Naked Men

by Alicia Giménez-Bartlett

  “All right, Javier, that’s enough! You can’t get all worked up over every little comment you don’t like! I made a mistake, so sorry. Iván’s charming, a real gentleman, a prince, a career diplomat. Is that better?”

  We’ll see how long I can take this sour mood of his. It seems like it’s here to stay. Everything pisses him off, every dumb thing drives him crazy. He used to be so even-tempered! A rational man, deliberate, judicious. Never unpleasant or disrespectful. If I chided him, he responded with considered explanations. Sometimes it was even annoying how sensible he was because it felt like he was trying to teach me something. And now I have to constantly bite my tongue to keep us from fighting! I’d never have believed he was such a neurotic guy underneath it all. Sure, he’s always had a tendency to concoct huge theories based on absurd little details, which he loved to analyze in depth until he’d drawn occasionally impossible conclusions, but I never thought much about it. You already know a guy who studied literature’s going to be a little odd—he’ll never be like a science or technology guy. His outlook on life is always slightly less realistic. But Javier’s reaction now doesn’t make sense. You lose your job and that’s it, it’s all gone to shit! Well no, man, chill, it’s not the end of the world. Or are people just going to stop working forever and ever? Nobody’s going to need literature teachers ever again? But it’s no use—all he’s got are catastrophic predictions: everything’s changed, life as we know it is over. It’s no good pointing out that I’m still earning money, that we can keep going, we’re going to be OK, a job will come along.

  We’ll see how long I can stand it. Life’s hard for me too. They’re pushing people harder at work. I’m hustling every day. It’s not a breeze for me; they’re not rolling out the red carpet wherever I go. I’ve got plenty of problems too, but I try to pull myself together and push on without writing a philosophical treatise about every obstacle or blaming modern capitalist society or the forces of evil.

  I’ll stick around as long as I can, but I have no intention of being his punching bag, getting kicked around and having to put on a happy face too. Like that fuss he kicked up today about his new best friend! Iván—what a jerk! What is he doing hanging out with him? What do they talk about? Where did he find that guy, a dumpster? He’s a crude, sexist philistine! Your typical neighborhood pimp. I have no idea what their friendship is based on, but there’s Javier with his brow furrowed and his face stony, like his own honor’s been attacked.

  * * *

  The manager nags me all the time. I notice his critiques are getting more and more personal. They’re subtle, just the barest insinuations, but at bottom they’re all the same. I shouldn’t skip the weekly meetings at the office, I should do a walkthrough in the factory every once in a while . . . When things were going well, he didn’t demand this kind of dedication from me. Quite the contrary, sometimes I had the feeling my constant presence at the firm bothered him, like he was afraid of any intrusion into his domain. But now that the castle’s crumbling, he’s constantly demanding I work harder and invoking my obligations. How does he expect me to stroll around chatting with the workers when we’ve had to let so many go? Does he think they’re going to welcome me with open arms, waving palm fronds like I’m Jesus Christ on Palm Sunday? They’ll lash out as soon as they see me, I know it: “There’s that stuck-up prude who hasn’t been able to keep the company going since her father died.” I don’t want people insulting me to my face. Doesn’t that damn manager understand who he’s dealing with? I’m a woman whose husband left her, and that’s a terminal condition. Whenever anybody finds out, they back away. I might as well be contagious. But the manager keeps thinking the company is the most important thing to me. He never liked David. I’m sure he thought he was an opportunist and that my father had promoted him just because he was my husband. And then what does he go and do? Now that the ship’s taking on water, he leaps overboard and leaves me at the helm. So the manager has plenty of reason to act this way. And at least he doesn’t pity me. I can’t stand pity. Though he could at least give me time to react, time to learn how to wear this new “abandoned woman” outfit I never thought I’d have to wear. He’s worried about his future, not about me. He knows that if the company goes under, he’ll go under too. Where is he going to find another position like this one? When you’ve been somebody’s right hand, it leaves you marked forever after. Nobody wants a limb that’s been severed from another body.

  I stay calm when he goes off on one of his diatribes. I act just as I do with everybody else: not worried or sad or desperate. I don’t weep, I don’t flee into my thoughts, I don’t say mean things about my ex, I don’t tell anyone about my problems. As far as they can tell, I don’t even remember I was ever married, and in a way it’s true. That way I keep other people from telling me about their problems, which makes me uncomfortable. But whether I show it or not, I’m still a woman whose husband left her for a younger woman. And I just want to be left alone.

  I’m not managing my free time very well. If I were emotionally devastated, I would have tried to find a solution immediately—psychologists, physical activity, a trip abroad . . . —but I’m not doing so badly. I hate feeling like I’ve failed. The only hard part is the emptiness that yawns in front of me; it makes me dizzy. But I don’t want to fill up my free time with any old thing just to fill it. I have friends who, when they get divorced, start taking yoga classes, look for a personal trainer, enroll in a graduate program, take ballroom dancing lessons, join groups of women who travel together . . . and they end up going crazy, of course. Other women immediately look for a new man to replace the old one. At first it’s to demonstrate that they can hook another guy and reel him in whenever they want. But after that they go through a phase where that’s no longer satisfying and they want to be part of a stable couple. Big mistake. Things fall apart, they end up in ridiculous relationships, and they start taking a dim view of men: “Men just aren’t willing to compromise,” “It’s slim pickings when it comes to men.” Whenever I hear these statements, I picture horrible scenarios: the emotional freaks you meet on the Internet, the guys who seem wonderful and then turn out to be nightmares, your first boyfriend you lost touch with a million years ago, now older and balding and with whom you have nothing in common. And it’s even worse if these women looking for replacement parts have children: rejections, obligations, the need for mediation . . . What are they hoping to get out of these humiliating situations? Sex? Jesus, a lot of the ones I’ve met stopped sleeping with their husbands ages ago and seemed happy enough. Why do they suddenly and so urgently need to hop into bed with a man? Are they looking for love, a mature love, a second chance? It doesn’t matter that they’ve gotten divorced: love seems more fundamental than eating or sleeping. I don’t get it—I don’t feel that way at all. I need a man about as much as I need a gun permit: I wouldn’t know what to do with either one. Anyway, I know quite well what I don’t want to do, but I’m struggling to manage my free time.

  Genoveva called to invite me out. I always accept. At least she doesn’t whine to me about her love life. I have a pretty good time with her. She’s so superficial that she ends up being lots of fun. She suggested we go to the gallery opening for a painter she knows. I’d never been to one or met a painter before—there wasn’t room for that sort of thing in my marital or business life. I went, but I should have declined the invitation. I’m not saying I had a bad time; at least I spent some time in an environment that was new to me. But I was expecting something a little more glamorous. Instead, everybody was talking over each other and they were serving white wine that hadn’t been chilled properly. It may have been an intellectual environment, but it felt like an evening at the club: laughter, meaningless comments, and people constantly kissing each other on the cheek. There were a few strange guys, looking grungy or dressed up in loud, garish designer clothes, but nothing terribly original. Worst of all was the artist himself. I’d imagine someone with a bit of pers
onality, but instead he was a total philistine: fat and sweaty, sixty-something, and a total ass-kisser. Disappointing.

  Today Genoveva called me for a debriefing.

  “I was a little disappointed, especially by the painter. I thought he’d be more interesting.”

  She cracked up.

  “Sweetie, painters aren’t starving bohemians anymore! You’re behind the times.”

  Poor Irene! Like I say, she’s basically a cloistered nun, a precocious little girl who’s never been outside her boarding school. She spent so much energy on daddy and hubby and company and club that she’s never figured out what life’s all about. It’s like she’s been in a car, being driven down the highway, and she never looked out the window. She’s reached her destination without knowing where she is or how she got there. If I were her, I’d have blown my brains out from sheer boredom. But I’ve gotten by, figured out how to stand on my own two feet and get what I wanted for myself. I’m not scared of people or what they think of me. I keep pushing forward and refuse to worry about it.

  “Irene, darling, you know what? I agree with you. The painter’s horrible, and his paintings are even worse. Who cares whether he’s had shows in New York or China—would you hang a portrait of a diseased, deformed old woman in your living room? Awful! But the paintings go for a lot of money; people are wild about them.”

  Her living room . . . If I were her, the first thing I’d do is sell that house. It’s this huge apartment her father gave them when they got married, and she lived there with David for so many years. Why stick around? Girl, please, move a little, shake that body! If she asked me, I’d tell her just like that. But she doesn’t ask anything—she’s locked as tight as a safe and as cold as an ice cube. That’s why she doesn’t want to go out with her old friends. They’d give her advice and start nosing in her business. Not me. I don’t give a damn—people should do whatever they feel like with their lives. But if I were in her shoes, I’d sell that place and buy myself a nice apartment. I’d decorate it with the latest trends and add a lot of flashy details. After all, I love playing house! Last month I changed up the décor in my bedroom. I had a blast! Coordinating fabrics, tracking down some vintage piece of furniture, combining colors . . . I love it! But I know how to get the most of things, how to find enjoyment in everything. I’ve never been one to just sit in a corner all by myself.

  “So I guess you’re not going to be buying a painting from the guy.”

  “Not at the moment, Genoveva, though they weren’t all terrible. There was some really strong work there.”

  “Sure, but a butane delivery guy is strong too, and you don’t take him home with you.”

  Genoveva’s completely crazy, but sometimes she makes me laugh. She seems to be managing her ample free time just fine. I picture her swaying from side to side, always surrounded by people, always at some party or opening, always at the gym, the beauty salon, the spa. I wouldn’t be able to keep up that pace, listen all the time, talk, smile, choose the right outfits . . . These days, I hardly feel capable of anything. Nothing interests me, not even work.

  “And to think I’d considered introducing you to my painter friend to see if you’d hit it off! I don’t mean for anything serious, just if you were interested in going out with him every once in a while, having some company . . . I don’t know, socializing, as they say nowadays.”

  “Do you have someone you go out with regularly?”

  “Me? Perish the thought, Irene! I’m above all that. I’ve been living alone for many years at this point, and I’m doing great. I do my own thing, make things work . . . But you’re younger, recently divorced—maybe it would be good for you to meet a nice guy . . . What do I know! Don’t pay any attention to me—I just thought I’d introduce you to the painter, but I see it would have been a bust.”

  “No need to introduce me to men, Genoveva. At the moment, I’m good just the way I am.”

  * * *

  Sandra was nervous, euphoric when she got home. I was in the living room reading back issues of literary journals that I’d pulled off the bookshelf. She planted herself in front of me.

  “Javier, one of the girls at work told me about something you might be interested in, a teaching job. Listen.”

  He does, but I’d rather he listened without that skeptical look on his face, with a little more hope or excitement. But no, he’s got that perpetual sneer of embittered superiority that makes me feel so atrocious. Can’t he try even a little bit? He needs to see that our relationship is just as important as his being laid off, and it’s getting harder to make it work.

  “They’re looking for a full-time literature teacher at Crisol. My coworker’s sister teaches there. She remembered I’d told her you were out of work, and before they start interviewing the other candidates, she set one up for you. What do you think? Aren’t people wonderful sometimes?”

  “Definitely. But isn’t that school Opus Dei?”

  I know you’re always looking out for me, partner dearest, but before you start flying around like a frenzied moth, beating against a hot light bulb and scorching your wings, you should check things out a little more closely.

  “So what if it is an Opus Dei school? You’ve been teaching at a Catholic school for years now. It’s basically the same, isn’t it? You can teach your classes without buying in.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  If only my little moth understood these things without my having to explain them! Anyone who thought about it for five minutes would realize that an order of nuns dedicated to teaching is not nearly the same thing as Opus Dei. Opus Dei is a breeding ground for fascists, an occult organization, a sect. I have no ideological prejudices—those were done with before I was born—but it’s preposterous to think the school would hire a guy like me. They’ll want somebody who’s devoted to the cause, who’s easy to control. I teach literature, not science or Latin. And literature is dangerous stuff. Every line of a poem, every chapter of a novel, every act of a comedy or tragedy contains a moral challenge that would have to be neutralized if I worked for Opus Dei. So they’ll make sure the teacher they need is cut from a particular cloth—and that’s not me. Do I have to explain all these basic things to Sandra? Can’t she think for herself? Why is she so happy, so excited? People may be wonderful, but they’re awfully shallow.

  “Don’t tell me you’re not even going to consider doing the job interview because it’s an Opus Dei school.”

  Sometimes I think his inactivity and depression are really just airs of superiority. He thinks he’s too intelligent to have to engage in the struggle of the day to day. He doesn’t want to lower himself. He wants employers to seek him out, to get down on their knees before him.

  “Of course I’ll do it! But I don’t want you to get your hopes up—they’re not going to give me the job.”

  “You’re the one who should be getting his hopes up. You can’t go into a job interview with a losing attitude! That’s no way to achieve anything, Javier.”

  She stalks off to the kitchen, irritated. Lately she’s been leaving the room in a huff whenever we argue. My pilgrimages to whatever room she’s retreated to, my attempts to placate her and smooth things over, are starting to wear on me. I feel like a mountain climber with a heavy pack, toiling endlessly upward and never reaching the summit. But I’ll follow her, of course, and yet again I’ll tell her what she wants to hear.

  “Please, Sandra, don’t be angry. I said I’ll go to the interview, and I’ll make sure everything works out.”

  She gives me a name and phone number to confirm the appointment and leaves for work, calmer now. The contact is one Mr. Contreras. Contrary Contreras—we’re off to a great start!

  Iván calls that afternoon.

  “Hey, man! I haven’t heard from you since the show. Did it put you off, did it make you uncomfortable?”

  “Not at all! We had a great
time.”

  “You had a great time, huh?”

  Shit, this guy doesn’t have a clue. “We had a great time” is probably what he told those goddamn nuns, the Ursulines or whatever. “We had a great time” is what you say after playing petanque like the old grandpas in the park. “We had a great time” is total bullshit. I invite them to see the best naked-dude show in the city, and they “have a great time.” This isn’t good. Maybe I’m wrong about Javier. I had an idea of who he was, but now he says he “had a great time.” You’re supposed to say, “The show was awesome, it kicked ass, it totally rocked.” Or you ask questions about it. For instance, people have often asked me, “Are all the dancers queers?” But no, these two “had a great time.” Maybe Javier’s chick was scandalized, maybe she’s a prude. She seemed a little weird to me—she wasn’t wearing any bright colors, no low-cut top or anything, and she didn’t have on eyeliner or any other makeup. I like chicks who dress like chicks! Open-toed high heels and fluorescent fingernails. Tight pants that show off their ass and leave their belly button exposed. A close-fitting, low-cut top that emphasizes their breasts. And long hair spilling down their back. That chick of Javier’s must be a real buzzkill. Maybe after the show, she pretended she hadn’t liked ogling men’s asses and biceps and told Javier, “It’s disgusting, so vulgar!” And of course Javier believed her. He’s a teacher, so he’s probably OK with these spiritual chicks who don’t wear makeup. Well, let’s see if they understand that getting an invitation from me is something special—I don’t just hand them out. And if this idea I’m working on goes well and I make my proposal, then it’ll be like he won the Powerball with a ticket someone gave him as a gift. But this “We had a great time” crap is a bad sign. Maybe he’ll be offended by my proposal and tell me to fuck off. If so, too bad for him—at least I’ll have fulfilled my obligation: no matter how you look at it, I’ve bent over backward for him. Though really I’d be the one who’s screwed, since for some reason I like the guy. But if he gets all high and mighty on me, that’s it—I don’t take shit from anybody.