I Loved You Wednesday (22 page)

“He’s my friend.”

“No, Chris. I’m your friend.”

“No. You’re my lover.”

Well, since I have no clue to how I might combat that particular breakdown in communication, I change the subject by picking a fight with the taxi driver, commenting on how much I miss John Lindsay ever since he left the mayor’s office.

But the subject of Chris’ friend, Astin, is hardly over. In fact it’s just begun.

In the days ahead, he steadily becomes more and more a permanent part of our lives.

Chris speaks with him on the phone at least once in the morning and again in the afternoon. He is soon joining us for dinner a couple of times a week and accompanying us to movies, meeting us at parties, and unless I’m going crazy, it sure seems the two of them are finding a lot more to laugh about than the two of us. Although I find him a pleasant enough oddball, he’s starting to get on my nerves. At least, though, now I understand why all of Chris’ boyfriends had always felt such resentment toward me. Now that I’ve been sort of replaced by Astin on that level, I feel hostility toward me, uh, him, too.

I even run into him at the Benton & Bowles Agency late one afternoon, while waiting to audition for a Pampers commercial. As it turns out, in fact, he’s the art director assigned to the spot. We chat for several minutes, mostly about the one interest we share (Chris) until I’m called.

In the commercial I’m playing a new father, shamelessly ignorant of how a pair of Pampers are capable of sponging up a tidal wave of wetness until my wife, who knows better, I guess, because she’s read the script, displays our deliriously happy, bone-dry Pampered baby.

“Excellent!” says the director, after we’ve taped it. “Just what I wanted. Let’s do a second take . . . just for insurance.”

So we tape it again, and once more the director claimshow terrific he thought it was. After he thanks us most profusely, repeating again how right we each were, I leave the studio.

Outside, in the reception area, I run into Astin again, who’s been hanging around to find out how I did. I tell him it went rather well and he tells me he’s meeting Chris in a few minutes at P. J. Clarke’s and would I like to join them.

Would
I
like to join
THEM?

So here we are, in the back room at Clarke’s, me, Chris and my new best friend, huddled around a table designed for midgets, munching on hamburgers, as Chris announces, “I was asked to audition for the
most
exciting job today!”

“Tell us.”

“Doing the lead in
Sugar
for five weeks in dinner theaters around Dallas.”

“Terrific,” I say. “When’s the tryout?”

“Never.” Chris shrugs. “I turned it down.”

“You didn’t!” “I did!”

“But why?”

“Simple. I told my agent I was just too much in love to even consider leaving home for five minutes. Five
weeks
was obviously out of the question.”

“Oh, Chris!” I sigh, putting down my hamburger. “What a foolish thing to do. You can’t afford to turn down that much money and that big a credit.”

“I can afford to do anything I wish!”

“But if they think you won’t travel, they’ll just stop calling. You might at least have gone through with the audition. And a musical, Chris. I mean, really! What more do you want?!”

“I think it’s thrilling!” Astin chimes in.

“What’s that?” I ask, trying to conceal my impatience at his intrusion.

“The strength of love triumphant over the seductive perils of materialism!”

“Look, Astin,” I say, too harshly I’m sure for his sensitiveears. “The only things in life we’re guaranteed are Coca-Cola and air conditioning. Everything else, you gotta work for!”

“Well!” insists Chris, rushing to his defense. “At least Astin understands me!” And the two of them click their beer mugs, toasting their significant communication.

“I was only trying to be practical,” I offer as explanation, trying to get back into the clubhouse.

“It’s all right, Steve,” Chris assures me, tapping my forearm with her hand. “I doubt I would’ve gotten the part, anyway. The tarot cards have said nothing about any future traveling.”

“Did you tell your agent that?” I cynically inquire.

“No. Just that I was in love. Why confuse her?”

Why, indeed?

Well, Chris and Astin may have a clear understanding as to the unimportance of the practicalities of the capitalistic system, but she and I are still champs in other areas.

At least some of the time.

“Steve, that was fabulous!”

“Just terrific!”

“Absolutely incredible!”

“Like always!”

“I’m soaked with perspiration. Absolutely soaked.”

“Me too.”

“Boy, was that something! You know what?”

“What?”

“I had waves of multiple orgasms again. Waves of multiple orgasms!”

“That’s my girl!”

“Steve?”

“What?”

“Can we do it again in a while?”

“I’d love to. But I don’t know. I mean I’m really bushed.”

“You don’t want to?”

“Yes, I want to. I’m just not sure I’m able.”

“Don’t put me off. Yes or no?”

“Must we decide right now?” “Yes!”

“All right.
Nor

“Why?”

“I told you. It’s three in the morning. That was a great collaboration. Now let’s go to sleep, huh?”

Chris switches on her pained pout, complaining, “You don’t find me sexually stimulating!”

“Right!” I laugh, confident she’s got to be joking. “You may as well be mother superior of an abbey for all the sex appeal you generate!”

“Don’t clown with me about something like this. You know how sensitive I am.”

“I was only joking.”

“You were serious.”

“I was joking.”

“You were not.”

“Come on, how could you not see the humor? We’ve been rolling all over this bed for the past three hours getting into some of the most remarkably unique situations I bet even the most advanced illustrated guides have yet to come up with. We could add a new chapter to the
Kama Sutra
. Did you really think this crazed animal who’s personally covered and ravaged every inch of that incredible monument you call your body could, in any conceivable way, possibly
not
be stimulated by you?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Well then, you’ll just have to take my word for it.”

“I don’t.”

“Chris, even Hugh Hefner would be exhausted by now.”

“I wonder.”

“Come on, you’re easily one of the sexiest girls anywhere. It’s impossible
not
to turn on to you. I’ve never known better sex. You must know that.”

“That’s all I am then? Just an object?”

I see there’s no winning this one. “I will not allow you to turn this dumb, trivial issue into a fight, Chris. Is that clear? So let’s just drop it and go to sleep, okay?”

“Is that it, Steve—you think sex is a trivial issue?”

“You know I didn’t say that.”

“No?”

“No! I was talking about how terrific you are. In bed or otherwise. It was
my
problem. I just wasn’t sure
I
was up to tackling another set right now. But it’s no big deal. I could get it up for you in a blizzard. I was just being foolishly, selfishly realistic, thinking since it’s so late, we’d probably be smart to go to sleep soon so we might look like real people at eight thirty in the morning when we get up. That’s all.”

“I don’t care about tomorrow morning. I’m interested in how I feel right
now!”

“Fine. Talked me into it. Let’s just relax for a few minutes, huh? I’ll get another beer, maybe take a shower to freshen up, and we’ll stay up all night and ball from the chandelier. Okay?”

“Under any other circumstances I’d happily say yes. But you make it seem like I’m twisting your arm. Forget it, Steve. I do not accept charity.”

“Come on, Chris:
CHARITY!
You know, it’s easy to interpret things just the way you want to hear them.”

“And I do!”

“Don’t I know!?”

Chris flops over on her belly. “Good night, Steve” she says with a thud.

Better throw in the towel on this one and start fresh in the morning. “Good night, Chris,” I answer, very softly, grabbing a buttock with affection. “I love you.”

“And I love you, Steve.” . . . Pause. . . . Long beat. . . . “Even if you are a chauvinist pig who no longer finds me appealing.”

“They love you!” says Rhonda, my commercial agent, calling the next day, letting me know I’ve been called back for the Pampers spot. “The casting lady loved you. Found you charming and witty and loved your reading and you’re going to make me a very rich woman, Steve. You’ve got to get this one. Pampers, my dear, big-big residuals.”

And three hours later I’m back at Benton & Bowles, repeating the audition Rhonda claimed they loved so well.

“Perfect!” applauds the director after the same actress playing my wife as last time and I finish the second taping. “Don’t move! Stay right there! I want someone to see this!” And he is gone, bolting out the studio door, enthusiastically running down the hallway, waving his arms in the air, calling, “MARCIA! LARRY! COME SEE THIS! YOU’VE GOT TO COME SEE THIS!”

Returning two minutes later, followed by a man and a woman I assume to be Marcia and Larry, whoever they are, the director prods us excitedly saying, “Okay kids. I want you to do it again exactly as you just gave it to me. Don’t change a thing. It was perfect!”

So my wife and I repeat our performance as the videotape machine turns on. I hand her a plastic wet baby; she hands me a real-life Pampers. I learn the facts of life and am eternally grateful.

“That’s just plain marvelous!” says Marcia, slowly sinking into a chair, so moved is she apparently by our rendition. “Just what we’re looking for!”

“Right on the button!” agrees Larry, who, probably stronger than Marcia, finds he can still stand even after experiencing such a theatrical phenomenon. “Put a Hold on both of them!”

Now that she’s regained some of her stamina, Marcia finds she can stand again. Walking over to us, she slams her fist on the table housing the plastic Pampered baby and, like Eisenhower addressing the troops, says firmly, “That’s what I call good work!” Then, turning on her heels, she marches out of the studio, followed directly by Larry.

“You’re going to have to marry me, Steve!” says a very happy Rhonda, calling the following morning. “They want you back! Loved you, not so sure about her! So they’re teaming you up with a new girl, just to make it letter-perfect. You’re going to get this one, Steve. I know it.”

And so, there I am, back at the studio that afternoon, for another reading, this time with my new wife, giving my all for Pampers.

I’ll try not to bore you with the plaudits lauded upon us after the taping. I doubt, though, Calks’ return to the opera house in Milan reaped as much enthusiasm.

I arrive home in splendid spirits, positive I’ve nailed the job, and tell Chris how very well it all went.

“That’s
so
exciting!” she bubbles.

“I know. Anyone call yet?”

“I . . . wouldn’t know. Just got in a few minutes ago myself.”

“I’ll call my service. Maybe they’ve heard something.”

“Good idea,” says Chris kind of quietly, walking into the kitchen.

“0900!” chirps my answering service lady, with what sounds like at least half a sandwich in her mouth.

“Hi! This is Steve Butler. Any messages?”

“Hi, Steve. Nope. I already told you. Nothing yet.” Munch. Munch. “Are you home?”

“Yes.”

“Well, your Miss Canaday checked in not five minutes ago, saying she was at your house, calling in for you.” Munch.

“Oh?”

“Didn’t she tell you nothing’s come in yet?”

“Um ... of course she told me. I’m just expecting an important call and wanted to make sure myself.”

“Nope. Nothing yet.” Munch. Munch. Munch.

“Okay, thanks.”

“Yeah. Miss Canaday’s been picking up your messages for weeks now. Sounds like a lovely girl. You must be very happy.”

“Thrilled,” I say.

“See ya!” Munch. Munch.

“Thank you.”

Click.

I walk into the kitchen, where Chris is busy creating some strange health salad.

“Why didn’t you tell me you already called my service?” “You want to know the truth, Steve? I’m not at all sure yogurt and carrot strips mix so well together. But Astin says even the recipe claims it’s more a salad for the eye than the pallette.”