The Slide: A Novel (13 page)

“Pesto chicken pizza. Grilled tilapia in mango salsa. I wonder what they offer that’s encrusted.”

He liked it here. Hence that aplomb, the palpable contentment oozing from his side of the booth. In a setting so rife with flaws—and it was, surely, just look—he either didn’t see them or didn’t care about them. How this contentment was related to physical stature, I wasn’t sure. But the ogre could have been anywhere and it wouldn’t have made a difference. And I had to wonder if this approach—this ambivalent comfort and brute ogre stoicism—was one of, perhaps,
love
? Wasn’t Casanova’s conflict one of loving too widely? Love not unlike sprawl, far-reaching and nondiscriminatory. Or Don Juan? The hostess made another pass by our table, smiling like a child’s toy.

“Let’s order,” he said. “Sooner we order, sooner we can get on with this.”

“This. On with this.”

He set the menu down. “The slaughter, Potter. The destruction of every little she-girl we can get our hands on. Isn’t that what we’re here for? Stuart said you were looking to get laid.”

I left the booth and maneuvered into the back of the restaurant. If I happened upon a restroom I would use it. I stopped at the giant fish tank and watched helpless little fish swim into and quickly back out of miniature castles. There were eyes everywhere. I turned and found a father and mother glaring up at me from their booth. When I found myself back at the booth I sat down, relieved to see the menus had been taken away.

“I ordered you fajitas because I figure even you probably like fajitas. The surprise is gonna be chicken or beef.”

Edsel broke off a section of bread pole and shoved it into the hole in his beard. I would have given damn near anything to grow a beard like the ogre’s. He had become a monstrous individual, and the divergence of this monstrosity from the present of middle-American kinfolk should have been stark. The bearded ogre among scores of timid men, women, and children. Instead, somehow, he managed to fit into the picture, to slide himself into their realm. And to thrive.

“You pick up very heavy weights over and over again,” I said. “And you do it for women. That’s the motivating factor.”

“Let me explain something very simple about this world, this shithole of ours. Whatever they say about the universe, our puny little globe is only getting smaller. The bigger I become, the more of this world I get to claim as my own.” Here the food was set in front of us. Edsel added, “Which is the whole damn point.”

We ate without discussion and stood once the ogre declared the restaurant devoid of prospects. Outside, there was a brief moment of aimlessness before Edsel led us determinedly toward another of the restaurants, presumably in search of Emily the short bartender. I appreciated the return to movement, the sense of journey. Our paths momentarily diverged in the parking lot and we spoke over car roofs.

“You go in there to burn things off,” I said. “So there’s got to be some level of catharsis. You go into this smelly old South City gym and direct yourself inward, testing the limits of your body. It’s got to be at least somewhat about discipline, controlled masochism.”

“Simple math. I get bigger, world gets smaller.”

At Crazy Sticks we ordered beers and sat at the bar, facing outward. Here, too, the clientele was dominated by families. And no Emily. Edsel appeared undaunted, silent and faithful for what the near future would hold. I was less sure.

“Then why not just get fat? If volume is the thing, why not just eat yourself into fatness? Think about the water displacement of a fat man lowering into a tub. If it’s size you want.”

“Fat men lack confidence. Lookit this guy here, blue shirt. Lookit his shoulders. Fat slouch.”

“And you need confidence,” I said. “For women.”

“For the slaughter,” he said, standing.

Nor did Emily the bartender appear during our beer at Bighorn Steakhouse. We drank in silence until I asked what he thought Stuart had meant about Marianne, how she wanted to meet him but not me.

“Don’t know or really care. Is she beautiful, this girl?”

“Maybe beautiful inside,” I said.

“And this is really bothering you, is it?”

“A little. Yes.”

“Must be exhausting as hell.”

“So confidence is everything,” I said.

“Wrong. Confidence is something, alright, but without technique it’s nothing. Lessgo.”

In the car he grunted directions to a place he knew, somewhere he promised would be fruitful. I remained resoundingly unsure how I would react if confronted by a legitimately available woman. We continued quietly westward, straying deeper into the county along roads that became residential, following curves alongside enormous new-construction houses. Then back into a commercial district, car dealerships and fast-food chains and bright colorful signage. He directed me into a strip mall and I parked facing something called the Baja Beach Club. What followed would prove to be his longest and most horrifying lesson.

“Forget the specifics of women. Sooner you stop differentiating, the sooner you realize that the women are not the point. A man’s got to start somewhere. There’s one thing I learned in Thailand it’s that the world is full of people waiting to be overpowered. Passive smiling Buddhists or bored married women or barely legal teenage girls. You get wrapped up in differences, but the point is there isn’t any difference because the techniques are the same across the board. The point is the techniques, learning the behaviors people expect. Intimidation. Physical mastery of your surroundings. False flattery as a technique, showering praise when you know praise is what someone wants. People crave praise, they feed off it. Using silence and dead air to create an awkward situation that you secretly control. There’s one thing I learned it’s that people fear silence, forces them to say something they don’t always mean. Pounce on this. Slaughter them. The technique of the wince, using your body to react to something said. Bigger body, bigger wince. You wince so they begin to doubt whatever they just said. These things work, these gestures. You get them to agree to something big, then add little things onto that something. Nibbling away. God bless the nibble. Create false deadlines. Say take it or leave it. You gotta learn the gestures and learn how people react. After that it’s simple as matching the gesture to the situation. Easy as anything in the whole world.”

“I don’t like anything you just said.”

“Yeah, see, you ain’t gonna like it.”

We got out of the car and began walking toward the Baja Beach Club.

“Are you gay?”

“No,” I said.

This was man. A particularly brutal example of man, for sure, but exemplary nonetheless. The men in the hostels in Europe, the backpackers walking a few steps behind Audrey and Carmel. American? Care for a drink? Listening to their stories, cocking their heads to project interest. Gestures for Audrey, the things I’d stopped having to do. Men trained in the arts.

“Hold on. Why is everyone so young? What is this place?”

“Technically legal is the same as totally legal. Don’t think about specifics.”

We were close enough now to read the sign that said
18 and
overs ONLY
. I knew of such clubs out here, with an indoor sand volleyball court and the rhythmic pump of bass, hair gel gleaming in the strobes programmed to match up with that song about wanting to fuck you like an animal. Jäger shots spilled while being passed from adults to children, wall decorations that glowed fluorescent in prevailing black light. I stopped walking.

“Edsel. Don’t go in there. These are children, tiny little people. Look at their legs, look how small. Look at the zits on the guys. I can’t go in there. Be serious.”

“You’re either coming or you’re not. Don’t make a single difference to me.”

End of lesson one. I watched him move into the middle of the line, an enormous body among a collection of small frames in jeans that rode low and tight. The ogre surrounded by tube tops and plastic hoop earrings. I returned to my car and drove back into my father’s city.

The Hoyne daughter was next door, shooting lazy jump shots at the basket bolted above her parents’ garage. She shot and missed and followed the stray ball as it dribbled into the lawn, pulling from a cigarette as she walked. She hit a few and missed several more. I had memories of this little girl running insane circles through a front-yard sprinkler, cackling and spinning. Now it occurred to me that she had seen me pull into the driveway and had likely noticed that I hadn’t left the car in what felt like at least three or four hours, and she was probably at this moment trying to recall the Five Simple Steps to Reporting a Sexual Deviant memorized for health class. I opened my car door just as she lobbed a shot that was short and left enough to bounce off the rim and into the grass separating the two driveways. She ended up following the ball, facing me as I pushed the door shut.

“You fall asleep in there?” Her hair was straight, feathered at the end so it just reached her bare shoulders.

“I was looking for something,” I said.

“You should have tried turning on the light.”

“Except the thing I was looking for, that wouldn’t have helped.”

“Oh Lord. You’re home from college now and all deep.”

“I am a very complex person. This is true. I am rife with depth.”

“Outstanding. May I offer you a smoke?”

The girl stepped over the ball and continued toward me. I pressed a button on my key and there was the flatulent honk of alarm.

“Word around our house is it’s good for your parents to have you home,” she said.

“They keep telling me that.”

She lit a cigarette in her mouth and passed it over. “Where’d you go?”

“A tiny school near Los Angeles I promise you’ve never heard of.”

“Loss Angle-less. Wow. I bet you’ve got a story about running into someone famous at a place you totally wouldn’t expect, like the dentist. Because we always assume people like that either don’t go to the dentist because their teeth are too famous for cavities or they have their own private dentist on the set. Which are both completely wrong, I’m finding out.”

“If it weren’t for the burritos I’d say bomb the whole place.”

The girl laughed and put her thumbs in the belt loops of her jeans. I took a shallow drag and tried desperately not to cough.

“I’ve got plans to go west also. My dad says Stanford, and I say Berkeley, so I guess it’ll come down to my SATs. They want me to take one of those classes, but there’s something gross about paying for some number.”

“I agree completely.”

I wiped a palm on my thigh and tapped ash from the cigarette in a manner I hoped looked cool and practiced.

“I should go inside. I’m only out here because my parents banned cigarettes from the house last week. They’re afraid all the smoke is cutting into our cat’s life expectancy. Hey, come say hi next time you see me. Neighbors and all.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Righteous.”

I smoked the rest of the cigarette and watched her walk back toward her house, kicking the ball as she went. Just before reaching the garage, she turned.

“How’d you do on the verbal?” she yelled.

“Not bad. I was an English major. So.”

“English majors get the chicks, right? Isn’t that what they say?”

Inside my home, I opened the fridge, removed the plastic carton of chicken salad, doused its contents with pepper, found a fork, and stepped into the living room. My father was spread out on the couch, watching baseball highlights. I fell into the recliner.

“Your mom asked that if I was still up when you got home to please tell you good night. So good night.”

“Good old Mom.”

“Cubs won. Houston won. Cincinnati won.”

“What’s that make us, six back?”

“Seven.” He sat up. “Noticed you talking to the little girl next door.”

I saw past my father through the curtains to where I’d been standing minutes earlier.

“I can never remember her name,” I said.

“Ophelia,” he said. “Or is it Lolita.”

I laughed, just a single shot of air from my mouth and nose, but it was wonderful. I remembered that he was a funny man sometimes, when he wasn’t so engulfed in the struggle to keep this city alive. I suddenly felt guilty for where I’d been with Edsel, out cavorting in the farthest reaches of sprawl when I should have been supporting downtown.

“There’s wine left if you want. In fact, why don’t you bring me the bottle. I could use a little more.” My father stretched his hand straight out in front of him, looked at the watch that had slipped around to the underside of his wrist. “No. Never mind.”

The two of us sat in the glow of the TV. My father was gathering steam to go to bed. Soon this man would stand and I’d hear the sequence of creaks and pops from his bones, wispy exhalation through big nostrils. I found myself wishing he would stay.

“Names. I ask and people tell and I listen, I’m sure I listen, but then it’s never there.”

“I’m exactly the same way,” he said.

“You request info, you receive info, and yet for some reason you don’t retain info?”

“Why ask for info if you don’t want it?” he said. “Whose time are we wasting? Everyone’s is whose. Everyone’s time.”