Who You Know (13 page)

She pointed to a guy in a crew cut and army fatigue pants standing at the bar right behind us. Normally I didn't go for military types, but the white T-shirt he wore stretched across a broad, well-defined chest, and his Matt Damonish smile made me forgive the crew cut.

“Not bad,” I agreed.

“I'll go get us some more beer,” she said, emptying the remains of the pitcher into our glasses and bringing the pitcher up to the bar. She stood beside army boy and pretended to seek out the bartender's attention. It would've taken the bartender half an hour to notice me, but he noticed Jen in moments. “Flat Tire,” she said. Then, turning to army boy, “Oh my god, where are your legs? I can't see your legs! They blend right into the surroundings!”

He laughed but said nothing.

“You in the army or something?” she asked.

“Used to be.”

“Did they make you wear those pants at all times?”

“Nah.” Not the best conversationalist, but his smile put me in a forgiving mood. Wow, Jen was good. Army boy was buying the pitcher of beer for her.

“Well, thank you . . . do you have a name or should I just call you G.I. Joe?”

“I'm Bill.”

“I'm Jen. Catch you later, Bill. Thanks again for the beer.”

Seconds later, Bill and his scrawny friend followed her to our table. “Mind if we sit down?”

“Please,” Jen said. Gorgeous Bill slid in next to her, and, story of my life, I got the weaselly sidekick leftovers. “This is my older sister Rette. She looks like a mild-mannered English teacher, but beneath the calm exterior lies a party animal. I know. We went to college together.”

“Oh please. Was I the one who suggested we drive to Chicago to see the transvestite strippers?” I teased. “Was it my idea to steal the keg and throw a party in the dorm lounge, breaking every possible university rule in one night? Was it my idea to steal the plant from, god, what was the name of that bar?”

“Ha! Oh, my god, I forgot about the plant. I needed one for my apartment, right?” she explained to Bill and Scrawny Sidekick. “But I couldn't afford it. So we were at this bar that had all these hanging plants everywhere. It was a dark, small bar, right? Not many people were there. We spent half the night plotting how to sneak out a plant past the bartender and the bouncer. Finally I unhooked it. I covered it with my coat and was like ten feet from the door when the bouncer was like, ‘Um, what have you got there?' ”

“Jen dropped the plant right there. Dirt flew
everywhere
. She just bolted. It was hilarious.” I laughed at the memory. Jen really was the funnest, craziest person I knew.

“You ever do anything really wild?” Jen asked Bill.

Bill paused for a moment. “I killed a man once when I was stationed in Germany. I was guarding camp, you know, and he snuck over the fence. I just came up behind him and twisted his neck like you do to chickens.” He illustrated the action with his hands. He grunted in mock effort, his teeth bared menacingly. When he was finished, he smiled with pride. “So that was pretty wild,” he said.

Jen and I looked at each other for a long moment. “Wow, I really have to use the bathroom,” I said. “Jen?”

“Yeah. Me, too. Excuse us for just a second, boys.”

Jen and I raced to the bathroom. As soon as the door closed behind us, we doubled over with laughter. It was the kind of laughter that, spurred by a little alcohol, built on itself, spiraling exponentially until we were howling uncontrollably. “Oh my god, can I pick the winners or what? Shit! What a psycho!” she laughed.

After several minutes, our laughter died down. I wiped the tears from beneath my eyes. “How are we going to sneak out of here without them seeing us?”

“It's a big bar. We'll just hang out by the dance floor. Too bad we lost all that beer though.”

“At least it was free.” I sighed and helped Jen up. We peeked out the door. Bill the assassin and his Scrawny Sidekick were hidden from view. We snuck out to the other side of the bar where the dance floor was and stood at the edge of the floor, weaving to the music without being fully committed to all-out dancing.

A gorgeous guy came up to me. He had blue eyes, tousled hair, and a sexy grin. Was he not aware that Jen was far prettier than I? Why was he looking at me?

“Hello,” he said.

“Hi.”

“I'm Mark.”

“I'm Rette.”

“Would you dance with me, Red?”

“Rette. Rette,” I said. “It's short for Marga
rette.
” I'd had this conversation many times before. “Sure. I love to dance. That'd be fun.” I left Jen standing there, stunned and more than a little irritated. I didn't feel bad leaving her. She'd done it to me a zillion times before.

Mark was a good dancer. It had been a long time since I'd danced with a guy since Greg didn't like to dance.

Mark's cologne was wonderful. I wished Greg would wear cologne. I'd told him countless times about the erotic effect it had on me, but, despite my pleas, he refused.

Mark danced close to me, sometimes touching me. Briefly, I imagined what it would be like to kiss Mark. It had been more than two years since I'd kissed anyone but Greg, and I couldn't remember what it was like to be kissed by someone else. I suspected that Mark would be a damn good kisser. Not that Greg was a bad kisser. I was perfectly content to kiss only Greg for the rest of my life. Sure, sometimes he lost control of his saliva and my mouth was deluged by a wad of phlegmy liquid, and occasionally I wished he would vary his gentle kisses with stronger, more passionate ones, but he was a caring lover and I was content. Still, there was no harm in closing my eyes, relaxing, and imagining what Mark's lips would feel like.

Mark and I danced for three songs before Jen came up to me and said it was getting late and we should be going.

“It was nice dancing with you,” I told him.

He gave a nod and grinned. I felt his eyes follow me as Jen and I made our way through the crowd.

“Do you think he didn't notice your engagement ring?” Jen snapped the moment we got into the parking lot. “He was just after cheap sex. How could you let yourself be used like that?”

“Cheap sex? Are you on drugs? He just wanted to dance.”

“You're practically a married woman,” she hissed, unlocking the passenger side door and marching to the driver's side, her high-heeled boots clicking sharply against the pavement.

“Christ, Jen, I didn't even touch him. We were just dancing.”

Jen snapped her seat belt into place.

“You're sleeping at my house. You've had far too much to drink to drive home,” she said.

“Oh, so this is interesting, you and I
split
a pitcher, thereby each consuming the same amount of beer.”

“Beer affects you differently.”

Whatfuckingever. I weighed more than she did and I had danced most of the buzz off.

Needless to say I drove home the moment we got to her place where I'd left my car. I was extra careful driving home. I didn't want to get into a car accident and prove Jen right.

AVERY

B
en actually called the day after the party. He asked if I'd be up for going bowling that night. For about three seconds I considered being coy and saying I was busy, but then realized that would be stupid.

“Sure. Sounds like fun.” That's when I remembered I didn't like bowling, and it actually didn't sound like fun at all. Oh well, if there was a date number two, I would plan that one.

As I got ready, I had the odd feeling I was cheating on Art. Which of course was ridiculous, since we'd never even met. I didn't know if I should write to him about the date tomorrow. I would see how it went and then decide. If it seemed like this might go somewhere, I'd let him know.

When Ben got to my place, he asked me where the best place to bowl around here was, and I admitted I didn't know, I didn't bowl much. I told him that I hadn't bowled in years, as a matter of fact, so he'd have to just be patient with me.

He wasn't. I had always been a terrible bowler, and it wasn't a deficiency I was at all concerned about. Ben, however, tutored me throughout the endless two rounds. “Keep your arm straight. Don't forget to follow through. Stay focused.”

“So, Lydia tells me you work at a hospital,” I said between rounds. “What do you do there?” Part of me wanted to bonk him over the head with my bowling ball, part of me hoped he was a surgeon who would ask me to marry him. Maybe I'd been hanging around Jen too much.

Ben worked with anorexics and bulimics in the eating disorders unit. In between barking bowling tips, he entertained me with stories of women puking in purses, garbage cans, and toilets, women whose organs could barely function, women who had false teeth by the age of twenty-two from the acids of their vomit eating away at their teeth.

After the second round, I suggested we forget the bowling and focus on the beer. We went to the bar where the stools and booths were made out of squeaky red plastic and the “decoration” was a spattering of neon beer advertisements.

Over beer Ben told me he had been a leisure studies major in college, a statement I immediately laughed at, mistaking this for his first humorous comment of the night. I stopped laughing when I noticed the pained expression on his face.

“You're joking, right?” I said.

“No.”

“Oh. So, what exactly does one do with a leisure studies major?” Was there really such a thing, or was he pulling my leg? He seemed incapable of humor, so I was inclined to believe him.

“There are many career possibilities. In my job, I think of activities to occupy the patients' time. I help them keep their mind off food.”

I thought this man, this entertainer of anorexics, was more than a little strange, but by the end of the night I had been plied with enough beers that when he asked to come inside my apartment, I didn't think anything of it. It had been such a long time since I'd been on a date, I'd forgotten how it all worked.

Once we were inside, I was at a loss for what we should do. I got as far as suggesting he have a seat on the couch. I sat beside him and suddenly Ben fell on me in a burst of probing tongue and groping hands and excited murmurings. In moments, we were horizontal and his large, odd-smelling body was on top of me, his jeans grinding against mine. I pushed him off and said that I didn't want to rush things. Anyway, maybe men could be aroused through layers of denim and cotton, but his determined, noisy thrusting did nothing for me. He said he understood.

We sat awkwardly beside the other for a few minutes. “Well, I should get going. I'll give you a call sometime,” he said.

“Great,” I said.

I walked him to the door, waved a cheery good-bye, and returned to the couch where I stayed for a long time, thinking about everything and nothing at all.

JEN

I
'd lost my touch. Tom hadn't called me all week, and when we saw each other at the office, he acted distant. At the clubs with Rette on Saturday, not a single guy asked for my phone number! Some guy asked Rette to dance. Had even one guy asked me? No! And Rette weighed about fourteen tons. It was all so cruel and unfair.

In any case, my ego was in serious need of bolstering. Plus, Kitty was purring for attention.

Dave had pounded on my door at 12:30 one night last week looking for sex, and while I'd had every intention of chewing him out and kicking him out the door, when I saw him, I melted. I gave a feeble attempt at bitching at him, pointing out that I had been sleeping, thank you very much.

“I know, babe. I'm sorry. I just missed you. I still love you, you know.” I could smell alcohol on his breath, mixing with the smells of his cologne and aftershave. He smelled so good, so familiar.

He put his hand on my neck and looked into my eyes. He pulled me toward him and kissed me. When he began kissing my neck, my defenses vanished entirely. Kitty ached for him. I was still mad at him, but it had been so long since I'd been properly fucked that I didn't protest as he shed my clothes.

Afterward, as we lay entwined in each other's arms, I cried. I couldn't help but wonder if I'd ever meet another guy whose touch could electrify me like Dave's could. But I had no choice but to try to find him.

So the next weekend, I called Mary from marketing. I despised Mary, but I've discovered it's best to befriend people as two-faced and viper-tongued as Mary. She was the kind of person who flirted with everyone, even women. She smiled and kidded and patted you on the shoulder. But as soon as you were out of hearing range, she'd attack. She would mimic Jim from sales's lisp or Marty from accounting's limp. She scathingly mocked Teresa from teleresearch's crispy, tortured hair. Mary was the kind of woman you were always on guard with because you knew she'd seize your slightest frailty and turn it against you. Only her closest friends, the people she considered cool and worth her time, were immune from the most scorching assaults, and even then, she could turn on them in seconds flat if she thought they'd committed the slightest infraction against her. I couldn't stand her, but I think I'd managed to get her to think of me as part of the McKenna Marketing in-crowd. Normally you couldn't pay me to go out with her, but I hadn't realized how few close girlfriends I had until I needed someone to go to the bars with me to scam for men. I could only convince Avery and Rette to go out with me every so often. For the last five years, I'd spent so much of my time and energy with Dave, I hadn't put much into my friendships. Now I was paying for it. Even drunk, Mary was sooo boring, but I needed to get out, and she was willing to go out, and there you are.

Mary was telling me I shouldn't be jealous of Rette getting married, that my time was coming. I insisted that I wasn't jealous, but she'd hit a sore spot. I did wish it were me trying on bridal gowns.

“Anyway, you'll get a guy soon. A guy who can afford a little better ring. I mean my god, she'll have that ring forever, you'd think he could spring for a little more than a diamond the size of a grain of sand!” She laughed at her own hilarity. I focused on sucking down my vodka tonic as fast as I could, hoping that a buzz would help make the evening go by a little faster. What I went through to meet men! “I mean not that my ring is huge or anything. Todd went for
quality.”
She brandished her wedding ring in front of my face. I scanned the bar looking for a fork I could jab into her hand.

“I mean some things, you just have to put the money into it. Quality is important. Like with furniture. Have you seen my new couch? Oh my god, you have to come over. It's divine. It was pricey, but it was worth it. It's going to last us years and it's so elegant.”

I nodded, miserable.

Blessedly, just then a guy hit on me. He was short and blond, which was so not my type, but even so, he was a break from Mary, and I gave him my full attention.

He said he was a lawyer and that I was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, I should be an actress or a model, I was truly a vision. He wouldn't shut up about what a knockout I was, and believe me, I didn't try to make him. Except for Mike's unfortunate height—he must have been five-six, five-seven tops because I was five-five myself, and with the tiny heels on the boots I was wearing, I positively
towered
over him—he wasn't bad-looking. When he asked to take me to dinner at Vesta's in Denver and then to a concert at the Bluebird Theater, I couldn't help feeling benevolent and forgiving about his diminutive stature and pale coloring.

The more Mike and I talked, the poutier Mary got. Mike was buying us both drinks, so I didn't see what she had to complain about.

Soon she started whining about how late it was getting. She was right. I had a date to rest up for. I gave Mike my phone number and my most seductive smile. He said he was counting the minutes until we saw each other again. The rush of adrenaline coursing through me kept me wired for the next few hours, but I finally managed to fall asleep, dreaming of what it would be like to be a lawyer's wife.

 

 

T
he next day I spent the entire afternoon primping, so by the time Mike picked me up, I looked
good
. He told me so all the way to the restaurant.

Once we got there and were shown to our seats—out of the way by the window—a pall came over the conversation. He ordered an expensive bottle of Cabernet. We looked over the menu and discussed what looked good. The waitress came and took our order.

Silence. I sipped my wine. More silence. Then Mike began talking about the case he was working on. He said he'd spent weeks going through phone bills and whatever documents to find incriminating evidence to win the case. I waited for a plot, a point to his story, a punch line. It didn't come. The story went on for a hundred years. He spoke in a monotone and was woefully ignorant of concepts such as pacing and timing and a little thing called editing out extraneous, boring details. His voice droned on and on, eventually fading into little more than the
mwah-mwah
voice of adults in Charlie Brown cartoons.

I started in on my second glass of wine and braced myself for the long night ahead.