The Evil B.B. Chow & Other Stories (2 page)

He's wearing the same shirt.

He's also wearing surgical pajamas and paper slippers and carrying a medical bag. In he breezes, calm as you please, kisses me on the cheek, says he's sorry he's late, asks if he can use the bathroom. I'm thinking: enough already. What is this guy's
deal
?

B.B. emerges five minutes later in a full tuxedo. With tails. There are some men who can't carry off a tux. My ex, for instance, always looked hopelessly overmatched, tugging at his cummerbund like an itchy kid. But B.B. looks smashing. His hair is slicked back. His pleats are razors. The black lapels sharpen his features.

We finish off the second bottle of wine and sort of stumble
to the couch and now we're really quite close and his skin smells like plums and clay and his eyelashes are so delicate—I've never seen eyelashes so delicate—and I can feel my face get warm and fuzzy as his lips come toward mine.

Sadly, B.B. is not much of a kisser. He presses too hard, and he doesn't know how to modulate the whole mouth-opening-tongue-moving-forward thing. All effort and no technique, which is a marked difference from the guys I usually date, who generally seem to be auditioning for the well-hung/feckless love interest on
Sex and the City
. And yet, I can't help being flattered by his bungling persistence. If push came to shove, I could hog-tie B.B. Chow (I've got at least ten pounds on him). But there he is, groping away at my culottes, smashing his mouth against my bra-cup, whispering,
“You're so sexy, how can you be so sexy?”

It's gotten late by this time, or early, and I already know I'm going to be a wreck tomorrow, that my gay underlings will watch me in their strange, protective, perversely un-jealous manner and fret amongst themselves.

“We should probably call it a night,” I say.

B.B. checks his watch. “I've got to be at the hospital in a couple of hours,” he says. “Maybe I could just stay here.”

“That's not such a good idea.”

B.B. leans forward and looks directly into my eyes. “I want my body next to yours. We can just sleep, but I want
to be next to your body. You have such a beautiful body.” He's managed to control his voice, but his legs are trembling. It's excruciating. Like watching Oliver Twist ask for more porridge.

“You can stay on the couch,” I say. “I'll fix you a place.”

“O
H SPARE ME
,” Marco says. “
Spare
me.”

“I don't have time for this.” I clap my hands unconvincingly. “Go fetch me Evian.”

But Marco just sits there, rolling a gummy bear between his fingers. He's not going anywhere until he's secured a full admission.

Which of course he does, how B.B. managed to prolong negotiations, how I managed to relent, blouse by bra by panties, my outfit wrung into colored bulbs on the floor, knowing I shouldn't, knowing the sort of message it sends, but also somewhat relishing throwing off the shackle, ceding to the reckless volition of my sexual adulthood, the old drama of desire stirred against self-protection.

“What's his dick like?” Marco says.

“Stop it,” I say. “Don't ask me that kind of shit.”

“It's small, isn't it? How small? Uncooked hot-dog small?”

“What it is, the thing that really freaked me out, he's got no hair on his body. Not even under his arms. Just this smooth little, like, pelt. And he doesn't know how to caress.
I thought, you know, he's a surgeon. He'll have these delicate fingers. But he's more of a groper. Like being groped by a twelve-year-old.”

Marco makes a despicable yum-yum noise.

There's a note on my desk informing me that Phil, the publisher, wants to meet at four to grill me about the Summer of Fun issue (“Not fun enough!”), our new sex columnist (“She looks like a terrier!”), and
occasions for synergy
, a phrase he acquired recently and now chants through the long cappuccino afternoons. When he's done with me, he'll shtup his personal assistant, Mandy, perhaps in his actual office.

Here's what has me baffled: the sex was good. I can't quite explain this to Marco. But somehow, the fact that B.B. Chow can't really kiss or fuck or even fondle, the fact that he makes me feel like Xena, Warrior Princess, these things
turn me on
. It's like the bar is set so low with this guy, we can't help but get over. Which we do. We get over. Twice. Despite all the flubs, the sighing misfires, what comes through is how enraptured the guy is, enraptured by
me
.

And how, just before he left in the morning, stripped of his tux, back in medical scrubs and swaying in the door frame like a eucalyptus leaf, he says this thing to me: “Will you be my girlfriend?” without a lick of irony—with, instead, a look of utmost and moist vulnerability, as if his
life depended on the answer.

I don't know what to say. I mean, we've spent the night together, had sex, orgasmed more or less simultaneously. What does that make us? Steadies? I'm not saying I don't understand what he's asking for. It's just such a weird feeling to be on the receiving end of this kind of need. I feel like I should be able to turn to some impartial referee and say,
Flag him, flag him, that's gender preemption!

W
E
'
VE BOTH GOT
these intense schedules. But somehow, rather than slowing the tempo, everything speeds up, launches us into that delirious, two-gear existence, work to bed, bed to work, the narrowing of the social field, the cultivation of baby talk, the entire goopy works. B.B. calls me from the hospital to tell me how much he misses me. He ends every conversation with the same question: “When can I see you?”

This is not to say that I don't have my moments of doubt. The first time I visit B.B. at his apartment, for instance, I spot a photo on his bookcase. A petite blonde, her hair gathered into a ponytail where the roots turn dark. She's wearing a leotard top and cradling a white puppy in her arms.

“Who's this pretty lady?” I call out.

B.B. comes rushing out of the kitchen with a bottle of wine in one hand and a corkscrew in the other. He sees me
examining the photo and looks stricken. “That was a mistake. I apologize.” He marches right over and shoves the photo behind his bound copy of
Prenatal Renal Failure
.

“You don't have to do that,” I say. “That woman is a part of your life.”

“Not anymore. She's my ex.”

“Okay. She's your ex,” I say. “Does that mean you're not allowed to tell me anything about her?”

“She was an awful cook.”

“Where does she live?”

“I don't know,” he says brusquely. “Prince Street, I think.”

“In the North End? That's right near my friend Marco. He's on Salem.”

B.B. shakes his head vehemently. “She means nothing to me. Nothing. You're my girlfriend now.” He drops the corkscrew, backs me against the bookshelf, and puts this big clinch on me. The whole thing feels so . . .
staged
. As if I'm playing the role of B.B. Chow's New Girlfriend and he needs scenes like this to keep the action rolling.

“I
T
'
S LIKE A VORTEX
. I've been sucked into the B.B. Chow Vortex.”

“How does he make you feel?” Marco says. He's camped on my love seat, disemboweling a turkey wrap.

“Great,” I say. “Horny. Desirous. He notices my shoes.
He tells me my feet are beautiful. I mean, you've seen my feet.”

“The admission of desire always entails a larger wish,” Marco says.

“Who the hell are you, Kung Fu? Quit being so goddamn wise.” He's right, of course. My body has started yearning dumbly for permanence. My cheeks are hot all the time and I've stopped obsessing over the skin around my eyes. I feel like the heroine of one of our features: “How I Fell for the Doc Next Door.” But it's not just the hormones with B.B. There's something else at play, the terrifying possibility—after years of betting on dumb sexy long shots of the heart, half-knowing how the ride will end—that I've finally found the guy who will love me back. It's enough to send my thighs into rapture.

“Don't tell me how I feel, okay? Tell me what to do.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to be able to trust this guy,” I say quietly.

Marco drops his slice of turkey and looks at me for a long moment. “Maybe you can't handle this guy because he's able to take care of you.”

W
E
'
VE BEEN TOGETHER
for a month now and for the first time, on a muggy Friday night, something is wrong. B.B. says the right things, but without conviction. He's just present enough to avoid a direct confrontation. But the
slow poison of distance hangs around us. When we get back to my place, he climbs onto my bed without undressing.

I lie down next to him. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

I place my mouth very close to his ear. “Either you talk about what's going on,” I murmur, “or get the hell out of my bed.”

B.B. takes a deep breath. “There's this girl,” he says.

The back of my neck bristles. “What girl?”

“Last night,” he says quickly. “At the hospital.” B.B. stares at the ceiling and sighs. “She had what we call craniosynostosis. The sagittal suture fuses too early and the fetal brain distorts the calvarium into an aberrant shape.”

“English,” I say. I'm looking at B.B. in profile, the black sheen of his eyes, the wet budding of his lips.

“There's no room for the brain,” he says. “It grows in the wrong direction, you know. But there's this surgery. To correct the situation.”

“What happened?”

“The chief of the unit, you know, he performed the operation. Dr. Balk. He let me assist. It was going fine. You know, they have to cut the cranium and fuse the bone. Then all of sudden her vitals started to drop, you know, the vitals . . .” His voice does a little choked thing. “The respirator, something, there was something wrong. Balk was busy
trying to reshape this girl's skull, threading the bone mulch. Her skull, you know, she looked great. But her numbers kept dropping. It wasn't the blood; they gave her another unit of blood. Once the bone is cut, you know, there's no way to control blood loss through the marrow.”

The smell of B.B. is suddenly overpowering: a rind of surgical soap soured by sweat. In the park across from my place, the skate rats have gathered under the willows to tell lies. I can hear them spitting at one another and laughing. Farther north, on Tremont, jazz is reeling out from the cafés.

“She looked fine, you know, but she wasn't, like, strong enough. It's what we call operative failure. The heart gives up.” His chest starts to heave and I wrap myself around him, pull his head to my bosom, run my fingers through his thatched hair, in the half light of my bedroom, this awkward healer of children with his soft soft lashes, his big broken cheeks. “I'm sorry,” he sobs. “I'm so sorry.” And now I can feel myself throwing the last anchor of discretion overboard, giving in to the pleasure of giving in, of tending to his tears, his hurt, his deep want of love.

And it's more than this really. I can see now that B.B. is as devastated by this loss as by our ardent duet, that what he's offering me, what his tears offer, is the deepest measure of love: unfettered access to his emotions.

He moves as if injured the next day, though we manage
to have a good time, puttering around in pajamas, watching cooking shows, collecting ourselves for some goofy Sadie Hawkins soiree in Somerville. We take the T over, what the hell, watch dusk firing up the Charles, unfolding hopeful pink panels onto the gray rooftops. B.B. is wearing this suede jacket I bought him; I even took the sleeves up an inch with the sewing machine I thought I'd never use again. He looks so adorable that I spend most of the night checking him out from across the room, thinking about his smooth little butt, only half-tuned to the sad angry buzz of gossip that rises from the party with the cigarette smoke.

Later, in the quiet of my bedroom, we make love, and again when the dawn breaks, a languorous morning session. B.B. runs out to get some fresh juice and comes back with flamboyans and snapdragons.

P
HIL THE
P
UBLISHER
comes bouncing into my office in his dreadful linen suit, full of dumb suggestions. He makes authoritative hand gestures while I pretend to jot notes. This is our Monday morning ritual. He nods at the stack of proofs on my desk. “Did you come in yesterday?”

“No,” I say. “Did you?” What I actually want to say is: “Uh, Phil, why do you smell like pussy? Have you been porking your assistant again?” But the whole situation is just too pathetic.

He finally leaves and I start thumbing through the
glossies. What I'm actually doing is trying to remember what it meant to give a shit about all this: the grinning semifamous with their hairdos and rescuing platitudes, the sweet, standing water of self-help. The phone rings and rings. Marco is out sick.

I finally punch up the line.

“Hey,” B.B. says.

I can hear the hospital bustle in the background and I picture him cradling the phone in the crook of his neck—his long, smooth neck—and smile. “Hey loverboy.”

Silence.

“Are you okay?” I say.

B.B. says something, but so softly I can't quite hear him.

“What is it, honey?”

“I can't do this,” he says.

“Do what?”

“I'm still in love with Dinah,” he says quickly. “It's not fair for us to spend any more time. Not fair to you.”

“Wait a second,” I say. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm still in love with Dinah.”

“What?”

B.B. starts crying.

I feel, in my chest, the slapping of wings around a dark emptiness. Then the endorphins come roaring in and my heart does the little two-step into rage. “Why are you telling me this on the phone? Why am I hearing this from
a goddamn piece of plastic?”