Bad Boy (16 page)

“Tracie, if you rent
GQ’s Guide to Debonair Sophisticates,
I’m going to shoot myself right here,” Jon said.

“You’d need a gun to do that,” she reminded him, then swiftly selected three videos and marched over to the counter. Jon followed her. She reached for his video card. This might be a
long
rental. He handed it to her as meekly as he had handed over his other charges and she passed it on to the clerk.

_p. 155
Mr. Bill, busy with restocking, looked up. “Oh. Someone is having a James Dean retrospective,” he said. He looked over at Tracie and Jon. “And it looks like Natalie and James themselves.” Tracie smiled. It wasn’t a bad thing to be compared to Natalie Wood. Mr. Bill then opened the boxes suspiciously.

“Don’t worry,” she told him. “
Love with the Proper Stranger
is still on the shelf.”

“You’re not doing
Out of Africa
again, are you?” Mr. Bill asked sternly. He shook his head and looked over at Jon. “Looks like you found Mr. Trouble anyway,” he said disapprovingly.

Tracie looked over at Jon and then couldn’t restrain the widest of smiles. What success! Mr. Bill
‌
—aging bad boy, font of all wisdom, the purveyor of movies, truths, and practical cosmologies
‌
—actually thought that Jon was a troublemaker! “Don’t worry about a thing,” she said to Mr. Bill as she picked up the bag and led Jon out by the arm.

She was really pleased with her work so far. As they walked back toward Tracie’s car and Jon’s bicycle, she swung the bag full of the videos. “What was all that about?” Jon asked her.

“Not important,” she said, suddenly stopping to survey him. “Okay, stand against that light pole and lean on the bench. Let me take a picture.” She pulled out her little camera and peered through the lens. Wow! This would be great in the paper. Was she crazy to think of it as a book cover? “You look pretty good,” she told him.

_p. 156
“I do?”

Tracie didn’t respond. All of this would be great material for the article. She’d have to remember to jot it all down. “Okay,” she said. “Look like you have attitude.”

“Any specific attitude?” he asked. “Or is arrogant condescension the entire library?”

“Give it your best shot,” she said. Jon posed, his foot up on the bench. Tracie snapped a picture. Just to be safe, she took another. Seen through the viewfinder, he looked even better. You couldn’t observe the uncertainty in his eyes, or the irony he wore the clothes with. But, she reminded herself, this project wasn’t all for her. He had to figure out how to get himself a girl. All he needed was a little confidence. She threw the camera into her purse and moved closer to him. “Now we’re going to practice the look.” Tracie indicated the seat. Jon took it and she sat beside him. She stared into his face. “Now,
you
have nice eyes.”

“Really? You never told me that.”

“Well, you do,” she assured him. “But you’ve got to use them.” She waited for a minute, trying to think how to tell him in a way that wouldn’t embarrass her but would be effective. “You have to learn how to make them smolder. Remember Al Pacino?”

“I always confuse him and De Niro,” Jon admitted. “Look, growing up, my mom and I would watch stuff like
Steel Magnolias.
I missed a lot of the mob films.” He paused. “Was Pacino Sonny or the young Don?”

_p. 157
“He was Michael, who had to kill Fredo. God! You are weird.
All
guys know that!” She sighed. “Roger used to watch
The Godfather
every night before he went to sleep. It’s kind of a guy’s bedtime story.” She thought of those nights with Roger while she lay beside him, lonely because he was more involved with the Corleones than he would ever be with her. “Anyway, remember how Pacino used to stare at the Sicilian girl?” Jon probably didn’t, but she figured he was afraid to admit it. “You have to look at me, or
any
woman you want, with a single stare that conveys your entire proposal.”

“Didn’t we already practice that?”

“Yeah, this may be the most important thing you’ll learn. So . . .”

“What do you mean? Right here? Right now?”

“Right here, right now. On a greater Seattle transit bench. Just focus and look at me.”

Jon stared up at the streetlight. She followed his glance and watched the mist that wavered across its luminous surface, creating a watermark in the very air. I might get old here, she reflected, but I’ll never wrinkle. Jon continued staring at the misty light. “I’m asking you to direct this staring at me,” she finally reminded him.

“I can’t,” he told her.

Tracie sighed and handed him the bag. “That’s why we rented these James Dean tapes.
Giant, East of Eden, Rebel Without a Cause.
Watch the Ferris wheel scene in
Eden
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carefully. Watch his hands. And the way he looks at Natalie Wood in
Rebel.
”

“Tracie, these movies are forty years old!” Jon opened the bag and examined the tapes as if there might be mold on them.

“Yeah, but sex never goes out of style. He was the first great bad boy,” she explained. “Meanwhile, just try to hit me with your best shot.”

Jon sighed deeply, turned his upper body toward her, and put his brows together. He looked a lot like Superman trying to melt rock with his X-ray vision. She laughed and, immediately offended, he got up. “Come on, Tracie. I can’t look at
you
like that.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she apologized. “But I want you to be able to look at hairy bus drivers like that.”

Jon tried again and failed again, though this time, they both laughed. “Well, that looked like it might lead to a bodily function,” she said. “Though not one I’d want to witness,” she added.

“You’re disgusting,” he said. Then he set his shoulders and tried again. This time, his eyes cleared and the uncertainty was gone. They were dark pools, and the color deepened to the shade of melted chocolate.

“Not bad. But more focus. Project that heat. Look at me as if you’ve
really
wanted me for years.”

Jon figured that wouldn’t be hard. He shot her a look that could melt steel from twenty yards. Tracie opened her own eyes wide and
_p. 159
felt suddenly uncomfortable. “Uh,” she said. “Uh-huh. That’s . . . that’s pretty good. Uh, maybe that’s enough for one night.”

Slightly dazed, Tracie stood up. Jon mussed her hair. “Come on, Professor. I’ll walk you to your car. But what’s my next step?”

“It’s time to test the waters,” she said. “You couldn’t do it at Pike Place Market, so I’ll have to find you a date.”

Jon hit the eject button on the VCR and the cassette jumped out of its slot like a Pop-Tart from the toaster. He’d watched
East of Eden
four times. The images of the sensitive, lonely Cal
‌
—played by James Dean
‌
—didn’t strike him as sexy. The guy seemed like a typical bruised loser, not the kind of man women went for. The girl, Abra
[“Aber”]
, going with Cal’s brother, played by Julie Harris, didn’t seem to go for Cal, either. Why should she? He was neurotic and moody. It seemed to Jon that it was pity that kept drawing her to him. The way he kept going to his father for approval
‌
—that whole frozen lettuce episode. Yikes. Why couldn’t he accept that his dad was a useless, demented waste? No biggie. Jon’s
_p. 160
own father was a waste in most ways. And he wasn’t even Raymond Massey.

Jon pulled the sweater over his head, shrugged himself into the weird used jacket Tracie had made him buy, and then stood in front of the mirror. It was easy to see himself, because all the clothes that used to hang in the closet, obscuring the mirror, were just about gone.

He had to admit it was a very different Jon who looked out at him. Maybe that’s why he was no good at hunting down women. It was hard for him to think about them as scores or one-night stands. Yet, inevitably, some of them would be if he didn’t like them enough to be with them permanently. That’s where it all got so confusing. He hated rejection. But he’d hate rejecting a woman more. He thought of his mother, and all the women Chuck had rejected. God knew how many, since all Jon knew were the ones he’d actually married.

But Tracie was going to change all that. He was going to out-Phil the Phils and finally use his head to figure out a way to do it. He had followed Tracie’s directions
‌
—the really tough ones. He hadn’t shaved, and his feet, slipped into boots, were killing him now. He was sure he would get blisters the size of kiwis, and probably just as green. Actually, he’d once read about a guy who died from infected blisters. If it happened to him, he hoped it would be after he got to make love with a woman or at least sleep with her. Tracie would feel very, very bad at his funeral. He had to admit that
_p. 161
he looked good, but he sure didn’t look like himself. He looked like some guy sneering at him. He sneered back, but that just made his reflection worse. Jesus, what am I doing? Next I’ll pull a Travis Bickle and ask if I’m talking to myself, he thought.

Jon shook his head. He definitely didn’t look like a chocolate Lab anymore. Maybe a weasel or some kind of dark fox. Well, he guessed that was the point. He took out his Samsonite with the broken handle and the wheelies. He was about to open it, when Tracie’s tutelage paid off. He could see her perfectly adorable, slightly crooked nose crinkling in disdain. He could almost hear her say, “Wheelies are
definitely
a pucker.”

For a moment, Jon wondered what kind of suitcase James Dean would have. But he couldn’t remember the guy carrying anything but Sal Mineo in any of the movies. Maybe cool guys didn’t take luggage. They traveled light. He sighed. All of this was so complicated.

But now, for his plan to work, he had to have some luggage. After scouring his place for a quarter of an hour, he settled for an old black duffel bag he’d used for laundry back in college. He threw a few pairs of running shoes into it for heft, filling out most of the rest with crumpled
Seattle Times
sheets
‌
—being careful to save all the pages with Tracie’s features. As he zipped the bag, he hoped this was worth all the trouble. Not that he had much hope.

But despite his usual pessimism, Jon had to acknowledge
something
was undeniably hap
_p. 162
pening. Maybe it was the new clothes. Maybe it was something in his attitude that Tracie’s not-so-tender ministrations had changed. Whatever, it was clear that women were definitely behaving differently around him. At work, secretaries, analysts, and even a few of the female executives had started to greet him whenever he walked past them. Even Samantha had volunteered a hello. He was sure that never used to happen, except for a few he was actually friends with. And it wasn’t just that. There was something about the way they said hello
‌
—something in their voices. It wasn’t a come-on, exactly. But Jon was amazed that two simple letters combined, like
h
and
i,
were so musical.

The weirdest thing wasn’t that women were noticing him. He guessed that was the point of this whole exercise. The weirdest thing was how he felt about it. Like in the grieving process, there seemed to be multiple phases, three of which he’d already gone through: denial, delight, and pain. Because while at first it had just surprised him, then tickled him, it now hurt his feelings. It had taken him a little while to figure that out. Of course, he knew he should be grateful for even the slightest notice. And he had been. But then some kind of shift had taken place and he had moved from delight at the attention to hurt feelings when even Cindy Biraling, the adorable blond secretary to the CFO, began to greet him (she was notorious for ignoring people, even when they stood with the front of their thighs
_p. 163
touching her desk). Over the years, whenever he’d had to drop by or call Cindy, she’d asked not only for his extension but how to spell his name
‌
—a sure indication that she hadn’t had a clue to what it was. Now she sang out, “Hi, Jonathan.” It had started to make him mad. Why hadn’t she said hello before? And how come she knew his name now?

But whatever new magic
‌
—and the mood that accompanied it
‌
—existed, it didn’t extend far enough to grant him a date with Cindy
‌
—or anyone else at work. He still seemed to be as tongue-tied and moronic as ever with all of the women. Tracie had said that he needed to try himself out in another environment, where no one knew him, but he just couldn’t face going into a bar. He’d tried for two nights and couldn’t get himself to walk through the doors. All the humiliations of past look-sees and sitting on bar stools, all the past women’s put-downs seemed to stand like the angel at the entrance to Eden, barring the way.

And it wasn’t just walking into the bar. Somehow, the new attention from women at work had made him feel all his past social-life traumas more acutely. Facing a strange woman that, in Molly’s terminology, he was going to try to “chat up” stopped him cold. It wasn’t just that the prospect was daunting. He could have done it if it weren’t for the Phils, always sitting easily at the bars, seeming to watch his fumbling technique, disdaining his pathetic openers and his feeble attempts at humor. It was as if the Phils of the world could see past
_p. 164
his new black sweater and the 501s and the boots he was wearing.

And so he was left with figurative and literal cold feet. Jon had decided that he was going to have to find somewhere to meet women where he wasn’t known and he wasn’t up against the competition of a bunch of Phils.

Hence the duffel bag.

Jon picked it up. The newspapers partially filled it out, but it was still so light, he’d look strong being able to lift it effortlessly. He shrugged, wished himself good luck, and put on the Tracie-selected lambskin leather jacket. He sighed and tried not to feel guilty. The lambs had already been led off to their slaughter, and now he would probably follow them to his own. It’s what he deserved for letting Tracie talk him into the jacket in the first place. His feet were freezing! And it would be drafty at the airport. He wished he could put on a pair of thick gray wool socks, but if God was in the details, his toes would have to freeze.