“Sublime and majestic,” said Vicky through the applause. “I feel like I just watched someone live and die, like I felt everything he ever felt, like I got so attached to this person then suddenly without warning he up and had a heart attack and died. Now he’s gone.”
“I think he’s going to play an encore,” Frank said.
“I don’t think I can take anymore,” Vicky said, returning to her seat with the rest of the audience.
The Russian pianist played Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in E-flat Major for an encore.
No emotion had gone unfelt, no experience of pain or joy that wasn’t relived in that short span of a little less than an hour.
After the concert they were invited to a reception to meet the pianist. It was held in the hotel right next to the theater. This was a chain hotel, the largest in Lamasco, different from River Inn in both size and style; the establishment where many conferences, conventions, and other large gatherings were held.
Vicky and Frank arrived and, uncertain where to go, they consulted the front desk clerk who told them the reception was to be held in Ballroom “A”.
“A ballroom!” Vicky said in surprise. “All right Prince Charming, I knew a concert was part of the gig but I didn’t know I was going to a ball.”
“I’m full of surprises,” said Frank, giving her his arm.
“Hold onto me, Francis,” Vicky said taking a hold of his arm as they made their way down the hallway. “Prop me up if I start to faint.”
“You’re not the fainting type, honey. Don’t be so nervous. My friends will love you.”
“Is my tattoo showing?” Vicky said adjusting her shawl. “How’s my face? Do I have mascara underneath my eyes?”
“You’re lovely.”
This would be the most difficult part of the evening to get through. In her anxious imaginings she was kicking her uncomfortable high heeled shoes off her feet and up in the air, letting them land helter skelter (it didn’t matter where – she’d never wear them again), and lifting the skirt of her gown to run in her stocking feet as fast as she could out of this place. It was an impulse, a wild imagining. She blinked and swallowed hard to make it go away.
“Okay, here goes,” said Vicky, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly as they entered the room.
They went over to the bar. Vicky ordered a coke and Frank ordered a scotch which he would mostly swirl around in the glass, suck on the ice cubes, and generally nurse all evening, driving Vicky thoroughly crazy at the prospect of wasting such a good drink. As they made their way through the crowd they spotted a small group of five men standing in a semi-circle near one end of the room. “There they are,” Frank said pointing them out and leading Vicky in that direction.
Frank introduced them all to Vicky. She shook their hands, chit-chatted with them about the concert, and asked them prompting questions designed to get them talking about themselves. She hoped to take the focus off herself and seemed to be doing just fine for the first few minutes until she noticed one of the men studying her face in a quizzical manner.
“You look familiar. Where do I know you from?” he said.
“You’ve probably seen Vicky at the River Inn. She tends bar there,” said Frank, seeming fairly unruffled. Vicky loved him for it. She squared her shoulders, stood up straight, looked the man who had inquired about her in the eye, and inwardly coached herself to smile at him, and smile confidently. Her cover was blown. Oh, well! Now all she wanted to do was hop behind the bar with the other bartender and have the security of that barrier between her and these socially elite young men.
“Of course, that Vicky,” said another one of the men, recognizing her also. Already two of the men were looking at her in a different way, and she could guess what they were thinking judging from the glances they gave Frank.
“I was wondering how long it would take you to recognize me, boys. I recognized both of you,” she said to the two men.
“You recognize me?” said one of them.
She glanced at Frank as if to get permission to proceed. He smiled in his amused way and at that moment she thought he might even be proud of the way she could hold her own. “Vicky never forgets a drink order. Tell him Vicky,” said Frank.
“Tanqeray martini on the rocks with two olives. Or a Heineken. But I see they didn’t have your brand of beer,” she said motioning to his plastic cup.
“That’s astonishing! Where did you find her Frank?”
“We met at a Mensa Club meeting,” said Frank, and Vicky gave him a discreet look in which she tried to communicate her desperation in not knowing what he was talking about.
“Vicky’s been a member of Mensa Club since she was a kid, but I almost wasn’t admitted. My I.Q. was right at the cut off point–140. I’m definitely one of the duller members, but not Vicky. Of course, she downplays it because she doesn’t want anyone to know she’s a genius. It embarrasses her.”
“Please, Francis, did you have to go and tell everyone?”
“A club for geniuses? Nice try, Frank,” said one of the men and they all began laughing.
“Did you realize Francis is one of the greatest mathematical geniuses currently alive? Go ahead, Francis, explain that quadratic equation to them, the one we were discussing before we came across these very broad minded and interesting gentlemen. Of course, you may have to write it down for them, no offense.”
“Now you’re embarrassing me,” Frank said.
“You shouldn’t be so modest, darlin’. Did you know our Francis here can do the Rubik’s cube? He solved it the first time he tried. No kidding! Of course it took him a little while. How long did it take you,” said Vicky?
“The first time? Roughly seven minutes,” said Frank.
“Now he can do it in under two.”
The men just laughed, though a couple of them showed signs of discomfort, as if they were trying to discern if Frank and Vicky were for real.
“You all laugh, but I’d like to see you try and get all those colors lined up, without cheating and peeling the little stickers off that is.”
“Isn’t she wonderful?” Frank said giving her a hug. “I met her and I thought there goes my perfect correlation coefficient.”
“So Miss Dooley,” said the most intimidating looking of the men. “What’s a genius like you doing tending bar at the River Inn?”
“Well, a girl’s got to make a living while she works on her doctoral dissertation,” Frank said jumping in, much to Vicky’s relief, to answer the question for her. Vicky smiled and nodded.
“What’s your dissertation on?” One of the men asked her.
“Correlation coefficients and the Rubik’s cube. It’s very complicated but if you truly understand the concept you can crack the Rubik’s cube, and nearly any other code,” Vicky said with her hand on her hip, daring any of them to call her a liar.
“In fact here’s the equation,” Frank said. He took a cocktail napkin and scribbled upon it some sort of long equation with the letters a, b, and z, and plenty of brackets and parenthesis.
“You remembered it Francis. How sweet of you,” Vicky said taking the cocktail napkin and throwing her arms around him.
“You know I’d never forget any of your equations, love. Especially given the fact that it took you over a year to come up with it,” said Frank giving her a quick kiss on the lips.
“So I take it, Miss Dooley, you can do the Rubik’s cube also,” said the intimidating looking man with a glint of amused superiority in his eyes.
“Let’s get this straight, my name is not Miss Dooley. It’s Vicky. And no, I cannot do the Rubik’s cube. Not without peeling off the little stickers or tearing the dang thing apart,” Vicky said letting herself slip into her true form. Some of the men chuckled.
“Of course I know the equation. I came up with it,” she said quickly catching herself. “But that’s somewhat different from actually doing it. That’s why Francis and I make such a great team. I come up with the equations and he applies them.”
“Really?” said the man intent on challenging her instead of playing along. “If you figured out the mathematical equation to crack the so called code, then why is it you can’t do the Rubik’s cube?”
“Because I have what’s called Low Frustration Tolerance,” Vicky said thinking of the symptom she saw listed most often in her Abnormal Psychology textbook in the chapter they were currently studying on Behavior Disorders. It was the best Vicky could come up with at a moment’s notice. She shot the intimidating man an even more intimidating glance, daring him to question her any further.
“Sometimes she flies into these rages, especially when she’s being unnecessarily challenged,” said Frank. “I’m sorry, hon, should I not have said anything?”
“It’s all right, Francis. It’s best they know. There’s a fine line between genius and madwoman. Sometimes I just cross that line,” she said with a wicked smile.
“All right you two, I think you’ve flung enough bullshit around here for one evening,” said the skeptic.
“That’s right, the jig is up,” said another.
“All right if you must know the truth, I’m a high school drop out with a GED,” she said in perfect English with a slight air of haughtiness. There were chuckles from the men, some of nervousness and some of disbelief. “I’m not working on a doctoral dissertation but I am working on a Bachelor’s degree from the University.”
She looked at Frank. He wore that cool unruffled expression that made it impossible to know what he was thinking. He certainly wasn’t the type of man to ever blush, no matter how embarrassed he got. Vicky didn’t know what else to do but continue.
“I do suffer from Low Frustration Tolerance though which causes me to throw things like Rubik’s Cubes against walls. I’ve never been much for book knowledge but I do know people, and from the looks of it Mr. Brooks,” she said addressing the most outspoken man in the group, “you’re on about your third vodka tonic. If memory serves me correctly that’s about your limit, isn’t it? After that you start to sweat and become belligerent.”
“Touché,” said one of the friendlier looking men with a chuckle, and the other men began razzing him. “You sure pegged ol’ Brooksie here,” said another one of the men, slapping him on the back and they all laughed in relief, except for Brooks.
“What are you getting your degree in, Vicky?” asked the friendly man, who seemed to be trying to ease ill feelings.
“I haven’t declared a major yet but it will most likely be Business Management. I hope to have my own place someday, restaurant and bar, that is.”
“Really I’d think it would be Psychology judging from the way you seem to understand people,” said the friendly man.
“No. I enjoy taking Psychology classes because I enjoy observing human behavior, I do so much of it in my job, you know, but I got no desire to fix anybody. That’s way too big of a job for me–even more frustrating than the Rubik’s cube. By the way, Francis really can do the Rubik’s cube. It’s all mathematical, right Francis?”
“She’s on a roll!” Frank said, presenting Vicky with an outstretched hand and physically standing back to let her have the floor.
“Like I was saying…” said Vicky.
“See, what did I tell you?” said Frank.
“See the problem is there just is no mathematical equation to fix people. We’re all a bunch of broken Rubik’s cubes and just when we think we got one row all perfectly lined up, you find you just messed up the other row that took you even longer to get all lined up perfect than the one you just completed. No, I just wanna serve folks a drink and a good meal and help them forget their troubles for a little while. Maybe that’s as close as we’ll ever come to fixing them.”
The men all reacted differently to what Vicky said. People always did. They would draw their own conclusions about her: either a simpleton or a sage.
“What business classes are you taking now?” Another man asked.
“Economics 101.”
“Oh, so tell me what you think of President Reagan’s policies.”
“Not much!” Vicky said.
“Vicky’s a dyed-in-the-wool Democrat,” said Frank.
“The trickle down theory looks great on paper but it just doesn’t work in real life. It doesn’t matter how many benefits you give the big businesses, if the guys at the top are greedy then they’ll see to it that nothing’s gonna trickle down.”
“You Democrats just don’t get it about capitalism and how it works,” said Mr. Brooks. “Greed, as you call it, isn’t always such a bad thing. When a business owner wants to attract more business you call it greed. Yet, how does he do it? By offering a better product or service and lowering his prices. This forces the competition to lower their prices too. Everyone wins–consumer and business owner.”
“What about the poor grunts working for Mr. Capitalist Nice Guy? In the process of cutting all those costs he’s cut pay wages and laid off workers left and right.”
“No, your labor unions will never let that happen.” said Brooks.
“Damn straight!”
“I was being facetious. Most of your labor leaders are nothing but a bunch of thugs who beat the crap out of the poor worker who doesn’t pay his union dues on time. Talk about greed!”
“Nobody is immune from greed. It exists everywhere. It just seems to me that it’s always the ones that have more that are most likely to want more. Corrupt labor leaders included. It’s the same principle as a spoiled kid with too many toys. He ain’t–excuse me–he will never be satisfied with what he has.”
“You go ahead and study your economics,” said Brooks condescendingly. “But just wait until you own your own business someday. That’s your dream, right?” Vicky nodded. “It’s the American dream, and it’s only the free enterprise system that allows you the opportunity to do that.”
“Hey I got nothing against the free enterprise system, just these big businesses ruled by greed and trying to force the little guy outta business–the same guy who’s trying to offer a better product or service for a lower price,” said Vicky, feeling her heart beat faster and something inside her burn.
“That’s what I love about this woman,” said Frank coming to her rescue. “We don’t always agree but she’s her own person.”
“And she’s obviously not afraid to tell you what she thinks,” said the friendly man with a polite chuckle.
“Exactly!” said Frank, affectionately drawing her to his side.
Vicky rested in his embrace, hoping to gain just a small dose of strength and comfort from the feel of his arm around her. She never loved Francis more than at this moment. Yet she could tell these other men didn’t see her in the same way Francis did, even the ones who were trying to be polite. They saw through the veneer of the expensive gown and the newly acquired way of walking and talking. They saw her for what she really was. Not that she cared what they thought, but would Francis care once their love began to wither?
“So I take it you’re not voting to re-elect Mr. Reagan in the upcoming election,” said the friendly man chuckling in an attempt to steer the conversation to a more agreeable level.
“No, can’t say I am. Mondale-Ferraro all the way.”
Some of the men chuckled and the others groaned.
“How could anyone vote for Mondale?” Brooks asked.
“Because he has enough sense to pick a woman for a running mate. Now there’s a thinking man! You know if we had more women in politics there would be fewer wars; just some fiercely heated debates about once a month.” Even Brooks laughed at Vicky’s little joke. If she couldn’t get people to take her seriously she could always get them to laugh.
“Look who’s headed our way,” said one of the men suddenly and with a tone of surprise as he motioned behind Vicky and Frank. Vicky turned around. The guest pianist and a well dressed middle-aged woman were coming right towards them.
“Well, if it isn’t our Rusky friend and the president of our board,” said Brooks a
s if they were coming just to see him.
“Hello everyone,” said the woman who approached the group first with the Russian pianist standing a modest two paces behind her.
“You all know Marge Kaplan, President of the Philharmonic,” said Brooks who had taken upon himself the duty of doing the introductions.
“Nice to meet you. Nice to meet you,” she said quickly, going around the circle shaking hands. Her small sweaty palm squeezed Vicky’s hand tightly but very briefly, her eyes scanning faces, not really looking but more gathering information as she anxiously moved onto the next person in the circle.
“And this gentleman needs no introduction,” said Marge Kaplan motioning toward the pianist. “May I present our esteemed guest artist, Nikolay Michailovich.”
“Yes, we met already,” said Brooks extending his most pretentious smile and firmest handshake to the Russian gentleman. The pianist, who stood so erect, did a quick funny sort of half bow. In turn, all the other gentlemen from the group shook hands with him and commented on the skill and beauty with which he played. He thanked each person graciously with a quick yet humble bow of deference. Frank was the last person in the group to be introduced to him. It seemed that Nikolay Michailovich planned to end these introductions with Vicky so that he might focus all his attention on her.
“And who is this beautiful lady that I have been secretly admiring all night?” Nikolay said in his Russian accent.
“This is my girlfriend, Miss Vicky Dooley,” Frank said. It sounded to Vicky as if he had emphasized the word “girlfriend”, and suddenly he stood closer to her with his arm around her waist.
“Mr. Michailovich insisted on meeting you my dear,” said Marge to Vicky.
“I saw you from across the room like a … how do you say? Like a vision of light from the heavens, like an angel,” Nikolay said, ignoring Frank’s posture of possessiveness. All Vicky could do was smile, and smile radiantly.
“An angel? Yeah, that’s me all right,” said Vicky as Nikolay kissed her hand, his lips lingering on her knuckles.
“Oh, please sir,” said Vicky. “I should be the one to kiss your hands.” She took both his hands in hers’ and examined them. She was overcome with awe at the thought that such an ordinary looking pair of hands could produce such beautiful music. Her eyes welled up with tears as she lifted his hands to her lips and kissed them. Emotion overtook her and all she could say was, “Thank you. Your playing made me so happy.”
ODD NUMBERS Page 46