I Loved You Wednesday (10 page)

“Let him think I’m out with someone else.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” she demands.

“I ....”

“But then again ... what if he doesn’t call back?” she asks, suddenly surprisingly upset.

“Don’t worry,” I assure her. “He’ll call back.”

Growing visibly agitated now, Chris taps her fingers nervously on the tabletop. “And what if the romance is over?” she asks, distressed, chewing on a thumb.

“Then it doesn’t matter,” I answer in a foolish flight of reason.

“Doesn’t matter?” Chris raises her voice, displaying the slightest bit of hostility. “Are you mad, Steve? For God’s sake. Of course it matters. I’m in love and my darling’s been trying to reach me and you know how difficult it must be for him to leave the bar to make a phone call. Poor thing. I’ll callhim!”

“Now?” I ask, confused.

“Of course. Oh, why didn’t I think of this before? Why didn’t you?”

“Because I know better.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s the only thing to do.”

“Chris, I’m serious. He won’t like that. Throwing yourself at him, coming on so strong, is a big mistake.” “I don’t care. I’m going to call him.” “You are not!” I insist. “I am too!”

“ You are not!”
I raise my voice.
“I AM TOO!”
Chris tops me.
“YOU ARE NOT!”
I holler.

Chris pushes back her chair, knocking it over, as she stands with determination and heads for the telephone. I jump up and, racing to the desk, get there first. Placing the telephone behind my back, I stand defiantly erect. “Give me that phone!” growls Chris. “No!” I stand firm. “I’m not playing with you!” “I’m not playing with you, either.” “This is not your business, Steve!” “It is too!” “It is not!” “It is too, damn it!” “Give me the phone!” “NO!”

“GIVE ME THE GODDAMN PHONE!” “NO!”

Chris jabs me in the ribs, hard, taking me by surprise. As she stretches around and manages to wrest the phone from me, I lurch forward and grab it back again. She hangs on. I pull. She tugs. I pull back.

“Chris, let go, damn it!” I pull, getting really annoyed.

“NO!” she insists, tugging.

“LET GO!” I pull, clenching my teeth.

“NO!”

Back and forth. Back and forth.

“I-SAID-LET-GO-CHRIS-G OD-DA MN-IT!”

“I-SAID-NO!”

“I-SAID-YES!”

Back and forth.

“NO!”

“YES!”

“LET GO!”

“NO!”

“Yes!”

“No!”

Whack!

I haul off, sending a fierce open-handed slap directly across her face, flushing her cheek beet red.

Both of us stand stunned for what seems a very long three-quarters of a second, recovering from the sting. Finally, I extend the phone to her, saying quietly, “Jesus, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. Here. Make the call.”

“I don’t want to,” says Chris, turning her back on me.

“I insist.”

“Go to hell.”

“Aw, come on.”

“You hate me!”

“I do not!”

“You hit me!”

“You deserved it.”

“I did not. It hurts.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t forgive you.”

I extend the phone to her again. “Here. Take it.”

“Screw you. I don’t want it.”

“All right. I’ll do it.” Dialing information, I get the number of the Blue Owl, call the restaurant and ask for Bradley. When he gets on the line, I hand the telephone to Chris. She hesitates at first but finally accepts it. Switching on her siren voice in an amazing recovery worthy of Bernhardt, she seductively says hello and then asks if he’d like to come over to her place after he gets off work.

There is a long silence on our side of the wire, and all I can hear is the buzz of whatever it is Bradley’s saying.

Chris listens attentively a few more moments and then calmly says, “I wouldn’t count on it,” before she hangs up.

“What was that all about?”

“Nothing,” says Chris sharply, scratching at a newlyarrived hive on her forearm. “I invited him over. He said it was impossible tonight . . . maybe some other time. I told him not to count on it.”

“But why?”

“Because I’m not a toy. He can’t just control me when he wants.”

“But maybe he
can’t
make it tonight!”

“Why not?”

“How do I know why not?”*

“Whatever he’s doing is not as important as breaking it if he really wanted to see me.”

“Chris. I have seen you personally go out of your way before to screw up and destroy relationships, but this time you’re outdoing even your own self-destructive self!”

“Name me one thing I’ve ever done that was self-destructive!”

“Are you serious!? What would you call last year’s trip to St. Vincent’s emergency room?”

“A passing fancy.”

“Well, the next time a similar fancy passes—please—DO IT IN YOUR OWN APARTMENT!”

“Don’t start with me, Steve!”

“Always playing games instead of just coming clean. What if you’ve turned him off for good?”

“Fine. It’ll give me something else to be upset about.”

“How you love to wallow in that bullshit self-pity. Jesus!”

“I won’t have you psychoanalyzing me, Steve. I’ve already fired two shrinks. I don’t need it from you. I’ll wallow where I want.”

“Go ahead, damn it!” I raise my voice. “But if you spend so much time floating around and wallowing down in the dumps. ...” I trail off, not wishing to finish the thought.

“Yeah?” Chris pursues.

“Well... one of these days you just may wind up sinking.”

“Profound City! What time is the next lecture? I wouldn’t miss Sunrise Sermon with you for the world.”

“Come on. Don’t be difficult.”

“I’m going home!”

“GOOD IDEA!”
I roar.

“I’m depressed.”

“Congratulations. I knew you could get there if you worked at it.”

“Sorry to leave you with the dishes,” Chris tosses off lightly.

“That’s the least of our problems,” I mumble.

Chris gets her coat and starts for the door. I open it for her. Reaching out, she shakes my hand, saying, “Thanks for the whipping.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“And the dinner.”

“WHAT DINNER? NOBODY ATE!”

“Don’t yell. You know, Steve,” she says with conviction, walking into the hallway, “the trouble with you is your outlook on life.”

“How do you mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You’re just so fucking
healthy!”

Our lives weave intricate, fluctuating patterns. As the feller says, when you’re up, you’re up.

The next day the planets must move into a new house, the sun and moon must be at peace with all forces, and the stars must obviously be smiling down upon us.

In the morning I get a call from Pat, at the William Morris office.

“Hello?”

“Congratulations! Congratulations!”

“Pat?”

“Guess who’s going to Florida for three weeks?”

“I got the part?”

“You bet your ass you got the part!”

“Terrific!”

“They just called with the good news. Of course I fleeced them for fifty more per week than they were ready to spring. Cheap bastards. Sign the contract and pick up the script at their office tomorrow.... What? ... Who? ... Tell them I’ll call back. You there, Steve?”

“Right here, Pat. Have you heard anything about
March into April?”

“March into April
? Oh, right. The play! Not a phone call. But word on the street is they’ve got money problems. Who doesn’t, huh? Is this a shitty business or what? We must all be crazy, no?”

“I guess.”

“What? . .. Who? . .. Hold on a minute, Steve. The other line.”

I’m switched over to Hold, where I wait patiently a couple of minutes until Pat comes back on the line.

“Steve! You still there?”

“Haven’t moved.”

“Good....What? .. . What? ... Oh, shit, Joan. Not again.

. . . Steve, I gotta take this other call.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’ll talk to you later.... What line is he on? . .. What? ... 506?. . . Well, why didn’t you say so?” Click.

As soon as I hang up, the phone rings again.

“Hello?”

“Steve?” summons a subdued, coquettish Chris.

“Hi!” I greet her back enthusiastically.

“Listen. I’ve had a good night’s rest and a lot of talking with myself, and I’m sorry about walking out on dinner. You’re not mad, are you?”

“ ‘Course not.”

“When I go a little nutsy, it’s probably best to just wait it out.”

“I understand. Don’t say another word.”

“You’re the best. Well, I’ve got great news.”

“Me too.”

“Fabulous. You first.”

“No. You.”

“Okay. Well, two things. First, I just found out I got that Clairol commercial I read for last week.”

“Hey! Congratulations.”

“Yeah. It’s for a new shampoo they’re putting out called Breeze, and it’s to be a big national campaign, so my agent said I stand to make a good five or six thousand on it, at least.”

“That’s great. Just great.” “And I also got a callback for
Another Straw
, that revue you went with me to yesterday.”

“This is it, kid. You’re on your way!”

“I hope so. What about you?”

“Well . . . I’m going to Florida . . .
Barefoot in the Park!”

“Congratulations! You can’t!”

“Can’t what?”

“You can’t go!”

“Why not?”

“How can you leave at a time like this? We still don’t know what’s happening between me and Bradley.”

“Well, Chris. You’ll just have to work twice as hard to resolve it by the time I leave.”

“What a challenge to my feminine mystique!”

“You can handle it.”

“I know.”

Chris and I go out to dinner that evening to celebrate our newfound work. We have a terrific time except once every ten minutes or so when she lapses into a momentary melancholic stupor over her up-in-the-air situation with her bartender friend. But I tickle her toes under the table or make some dumb face or tell a lousy joke, and she snaps right out of it.

Later on, around midnight, I’m preparing for bed when the phone rings.

“Hello.”

“HE CALLED!”

“Hi, Chris.”
“HE CALLED!”

“Bradley?” I catch on fast.

“Of course. Thank God we didn’t stay out too late. He just phoned and asked if he could come over to see me once he got off work.”

“So you’re happy?”

“Thrilled!”

“You see. Some days things go the way we wish they would every day.”

“Sounds like a fortune cookie.”

“I....”

“Steve, I can’t babble on like this. I’ve got to get ready. Just wanted to let you in on the good news.”

“Okay. I’m delighted for you. Call me tomorrow with details.”

“I know it’s going to be only glorious!”

“Good night.”

“Good night and hallelujah!”

I go to sleep and Chris hurries about to prepare: Cleopatra awaiting Antony. Juliet listening for Romeo. Heloise greeting Abelard. Beatrice enticing Benedick. Helen seducing Paris. Tristan shtupping Isolde.

The following morning we have take two: a repeat of the early morning brunch sequence with which we started our story.

This time Chris allows me and the bulldogs to sleep until seven fifteen before ringing my door bell.

“Well, you can go to Florida. Don’t worry about me, anymore!” she sings, walking right past me, into the kitchen.

“Really?”

“I’M
SO
IN LOVE!”

“I had a hunch,” I offer calmly, following her like one of the pups.

“Sorry I woke you, but I just had to talk and knew you probably couldn’t sleep, worrying about me so. You don’t mind, do you? Of course you don’t; what are good friends for if you can’t make them breakfast and tell them of your good fortune and have I got good fortune to tell you about? How it is possible for one man to be so good in bed without bottling his technique is beyond me! We were at it forever. Forever! He just left an hour ago. He was so incredible, Steve, just like Old Faithful, every hour on the hour, dependable as Big Ben. And as for me, well, multiple orgasms. WAVES OF MULTIPLE ORGASMS. Do you have any idea what it’s like to have waves of multipleorgasms? My, my, my....”Chris finally trails off, exhaling along, lingering sigh of blissful contentment. “I suppose I should ask how you want your eggs.”