Almost Like Being in Love (31 page)

from the general vicinity of the sink. Alarmed, I pivoted abruptly and discovered A.J. in shorts and an East of Eden T-shirt, brushing her teeth and flossing—like it was the most natural thing in the world to do in front of a naked history professor.

“Don’t you believe in knocking?” I demanded, wrapping the shower curtain around myself.

“For what?” she retorted. “I already know you’re in here.”

“I have a great idea: beat it.”

“Not until we do something about your chest hair,” she mused, eyeing my pectorals in the mirror. “It’s way too light to be sexy. You want to impress Craig, don’t you?” So she pulled something-by-Clairol out of her bag of tricks and spent twenty minutes applying it to my sternum, while I sat on the edge of the bathtub convinced I was intruding on somebody else’s nightmare.

“There!” she announced proudly, rinsing it off and pointing to my reflection. “What do you think?” Actually, it was kind of hot—but I wasn’t about to admit as much to A.J.

“I look like Chewbacca.”

“Then why are you flexing?”

Twenty minutes later, we were tucked into a pair of 1950s-sitcom twin beds and settling snugly into the Pennsylvania dawn. And while I was yawning myself into unconsciousness, I realized dimly that for the first time in my life, I didn’t know what the hell was going to happen to me next. Last night I was behind bars in St. Louis. Now I’m seventeen hundred dollars in debt and I have ash-brown chest hair.

Actually, I could get used to this.

Dear Gordo:

We’re leaving Pittsburgh as soon as Beaver wakes up, but it’s another five hundred miles to Saratoga Springs, so we’ll probably be getting in too late to call. If you feel like it, page us in the car. All you’ll be interrupting is another argument. 'We still haven’t fought about Arkansas yet.)

I read the first half of your Harlem script. Your father’s right. Can’t you hear what he’s trying to tell you? You’re so much better than you give yourself credit for—even with the split infinitives—I’m surprised you haven’t figured that out by now. You have a Field of Dreams heart—stop trying to write Die Hard. Personally, I’d like to see what you could do with a novel. I’d take it to bed with me.

A.J.

P.S. Neiman-Marcus rebuilt Beaver from top to bottom. You ought to see him in the burgundy tank top, the size 28 jeans, the maroon-and-white Reeboks with the shoelaces pointing in eighteen different directions, and the french fries scattered all over his plate in no special order. I thought I was having an acid flashback.

Dear A.J.:

How did you manage to pry the Neiman-Marcus credit card out of his fingers?! The only other time he used it was when I made him buy a new tie for $76. And I thought we were going to have to hospitalize him.

A novel? With paragraphs? Me? That’s like pitching in the minors for eight years and all of a sudden somebody tells you that you’re ready to start for the Yankees. If you were just being generous, thanks. If you really meant it, Yikes!

I’ve been thinking about who should play A.J. in the Travis movie, but nobody comes close to the real thing. Could you live with Helen Hunt in a brunette wig? Or is she still too WASPy? And who do we get to direct?

Want to hear the nuttiest thing? This afternoon I had a lunch date with a bank teller named Stacy. I met her online. Silky blonde hair, .38

caliber dum-dums, and a 3-inch waist. Halfway through the Chinese chicken salad, she started rubbing her shoe on the inside of my thigh, so I paid the check and dropped her off at work. That’s it. Nothing else.

Normally I would have fucked her in the car—but then I’d have been cheating on you. You’ve ruined my life.

Is it too soon to ask you to have dinner with me? Maybe Saturday night? I realize that the three time zones pose something of an obstacle, but we could plan the menu ahead of time and do it over the phone. I don’t mind eating early if you don’t mind eating late.

Eyebrows and a smile and a Field of Dreams heart. I like the way I’m shaping up.

Love,

Gordo

P.S. They were supposed to presumably teach us grammar in eighth grade, but I was already too busy reading Penthouse to really pay much attention. So try to not take the split infinitives personally.

Dear Gordo:

Was ever a maid so fairly wooed? “Normally I would have fucked her in the car—but then I’d have been cheating on you.” I’ve got to fall in love with you now. There’s a razor-thin line between “appalling” and

“irresistible.” You just crossed it.

Keep Helen Hunt at home. I’m not that glamorous. You need to find somebody real. See if Janeane Garofalo is free that week. Otherwise, put in a call to Lili Taylor. And nobody directs me except Ben Affleck.

Bareass.

Love,

A.J.

THE PERILOUS JOURNEY OF TRAVIS PUCKETT

PART III

Travis and A.J.—the Final Push

Pittsburgh to Saratoga Springs

Since our time was relatively limited, we stuck to the following agenda: From Pittsburgh to Buffalo, we analyzed Gordo’s hair, Gordo’s shoulders, Gordo’s ass, Gordo’s baby blues, Gordo’s laugh, Gordo’s style

'sic(, and Gordo’s chances of ever learning that a fly can also zip up.

From Buffalo to Syracuse, I got to map out similar longitudinal landmarks across Craig, including the squirmy spot above his butt, getting lost for hours inside his dimple, and the way he’d always giggle whenever I kissed his belly button for its own sake (and not merely as a way station on a road trip south). Syracuse to Saratoga Springs belonged to me as well, seeing as I’d already anticipated the 141-mile anxiety attack that appeared at sunset, right on schedule, and immediately promised to devour the rest of my life.

What if he’s changed? What if he’s forgotten all of our secrets? What if he
stopped loving me along the way? Pull over! Turn around! I’ve reconsidered
my options!

As we passed a twinkling green-and-white Thruway sign that read

“Saratoga Springs, Next Exit,” A.J. and I glanced at each other spontaneously. She couldn’t help noticing that my face was the color of rayon.

“This is it,” I gulped apprehensively.

“Oh, don’t be such a drama queen,” she retorted, reaching for my damp left hand. “Once he finds out what you’ve put yourself through, he’s yours again.” I didn’t believe a word she was saying, but at least lunch stayed down.

Get a grip, Trav. She’s right. This is gonna be worth it.

ARGOSY ENTERTAINMENT

Literary Representatives

LOS ANGELES

NEW YORK

TORONTO

LONDON

Gordon:

A day and a half without any pages? Why are you doing this to me?

I don’t know what you’ve got up your sleeve for Travis and Craig, but I want the boys to wind up together. If you put me through all this without a happy ending, I’ll see to it that you never work in this town again.

Your Father

G:

How’s this for an answering machine message?

Hey, it’s Clayton. Craig and I are in Utica this weekend. If you’re calling
for an estimate you can try me at the hardware store on Monday.

Otherwise, leave a message
.

What kind of a name is Clayton?! “Clayton and Craig”?! Where’s the flow? Where’s the magic?!

This is the worst thing that ever happened to me. It’s even worse than the time you fixed me up with the casting director who made me wear a dog collar. My life is over. Finished. Washed up without purpose.

There’s a bridge here with a nice long drop, so sell everything I own because I’m not coming back. And after you’ve paid off Neiman-Marcus, buy the worldwide rights to Brigadoon and eat them.

Who names a baby Clayton?!
Uncles
are named Clayton!

T

Dear Gordo:

Scarlett just went across the street for a pack of Carlton menthols.

He’s decided it’s time to start smoking. Can you spell “brat”?

This is my own fault. By the time we’d found a Best Western with an available room 'there’s a Legionnaires convention in town this weekend—nice omen(, he claimed he’d developed a spastic stomach, a bleeding ulcer, colitis, and hives. Since Schenectady. I thought I was going to have to drain him out of Robert Mitchum with a siphon. So I decided—falling victim to one of my rare lapses in judgment—that he’d sleep better if he could hear Craig’s voice. That’s why we called his machine. If he’d answered, we would have hung up—but what were the chances of that on a Friday night? Assuming he’s half as cute as Beaver thinks he is, he probably slides in and out of his underpants with greater facility than
you
do.

Okay, so there’s a new wrinkle called Clayton. I’ll admit it doesn’t look good, but there could be a whole medley of reasonable explanations. Maybe they’re related.

Ask her what pumpkin truck ran over her. I’m sure she got the plate number.

He’s back. With a cigar. Freud wins.

Names that work well with “Clayton”: Rick, Doug, Roy, Alex, Eduardo, Hank, Seth, Kevin, Aaron, Jay. Names that work well with “Craig”: Travis, Sean (kind of).

Gordo, in the unlikely event I ever misplace enough of my marbles to marry you, Beaver’s only allowed out of his room on Thanksgiving and Christmas. No wonder that guy put a dog collar on him. I’d have sent him to a kennel.

Oh, wait—now you’re getting married? Hello? This was supposed to be
my
crusade.

Would you please tell him it still is, for Christ’s sake? We know that Clayton works at a hardware store. We’ll start there.

Swell. Out of all the hardware stores in Saratoga Springs, how are we supposed to figure out which one is Clayton’s?!

128 Hardware—Hardwoods NYNEX YELLOW PAGES SARATOGA SPRINGS

Hardware Stores

Busy Bee Hardware
454 Schuyler

Clayton’s
1127 Putnam

Quality Hardware
110 Excelsior

Saratoga Home Mart
2124 McGee

FROM THE JOURNAL OF

Travis Puckett

WELCOME TO

CLAYTON’S HARDWARE

serving Saratoga Springs since 1988

1. The storefront takes up half a block.
He thinks he’s hot shit
.

2. They have two full rows of drill bits.
He’s an ostentatious pig.

3. Home Furnishings is decorated in a tacky brown wallpaper that’s supposed to look like fake walnut.
He wears plaid
Bermuda shorts.

4.
He sells seven different types of power mowers.
Over-compensation for a two-inch penis.

5.
He’s the foreman of his own construction company.
He beats
Craig daily.

Over all fourteen of my objections, lunchtime found us in the middle of aisle 3 '“Tools and Building Supplies”(. Personally, I’d have preferred bladder surgery.

“Shut up and smile or so help me God I’ll crush your feet,” mumbled A.J., eyeing a sledgehammer convincingly. “We need to find out what we’re up against.”

“I’ll glower if I feel like it,” I fired back through gritted teeth, glowering because I felt like it. “Coming here wasn’t my idea. Especially dressed like this.” Per her instructions, I was wearing a modest pink Versace—opened to the third button—and the least offensive pair of 501s I owned (i.e., my balls only stuck out as far as Stamford); A.J., meanwhile, had chosen her blue cocktail getup along with a matching 1920s hat that she’d seen in a thrift shop window further up Putnam Street. '“Who’s going to argue with a veil?”) The effect kind of backfired: In our bid for respectability, we looked like Madame Godiva and Her Male Strumpet.

“May I help you?” inquired a perky redhead, coming upon us nervously. Understandably, she probably thought we were there to procure as many teenage boys as we could cram into a Falk & Padgett wheelbarrow '“30% Off, Saturday Only”(. But A.J.’s transformation into a Southern belle was so sudden and so complete, it left me speechless. In seconds, she’d developed an inexplicably breathless falsetto, and the hands that were otherwise capable of snapping a human neck had begun to flutter helplessly.

“Oh, I hope so,” she whispered, sounding for all the world like Butterfly McQueen on crack. “Is Clayton here?” What the hell is she pulling? The saleslady relaxed immediately, obviously relieved that the store wasn’t going to be shut down on a morals charge during her watch.

“I’m afraid not,” she replied ruefully as I tried to hide my crotch behind a snow shovel. “He’s away for the weekend.” A.J.’s face fell in a perfect imitation of disappointment.

“Oh, drat the luck!” she cursed daintily
. Who is this woman?! And
whatever happened to ‚Oh, fuck‛?!

“Is there something I could assist you with?” offered our pink-smocked helpmate timidly, doubtless contemplating the least offensive way of getting us out the back door before we encountered any small children.

“Actually,” mused A.J., “maybe you could. You see, we went to high school with Clayton’s other half. Class of, uh—” She elbowed me severely enough to puncture a lung.