKETT

PART I

Travis and Brandon in an Orange Corvette

(Traveler’s Advisory: If you’re going to accept a ride from a guy in an
Orange Corvette whom you meet at a Chevron station when your timing belt
goes out, make sure you determine his taste in music first.)
L.A. to needles

If I didn’t already loathe ABBA, the first ninety miles would have convinced me to nuke my copy of Muriel’s Wedding. We bonded to

“Dancing Queen”—fifteen times on the way to San Bernardino.
In heavy
traffic!

Unimportant stuff:
He’s 28 years old, his last name is Tracey, he’s a record producer, he lives in Holmby Hills, and he owns a ranch in Amarillo.

Critical stats
: He has sandy blond hair, heterosexual-green eyes, biceps many men would pay to bite, and I’m guessing 8 inches by 6 inches, cut.

On the McKenna scale, he’s a 9.

Needles to Flagstaff

(Same CD. By now I didn’t just hate ABBA, I hated Sweden too.)
In a desperate effort to drown out “Fernando,” I began comparing opinions with Brandon on Super Bowls and point spreads and earned run averages and personal fouls. He seemed particularly impressed when I suggested that the Jets had made a big mistake in 1993 after they’d dumped Kenny O’Brien for Boomer Esiason.

“Why O’Brien?” he asked smugly. “Ever check out his stats?”

“Ever check out his ass?” Credentials established.

Then I told him about Craig. He handled it pretty well.

Flagstaff to Albuquerque

“You mean you haven’t seen this guy in twenty years?!” he asked incredulously. “What if he looks like Jesse Helms by now?!” We fought all the way to the New Mexico border—partly because I had Craig’s honor to uphold and partly because as long as we were calling each other assholes he wasn’t playing ABBA.

“I know what I’m talking about,” he insisted hotly. “I had one of those too. Jennifer Carson. When she moved to Chicago, it ended. So what? Life happens.”

“Do you still have dreams about her?” I demanded, ignoring Gallup. He shrugged.

“Maybe.”

“Do you still love her?”

“What difference does it make!” he blurted, banging the steering wheel impatiently. By then I was pretty sure I had his number (1–800-JULIET), so I began harassing him with pointed references to Brigadoon, the chocolate chip cookies, the first kiss in the rain, and still ordering hot-and-sour soup every June 4th because that’s the anniversary of the day Craig and I discovered it together. Brandon claimed I was nuts and changed the subject. Then we pulled into Albuquerque and I mentioned that Ethel Mertz had been born there, but he didn’t seem to give a shit about that either.

Albuquerque to Amarillo

We drove the next 176 miles in absolute silence (i.e., no ABBA). Then suddenly he hit the brakes, cut across four lanes of traffic, slid down the Tucumcari off-ramp, and skidded to a stop at a Phillips 66 station.

“Be right back,” he said brusquely, hopping out of the Corvette and heading for a phone booth. I suspected he was calling Jennifer and I wasn’t wrong. For two hours I studied his face through the windshield and watched the way he bounded across the asphalt when he was done.

He was wearing the same kind of magic I’d been seeing in the mirror all week.

“Is St. Louis on the way to Chicago?” he mumbled, buckling himself in.

I couldn’t help grinning at the sheer breathlessness of it all. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.

“Yep.”

“Then you’ve got yourself a ride,” he said. We took off doing about eighty.

Amarillo to St. Louis

(With a brief stop in Commerce, Oklahoma, so we could drop a couple of
7-Eleven flowers in front of the house that Mutt Mantle and his son Mickey
Charles had once called home.)

By the book, it was 764 miles. But we had a lot of rehearsing to do.

After all, this wasn’t going to be a routine first date for either one of us: 1.
Play it cool
. If they find out we can’t stop thinking about them, we’re sunk.

2.
Make it romantic
. Restaurants are okay, but pick places we know they’ll like. 'Thai for Jennifer, Italian for Craig.(

3.
Keep the reminiscing PG-rated
. It’s okay to bring up losing the glass monkey in the snow (Jen) and the mistletoe in August

'Craig(, but leave the naked stuff out of it. There’ll be plenty of time for that later.

4.
Listen to your heart
. The first kiss is going to be one for the books, so wait until it feels right. Then go for it.

5.
Don’t rush things
. Falling in love all over again takes work. Face it—you’re not a kid any more. “And I don’t think you’ll ever be a kid again, kiddo.” 'Elaine Stritch, Company.)

By the time we’d reached the Gateway Arch and a rainy downtown St.

Louis, we had our signals straight. All we needed to do was tie up a couple of panicky loose ends.

“What if Craig doesn’t remember me?”

“Suppose I don’t appeal to Jen any more?”

“Yeah, right,” I grumbled, eyeballing his grin-and-body combo. As I struggled with both a Gap backpack and a Corvette seat belt, he reached across my lap and flipped open the glove compartment.

“Wait a second—I’ve got something for you,” he said, fishing through it nimbly. “Sort of a good luck present.” He came up with ABBA Gold. In two volumes. Turns out that Brandon supervises all of their American recording sessions.

“Wow,” I lied, staring into his two thousand perfect white teeth. Then, on impulse, he leaned over the hand brake and hugged me.

“Thanks, Trav,” he mumbled quietly. “Maybe we’ll make it a double wedding.” Though I was wearing a denim shirt, I could still feel his 50-inch pecs pressing against my 42s.

Jennifer’s got it made. For life.

T:

Sick as it sounds, I miss the smell of Pledge. Just let me know you’re alive. Please? 48 hours without a word—now I know how a parent feels when he sends his 6-year-old to first grade.

G

G:

I found 5135 Kensington Avenue, where Esther and Tootie lived in
Meet Me in St. Louis.
'It’s actually a vacant lot now, but the Boy Next Door’s house is still there.( While I was taking pictures, I bumped into a young man with gold teeth and a Mohawk. Guess who’d never heard of Judy Garland before?

Since Brandon didn’t drop me off until 4:30, it was too late to track down Craig’s mother this afternoon, so D-day’s tomorrow. Meanwhile I’m staying at a Motel 6 five blocks from Busch Stadium. $89 a night! Is there such thing as a Motel 3?

By the way, I met the woman you’re going to marry. 'And I insist.( Her name is A.J. and she owns the restaurant next door. I couldn’t figure out what made her call me Beaver Cleaver until she enumerated the seven times I used “kind of” in the same sentence. Thanks for nothing. Isn’t it your job to spot these character kinks before they get out of hand?!

Oh, yeah—three more stats. She’s our age, she wears James Dean Tshirts, and she drives a black Buick named Robert Mitchum. There didn’t seem to be any point in asking why.

As soon as I get my hands on Craig’s address, I’m out of here. I’ll let you know where I’m headed. Fingers crossed that he doesn’t live in Turkey.

T

T:

If I got rid of all your character kinks, there wouldn’t be anything left but a spleen.

Go back to the part about A.J. Who does she look like?

G

G:

Remember in twelfth grade when we saw Grease and you fell in love with Stockard Channing? Same ballpark.

T

T:

Sigh. Give her my Web link. I’ll be your best friend.

G

G:

I already did and you already are. I need a bigger payoff than that.

T

FROM THE JOURNAL OF

Travis Puckett

When you have a meeting with the Head Beagle at 9:00 in the morning,
there shouldn’t have to be a night before.

—Snoopy

Streaker’s is an eating establishment built to look just like turn-of-the-century St. Louis—gas lamps along the walls, hitching posts in the men’s room, and a railed bar that’s a dead ringer for the Riverboat Saloon. Even the lunch counter could have come right off the MGM back lot—a fact I aggressively pointed out to the future Mrs. Gordon Duboise without stopping to think that since she first took over the restaurant eight years ago, at least 15,612 of Dorothy’s Midwestern friends have probably told her the same thing.

“Know what’s missing?” I mused to A.J., color-coding my peas and carrots in even rows of eight as I eyeballed an authentic 1903 railroad track running around the perimeter of the floor. In reply, she leaned across my Salisbury steak and deliberately dropped an intrepid cherry tomato splat in the middle of my orange-and-green plate arrangement.

“Beaver, so help me God,” she warned, “if you even think ‘Clang, clang, clang, went the trolley’, you’re out of here on your ass.” 'Busted!( So I bypassed the customary Vincente Minnelli monologue, left the peas in chaos, and filled her in on my updated Craig itinerary instead. After that, dinner was on the house— despite the fact that it only took me thirty-six minutes to begin irritating the shit out of her (possibly a new gold medal record).