How I Paid for College: A Novel of Sex, Theft, Friendship & Musical Theater (4 page)

She's probably about forty-five, but looks younger. It's hard to tell because she's got that tousled, just-been-fucked hairstyle that older movie stars wear when they want to hide the wrinkles or their plastic surgery scars. She glides across the room in a pair of leather pants that look like they've come from the Young Sluts Department at Fiorucci. There's no denying she's hot (in a tight-blouse-y, nipple-freak-out, Angie Dickinson–as
–Police Woman
kind of way), and Al jingles the change in his pocket as he walks over to her. Then he grabs her face in both of his hairy hands and proceeds to tongue her right there in the restaurant.

Double Ick.

The woman doesn't seem to mind, nor is she bothered by Al's meaty paw resting on her ass. Al's right about one thing: this is a surprise. The woman licks her lips and gives a shake to her tangled mane to get a better look at us. Her hair is so heavily frosted it appears to be six colors at once, like it's hedging its bets.

“Dagmar,” Al says, “these are my kids, Karen and Edward. Kids, meet Dagmar.”

“Hallo,” she says, and holds out her hand to me, palm down, like I'm supposed to kiss it or something. I grip her hand awkwardly and am surprised to find that her skin is rougher than it looks.

“I didn't realize your children vould be zo goot-lookink,” she coos in a German accent so thick it's practically dripping schnitzel with noodles. She smiles at me. “You take after your fahter.”

I feel my face smile on its own accord. Dagmar's definitely got that Elke Sommer–Ursula Andress thing going on—you could easily imagine her cast as a Bond girl or as the busty blond nurse in a burlesque skit—so when she says you're goot-lookink,
vell,
you feel pretty goot-lookink.

Dagmar tickles Al under the chin and gives him that glassy-eyed adoring gaze that Nancy Reagan uses during Ronnie's speeches and that's when it hits me: they're in love. They fucking love each other. And from the way Al's groping her, I can tell they love fucking each other, too. How did this happen without my knowing about it?

We sit down. Neither Karen nor I bother to ask who this woman is or why she's here and, frankly, I don't care. For the first time since my mom left we've got a shred of refinement in our lives and I'm determined to enjoy it. Waiters slide in noiselessly and drop off appetizers despite the fact we haven't looked at menus. Clearly, Al had this whole thing planned out. Good for him. I think it's romantic.

“So you're, like, from Europe, right?” Karen says.

I'm glad to see that the drugs haven't dulled her finely tuned powers of observation.

Dagmar nods. “From Austria.”

I respond with what I hope is a look of worldly recognition, despite the fact that the sum total of my experience with Austria consists of seeing
The Sound of Music
more times than I care to admit.

Karen descends on the antipasto like she's one of the cavemen in
Quest for Fire.
“You ever been to Amsterdam?” she asks.

“Of course,” Dagmar says, her voice clipped with Teutonic precision.

“I hear you can buy drugs, like, really easy there.”

Dagmar raises her eyebrows at Al, the Internationally Recognized Signal for “And now, back to you . . .”

“Uh, Karen here works in a pharmacy,” Al says. “She's got a great interest in pharmaceuticals.”

He means Karen would've graduated college if only they'd offered a degree in hallucinogenics.

“Oh, zo do I,” Dagmar says. “I hef terrible allergies. And zo many drugs are not available here.”

“You lemme know what they are,” Karen says, a roasted red pepper hanging out of her mouth like a second tongue. “I can hook you up.”

Noting the strength of her accent, I ask Dagmar how long she's been in this country and am surprised to discover it's been nearly twenty years. She explains that she tries to get back to Europe as often as she can. I don't blame her. I would, too.

“Dagmar here's a photographer,” Al says. “I met her at a show she had over at that gallery, y'know, the one that's run by those two queers . . .”

Wait a minute. Al went to an art show? In a gallery? Owned by homosexuals? I've got to admit that this newfound sophistication impresses me and I immediately start envisioning the jet-setting life of adventure we'll all be embarking on together.

“I'd love to see your work,” I say. To let Dagmar know that I'm a kindred spirit I lean over and pat her strangely rough hand. “I'm an actor,” I whisper.

“I'm sure you're very goot,” she says. Artists can always tell.

Al then begins to pontificate on the business side of art, a subject he knows nothing about, but a lack of information has never stopped him from forming an opinion. The veil of boredom descends.

Al cracks his hairy knuckles. “I keep tellin' these two, if they want to succeed in life, they're gonna have to understand business.”

Oh, waiter, would you please pour a bucket of cold water on my head? Oops, never mind. Somebody already has.

“Ach,
I am zo hopeless ven it comes to business,” Dagmar says.

“That's what this one is always sayin',” Al says, pointing to me with a breadstick, “but I bet you've got a better head for figures than you realize. I'll show ya'.”

“You
voult
?” she says, her eyes flashing. “I'd like tsat.”

Finally, someone Al can share his bar graphs and pie charts with. It's like a reprieve from the governor.

Al leans over and whispers something in Dagmar's ear and she laughs, slapping him lightly with her napkin. Then—I'm not making this up—he actually growls at her.

Ick squared.

This is my cue to leave. I head toward the kitchen and some asshole at another table snaps his fingers in my face as I pass. “Can we have some more breadsticks here?” he says.

I don't know why, but every time I go out to eat I'm always mistaken for the waiter. In this case I suppose it's because I'm dressed like the Dr Pepper guy. You know the commercial: “I'm a Pepper, he's a Pepper, wouldn't you like to be a Pepper, too?” That's how I see myself: a Pied Piper figure (or perhaps I should say Pied Pepper figure) in an old suit vest and baggy chinos, elbows akimbo as I hitch kick my way down the streets of New York City, crowds of deliriously peppy Pepper people parading behind me. But the fact is I could be dressed like Daisy Duke and some idiot would still ask me what the specials were. I guess I just have a waiting look about me.

“I don't work here,” I say.

I wander into the kitchen, waving hello to Dominick Ferretti, who is making lewd gestures with a zucchini. His parents must be so proud.

Over on the pizzeria side Paula is regaling her table with some elaborate pack of lies. She spies me and comes bounding across the room. Dominick's dad nearly drops a pizza as he follows the bouncing breasts.

She grabs me by both hands. “So?” she squeals. “Did you talk to Doug and Kelly?”

“Yeah, everything's set.”

“Oh,
rapturous,”
she says, jumping up and down. And the judge from Italy gives a 9.6 for that Boob Bounce.

“Listen, Sis,” I say, “there's something . . .”

“Oh, Edward, just look at this. I wrote it out on my break.” She reaches deep into her cleavage while Mr. Ferretti cranes his neck to see, the big perv. She pulls out a doily onto which she's scrawled the following:

“Isn't it
splendid?”
she says. “This Saturday is the official beginning of what's surely going to be the very best summer of our lives. The
best.”

“Yeah, about that,” I say, staring at the floor, “uh . . . you don't mind if Natie comes along, too, do you?”

In the space of about four seconds Paula goes through all five of the Kübler-Ross stages of grief. “Oh, Edward, how
could
you?” she wails.

“He overheard me talking about it at play practice and just kind of wormed his way in. I don't know how he does it. He's like the KGB.”

I'm sure when cavemen invented the wheel, there was a Nathan Nudelman there to invent a third wheel. Every high-school clique has one: someone too short or too tall, too skinny or too fat, too dumb or too smart, it doesn't matter, male or female, this is the friend who simply cannot, will not, get laid before graduation.

Natie's the too-short version, which means he usually gets the role of somebody's kid brother in the plays. He's got a mushy marshmallow face, the kind that aunts and grandmothers can't resist pinching, and little button eyes that always seem to have sleep schmeg in the corners. He'd look just like the Pillsbury Doughboy except he also has a huge Jewish Afro which, to add insult to injury, is carrot red. Back in elementary school his mother made the unfortunate decision of trying to square off his haircut so he wouldn't resemble a chrysanthemum, but it just ended up looking like he had a block of cheese sitting on his head, earning him the completely unshakable nickname of Cheesehead. The word has since entered the general vocabulary of Wallingford students as a synonym for “loser,” as in the sentence, “Give me your lunch money, you cheesehead.” Since he lives across the street from me, we've hung out together for forever, but I've got to admit he's kind of embarrassing to be around.

“Well,”
Paula says, “you're going to have to explain to him that five is an entirely unsuitable number for a sophisticated evening in the city.” She flicks her pad against my chest for emphasis. “You simply
have
to.”

I agree, then use my dinner with the Austrian Amazon as an excuse to escape the inevitable lecture.

When I return, I discover Karen is alone at the table. She's building a house out of packets of sugar and Sweet'N Low with the obsessive concentration of the contentedly stoned. I grab a knife and tap her wineglass.

“Where'd they go?” I ask.

“Dunno,” she mumbles. “Al left us some money and said you shouldn't come home for a coupla hours.”

I pick up two crisp $100 bills off the table.

“Waddya think?” Karen says. “Is she gonna be our new mommy?”

I feel the sharp paper between my fingers. “I hope so,” I say.

I
can see Paula across
the parking lot of the train station as I pull up, her hands on her wide nineteenth-century hips, not a good sign. She taps the face of her wristwatch in the gesture that punctual, responsible people reserve for us disorganized, late ones. But since she wears her wristwatch on her ankle, it's hard to take her seriously.

If all the world's a stage, then Paula certainly understands the importance of wearing the right costume. And she does so by integrating into her wardrobe elements that haven't been seen for centuries, like hoopskirts or mantillas or peplums. It makes a statement. Today she's wearing the dress she made out of her father's white oxford shirt; a flattering choice, given that he's about six foot two and I'd say three hundred pounds, so it achieves the desired effect of making her appear small by comparison. The look is completed with a black felt porkpie hat, a multicolored Guatemalan vest with tiny mirrors on it, and a pair of pumps, one red and one gold.

Paula.

The shoe thing is more than just fashion, it's a philosophy. “Pairs of shoes should be like pairs of people,” Paula says. “They should complement one another, not match.” In the interest of maintaining a graceful posture, however, Paula concedes that the shoes should be identical heights, but insists that buying two pairs in different colors and mixing them is cheating. No, the only way to properly “reunite” a shoe with its “sole mate” is to spend hours in thrift stores sifting through piles of rejected and neglected secondhand shoes. Paula always leaves the bins much neater than she finds them.

Kelly and I get out of the car. Kelly's wearing lace tights, a fuchsia miniskirt, and a pink cotton sweater worn off her left shoulder
Flashdance
style, balanced by a ponytail and a huge lace bow on the right side of her head. Normally she doesn't wear any makeup at all on her Ivory-girl skin, but today she's tarted herself up special just for the occasion.