Max's Folly

by Bill Turpin

  As they step onto the sidewalk, the Dancer turns, causing them to bump into each other front-to-front. She kisses him quickly and lightly on the lips, like a teenager on a first date. Max is surprised to see that she is shorter than he is.

  “I suppose you think you’re going to get laid,” she says.

  By now Max can barely stand up. Thoughts and emotions whirl around him like a midway spinning wheel. The wheel stops at ‘urbane and expansive’. Max says: “I’d rather imagined so, yes.”

  Fuck! Why on earth would he answer like some kind of B-list Bond? He knows these words will echo in his skull for the rest of his life.

  The Dancer laughs, which Max interprets as confirmation of his error, but she saves what’s left of his self-esteem with a smile that says he has just made himself more interesting, not less. She looks into his eyes and forces him to hold the gaze for an eternity.

  Max feels like his psyche is undergoing some kind of scan and wonders if she’s a crazy-woman or on drugs.

  “If you want to sleep with my pussy,” she says, “I can promise to make that happen in the next 30 minutes. But sleeping with me, that’s not guaranteed yet. Do you get the distinction?”

  The wheel spins again and lands on witty. Max begs himself not to utter the words, but as usual there’s nothing to be done.

  “Is your pussy detachable?” he asks. Max’s mind is blank, as befits someone who once again regrets his words before uttering them. The reptilian part of his brain instantly downgrades its sexual expectations for the evening to a solitary act.

  The Dancer pulls him close by his lapels and gives him another crazy-woman look. Her breath smells like strawberries: “As a matter of fact, in a way that only a male could understand, that’s exactly what mine is. Detachable. You can have your way with it, but my mind will be miles or years away. But, if you want to take a shot at sleeping with me, we need to spend more time together. You’ve got 10 seconds to make your choice.”

  As a university student without money or a girlfriend, Max’s standards for a wild night are low. So having sex with an actual female sexual organ, detached or not, is something he’s loath to gamble away. On the other hand, despite the Dancer’s advanced age (he can see tiny crow’s feet now), Max finds her intriguing. He doesn’t want to part company in just 30 minutes.

  “I rather enjoy your company,” he says.

  “Please don’t say ‘rather’,” she replies.

  She takes his arm and slides her hand half way up the inside of his bicep, pulls his shoulder to her and rests the side of her head on it. For a moment, there is no Max, just an extraordinary sensation of lightness from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. A cool breeze on his cheeks returns his senses to him. He sees that the street is full of people and cars.

  The Dancer nudges him forward without loosening her grip. “I can spot potential a mile away,” she says.

  She guides him to an ordinary wooden door on a dim part of Guy St. It opens onto a long narrow stairway with, of course, a landing halfway up. This gets Max thinking: he is going to be mugged or hustled for cash.

  “I’ve never paid for it,” he says.

  She tops at the landing and turns to him: “Oh Maxie, you do have some rough edges. I don’t doubt what you said for a second. But how does that make you a better person?”

  “Well, I rather thin . . . I mean, I think that’s obvious.”

  “Oh, is it? Are you a better person when you’re making love to your fist? Or maybe a girl at a party who’s so drunk she may not even remember you the next day?”

  “I would never do that,” Max says.

  “Which?” the Dancer asks with a mischievous smile.

  “The second thing.”

  “But you do the first, right?”

  Maxes flushes bright red and, despite his rich vocabulary, can’t find the words to admit that he has remorselessly spilled his seed unto cold, barren ground.

  The Dancer relents: “Now listen, Maxie, we’re going upstairs for some nice food and music, during which time I’ll decide whether my instincts about you are right. I don’t want to talk about ‘paying for it’. In fact, I don’t want to talk about it at all. Deal?”

  Max agrees and they walk the rest of the stairway. The Dancer doesn’t hold his arm.

  At the top, she opens the door and leads them into a restaurant with a small dance floor and three-man band jamming blues and jazz. A dignified, fatherly maître d’ strides up to the Dancer and embraces her affectionately, followed by the ritual double air-kiss preferred by Montrealers.

  “Welcome, monsieur,” he says to Max after introductions. “I am pleased to say we have a wonderful table available. Not too close to the music, and in a spot where you will enjoy the breeze.”

  Max sees the point. Even though it’s autumn, the heat from the two storeys below has risen to the top floor and settled in. Their table is near an open fire-escape door where they can feel a light breeze from the outside. There are about a dozen tables boasting gingham cloths and candles set in raffia-covered Chianti bottles. Max is without doubt the youngest and poorest person in the room. The men, all 40 and up, have a scrubbed, self-satisfied look that he finds vaguely irritating. The women are all spectacular.

  Max isn’t sure what to do next, but the maître d’ rescues him by appearing out of nowhere. He’s careful not to ignore Max, but makes it clear that the Dancer is in charge. He presents the menu with a flourish.

  “Would mademoiselle and Monsieur Max like an aperitif while you discuss our offerings tonight?”

  “That would be lovely,” she says. “Maxie, have you ever tried Campari?”

  Max mumbles in the negative.

  The Dancer looks up at the maître d’, displaying a highly kissable neck.

  “That would be lovely. Max will have a Campari and soda, and I will have pastis.”

  “Parfait, mademoiselle,” he says as he departs.

  “His style’s a bit too formal,” she says. “But he’s a lovely man and he always waits on me, even though it’s not really his job.”

  Silence. Max is relieved to see that she is beaming at him again. It’s clear, though, that she is not going to carry the conversation for him. The drinks arrive as if my magic. The astringent taste of his Campari surprises Max. The Dancer’s drink, a transparent yellow, is accompanied by a small container of water. The Dancer smiles at Max and pours a dollop into her drink. He tries not to react like a bumpkin when the drink turns cloudy. Max catches the eye of the guitar player, who is riffing on Honky Tonk Woman.

  “So,” says Max. “How did you come to be part owner of a successful club?”

  The Dancer rewards him with an encouraging nod: “The previous owner owed me some money, so he gave me a twelve per cent interest in the club in lieu of cash. When he sold it, the new owners were gracious enough to let me keep five per cent.”

  “Well,” Max says. “I rath- . . .. You’d think they’d be legally obliged to let you keep the full twelve per cent.”

  “The owners can be very kind to people they like, but hard on people who interfere with their business interests. The ‘X’ you saw painted on the landing, that’s not a myth. I am happy with my five per cent.”

  The maître d’ reappears to take their order.

  “For an appetizer, we’ll have the escargots aux fines herbes.”

  “Excellent choice. For wine, may I suggest a Sauvignon that we just got in this week?”

  She turns to Max. “I don’t know much about wine, but he never leads me astray.”

  “Mademoiselle is too modest. Your knowledge of wine has become most impressive.”

  Max asks what escargots are.

  “I believe they are related to snails, monsieur.”

  “How closely related?”

  The veteran server raises his eyebrows, expels a breath an
d shrugs, as if to say that no one really knows: “And for the main course, mademoiselle?”

  “I was thinking of the Coquilles Saint-Jacques.”

  The maître d’ stops writing on his pad and stares into space. He patiently clears his throat.

  “On the other hand,” the Dancer says, “maybe the coq au vin would be better.”

  “Excellent choice.” He turns to Max. “Your friend is a remarkable woman, yes? How could she know that the scallops have been sitting at the back of the freezer for a week? Formidable.”

  “Remarkable does not begin to describe her,” Max says, surprised by his own grace and sincerity.

  “I knew it,” she says, beaming at him again.

  Max is unused to being demonstrably liked by a woman. He has long assumed there are simple rules, so far unknown, for achieving that state of grace. The Dancer, however, now has him wondering if there might be something more to it. He takes another sip of Campari and finds the taste is growing on him.

  “Why me?” he asks. “Why did you pick me out of all those people at the bar? Is it because I wouldn’t look up the dancers’ backsides?”

  “Close, but why shouldn’t people be curious about body parts?”

  “You’re saying there’s more to it than not staring,” Max says.

  “You’re on the right track. Look, you’re awfully good-looking . . .”

  “I am?” he says, unable to contain his surprise.

  “Sure. You’ve got great hair, your features are well-proportioned — large, but not too large. Great skin. You would make a great girl, too.”

  Max flushes, having no idea what to make of that.

  “But I like men whose looks match their character.”

  Max gets the penetrating gaze again. She’s waiting.

  “Okay. How do I look?”

  “You look a bit self-centred, but honest. By honest I mean that when you look like you’re interested in someone, it’s not an act. You might also be kind, something I intend to find out.”

  The escargots arrive along with a bottle of wine in an ice bucket. Max notes suspiciously that the escargots are served in snail shells, but doesn’t care. He and the Dancer toast their new friendship. The wine is cool and crisp. It is the first white wine he can remember with no hint of paint thinner. The wine and the snails cooked in garlic and butter go together so well that he is light-headed.

  They linger over the appetizer. Magically, just as the last drop of wine is consumed, the coq au vin arrives with another bottle of white.

  “I hope mademoiselle does not mind,” the maître d’ says, “but I did not want to interrupt your conversation to ask about wine. I took the liberty of choosing a Chateauneuf-du Pâpe on your behalf. Of course, I will take it back if you prefer.”

  “You know I would never do that,” she says, laughing. “But you’re not worried that it’s a little pricey for a girl like me?”

  He offers a slight bow. “That is not something you need concern yourself with,” he says, and glides away.

  “Is he a friend or something?” Max asks.

  “No. He is just a regular acquaintance. But it makes him happy to be kind and generous to people he likes.”

  Max only sort of understands but, rather than reveal his ignorance, he tackles his coq au vin, which turns out to be chicken. He’s caught on to the idea of matching food and wine. The succulent chicken and taste of berries and spice from the wine inspire waves of pleasure from head to foot.

  The Dancer tells him that not long after arriving in Montreal she got into speed and started stripping to pay for it. She was headed for disaster when an out-of-town bar patron pulled her back from the brink. Now she’s a part-time “mature” student getting a degree in commerce.

  Max tells her that he is studying physics and expects to make it his career.

  “Tell your mom and dad not to bet the farm on that,” she says. “I can read the signs.”

  “Oh, really?”

  The Dancer points to his left sleeve. “Just for example, even a student physicist will buy a button rather than fasten his cuff with a stapler.”

  “I was in a hurry,” Max says.

  “Of course you were, Maxie. I don’t know where you’re going to land, but it won’t be physics. I know men. You’re the kind of guy who wants to do something, but doesn’t know how.”

  Max is okay with her assessment of him, even likes it a little. He looks past the Dancer at downtown Montreal, in silhouette and light, past the fire escape. The vision is inseparable from the intoxicating rhythm of the band. Max is reeling under the exquisite influence of the wine and food; transported by the beauty and warmth of the woman sitting across from him.

  Max is also aware that sex with her is almost a foregone conclusion although, for once, sex is not dominating his thoughts. Which is unnerving.

  How can something this great be happening to me, of all people, he wonders.

  NOW

  The Great Escape

  THE DANCER FADED away to be replaced by Purple Hair, who was walking into his dungeon with a fresh cup of coffee. She wished him a good morning, patted him on the shoulder and left.

  He filled his lungs with the aroma and reverently savoured the first sip. The effect was a call to action. He looked around for inspiration and spotted two piles of crumpled bits of paper on his night table. The sight of the two lumpy pyramids, each large enough to fill a trouser pocket, set off a soothing wavelet of familiarity. Max smiled to himself and began pawing through them.

  Purple Hair = A-OK.

  Scrambled eggs = dry.

  DIY plumbing ≠ OK.

  The one that got his attention was 3333 ≠ exit code. So 3333 did not equal the exit code.

  Max looked around and noticed that each of the four upper corners of his space bore the number “3”. Four 3s. Max had no trouble recalling what “exit code” meant. It was the electronic number pad that stood between him and freedom. He spent hours by the reception desk every day watching visitors punch in the exit code and hearing the lock’s well-oiled snick as it slid open. But Max could not figure out the code.

  Other balls of paper documented earlier attempts to crack it.

  First code # = 3. There were a lot of those.

  Get 2nd #. No shortage of those, either.

  3333 = exit code. Yes! Max gone soon! Goodbye!

  3333 ≠ exit code.

  So which is it, Max thought, 3333 = or “3333 ≠? Hah! It can’t be 3333 or he would be long gone.

  If not 3333, then what, Max asked himself. The Son will know, but won’t tell.

  There was an overlarge phone on his table, each key the size of a Scrabble tablet. Jesus Christ, a phone for the armless: Headline: Man dials Queen with nose! No, better would be: Armless man has world at his toe-tips! Hah! Max cackled at his own jokes.

  Beside the gargantuan dial pad was a column of pictures, none of which he recognized. Each was accompanied by a button and a name in large print. One button, however, had the word “SON” beside it. Max picked up the handset and pressed SON.

  “Hi Dad, how ya doin’?”

  “If I were any better I’d be dangerous!” Max said. “How are you and your good lady?”

  “We’re fine. Did you enjoy supper last night?”

  Who knows, Max thought. “You bet,” he said.

  “What’s up?”

  Max summoned his most relaxed and engaging tone of voice. “Well, it’s the damnedest thing, but I’ve forgotten the exit code.”

  Max watched the silent seconds go by on his wristwatch.

  “Exit code?”

  “Yes,” Max said evenly. “That would be the code for exiting this building, I believe.”

  More seconds of guilty silence ticked by.

  “Well, Dad. They change the code every day. You should ask the front desk
.”

  “Oh, I should, should I?”

  Maybe my memory’s a bit creaky, but I’m not an idiot, Max thought. The staff couldn’t spend their days handing out fresh exit codes to every visitor.

  “Uh, yes. You should ask the front desk.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Bye.”

  As he cradled the phone, Max struggled to hold onto his intent. He imagined it as a presence in his frontal lobe that was slipping away. He turned his attention to his breath, hoping that by concentrating on it he could beat back the thoughts that were competing with . . . with . . . EXIT! The exit code. Max surveyed his desktop and there it was, the clue: 3333 ≠ exit code. He was back on track. Max wanted to kiss the bit of paper.

  Let’s assume the code is just four digits, he thought. That much seems likely. Does four digits indicate they are serious about security? No. And, if they are not serious about security, how likely are they to make the number easy to remember? Very likely indeed.

  Max felt his excitement before he even realized he had the answer. On the phone dial-pad the number 3 corresponded with the letter E. “E for EXIT”. Hah! EXIT corresponded to 3-9-4-8 on the dial pad. Max ripped a large piece of paper from his pad scribbled the solution down before he could forget: Exit code = 3948.

  Max jumped up and did the Dance of Joy, the little two-step he used to do whenever a truly juicy story crossed his desk.

  “Thirty-nine forty-eight!,” he shouted. “Thirty-nine. Forty-eight! Hut-hut! Hike!” Then he clammed up. If Purple Hair heard him, she’d come running down the hallway.

  Max knew he had to act quickly. He put his coffee cup down and headed for the hallway. He turned right and there it was: daylight at the end of the tunnel.

  “Good morning, sexy.” Purple Hair was behind the reception counter, grinning at him like he was the only man on Earth.

  Max’s focus escaped like a fish from a hook — a flash as the underbelly reflects the sun, then it’s gone.

  “Haven’t been called that in a while,” Max said expansively. “And it’s always a pleasure to hear it from someone as beautiful as you.”