by Chris Kenry
He smiled and leaned forward till he was perched on the very edge of the sofa. “Aha,” he said, “that’s the crafty part. She sold them. On the street. Fifty cents on the dollar.”
“And used the money for drugs,” I said gravely.
“Hell, no!” He laughed. “She had a budget. She used the disability check for drugs. The food stamp money was reserved for new wigs and shoes and an occasional Donna Summer album. Now I don’t think you could pull off a disability,” he said, running his eyes over my body looking for possible handicaps, “so we’ll probably have to throw that on the heap of useless options, right next to the unemployment. Anyway, girl, my point is that there are ways to work the system until you get back on your feet. I’m not necessarily saying you should take it as far as Miss Mess, but I do think it’s worth considering. Middle-class pride will get you nowhere.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m sure something will come along and it will all work out,” I said with a confident tone that was fooling no one, least of all me. I wanted to dismiss Andre’s suggestions as ridiculous. Things aren’t that bad, I thought. But in that moment I saw how they could be. I saw how quickly my precarious financial situation could break loose and tumble downhill, and that scared me. I quickly changed the subject.
“This wine’s delicious,” I said, uncorking the second bottle and scrutinizing the label. “Where did you find it?”
A few days later I met Andre for lunch at a restaurant in Cherry Creek. It was notorious for its expensive decor and its bad food, but in spite of that, it was currently the place to be seen, and being seen was always high on Andre’s agenda. It was a turn on the old “If a tree falls in the forest . . .” idea, but in this case, to paraphrase Andre, “If you go out to lunch and no one sees you, for all intents and purposes you don’t exist and might as well have stayed home alone and eaten a sandwich.” I had come at Andre’s invitation, which implied, I hoped, that he intended to pay. However, if this was not the case, I was fully prepared to write a hot check to cover my share.
Having arrived at twelve-fifteen, the time appointed for our meeting, I sat waiting for nearly twenty minutes until Andre finally strode in, looking tall and striking in an olive green sweater and black sunglasses. It was in this public environment that Andre thrived, going from table to table making small talk, exchanging bits of gossip, doling out compliments. He didn’t remove the glasses when he came in but raised and lowered them as an accessory of expression while working the crowd, elevating them only when someone said something intensely interesting. It was a good way to gauge the juiciness of the gossip: if it was a boring table the glasses never went up, whereas if the speakers had tales to tell, they went up and down like a seesaw. He was twenty minutes late when he entered the restaurant, but this rounded out to a full half hour by the time he finally reached our table.
“You’re worse than a politician,” I said in mock disgust as he approached.
He smiled proudly, sat down, and flattered me by removing the glasses altogether and placing them in a shapely leather box. He snapped it shut and set it on the table between the salt and pepper shakers and a small vase of daisies.
“You know you’re going to forget them,” I said, “and what will that make, four pairs this year?”
“Girl, don’t I know it, but don’t you worry.” He gently patted my hand. “I won’t forget this pair—they’re Mizrahi, and I’m quite attached to them. Not to be mean or anything,” he added, leaning forward and scrutinizing my face, “but you might think about getting a pair yourself.”
“Me?” I asked. “Why?”
“Because you look like a basset hound with those circles under your eyes.”
“I haven’t been sleeping very well,” I said, and wasn’t it the truth! If I wasn’t taking calls from creditors I was lying awake all night worrying about them.
“Obviously,” he said, “that I can see. I can also see by the way you’re popping out of your shirt that you are evidently spending all of your waking hours at the gym.”
“It’s the only thing that relaxes me.” I shrugged.
Our waiter arrived.
“Can I bring you guys something to drink?” he asked.
“Yes, please, Tom, you look fabulous today,” Andre schmoozed. “Are you still sculpting?”
“Yeah, I am.” He smiled, surprised that someone remembered he was something other than a waiter. “I’m actually gonna have a show in July at Southend.”
“That’s great, great,” said Andre. “I’m on their mailing list, so I’m sure I’ll hear about it, sugar. Say, what was that new white that I had last time? It was sort of je ne sais quoi. . . .”
“I think you mean the fume blanc.”
“Yes, that was it. I’ll have a glass of that.”
“Okay, and for you, Jack?”
I considered my empty wallet, and the grim prospect that I might have to pay.
“Nothing, thanks, just water.”
“He’ll have the same,” Andre said suddenly. Tom looked at me. I looked at Andre, who lowered his eyelids and reached across the table and patted my hand. “Trust me, girl, you’ll probably need a drink when you hear what I’ve got for you. He’ll have one of the same, Tom.”
I nodded my assent, figuring that if I was writing a hot check anyway there was no real reason to be frugal, and Tom walked away to fill our order.
“That Tom has the most beautiful hands.” Andre sighed. “It’s too bad he makes such god-awful sculpture with them.”
“So what’s this news?” I asked, hoping it did not in any way concern me. I was not eager to listen to another one of his brilliant schemes to find me a job, or to milk the system.
“Is this something we’re going to celebrate, or is it news that will merit something stronger than wine?”
Andre puzzled for a moment, twisting a large silver ring around on his finger.
“Hmmmm,” he mused. “It’s really nothing—remember that; it’s really nothing. It’s just an opportunity that presented itself, and I thought you might want to take advantage of it.”
“What is it?” I asked, unable to hide the dread in my voice.
“Now, I don’t want you to be offended by any of this. You know I adore you and I just want what’s best for you. In a way I’m just the messenger, so remember, don’t kill the messenger. I promised I’d ask you.”
“Ask me what?” I was trying to remain patient but knew that he was going to drag this out.
“Like I said, it’s an opportunity. Remember that. I know you’ve been looking to, how shall we say, improve your lot in life, so when this came up I thought of you.”
“So this is an opportunity?” I asked skeptically, visions of Amway and Mary Kay popping up in my mind.
“Yes,” he said. “And you know I thought of you first.”
“Uh-huh. Why me?”
“That’s a good question,” he said, “and I know I have a good answer to it somewhere. I thought of you because I . . . well, because I know you’ve been going through a rough time lately with Paul’s death, and the jobs, or lack thereof, and I think this might help you out.”
“I don’t think I like this . . .” I said, crossing my arms on my chest, my suspicions mounting. “You’re sounding tricky. You’d better just spit it out.”
He leaned back and looked at me, offended, almost wounded. I didn’t buy it and shook my head.
“Oh, all right,” he said, giving in. “Just don’t get mad, okay? It’s just that someone I sort of know has expressed an interest in you, and, well, I think enough time has passed. I think . . . well, maybe you should think about dating again.”
“Dating!” I shouted. “And maybe you should think about minding your own business. That’s the ‘opportunity’? A date! Christ, the last thing I need—or want—is a date!”
I was lying, of course, and I’m sure that fact was glaringly transparent to him.
“Girl!” Andre hissed, looking around nervously at the other tab
les.
“And why would I need you to find me one? Like I couldn’t find my own date. Is that what you think?”
I realized people were staring, so I lowered my voice and leaned forward.
“I have not ever, nor do I now, need any assistance in finding a date.”
“Well,” he said, unsnapping his case and putting his sunglasses on again. “Smell her. Nothing like making a scene, is there? Forget I mentioned a thing.”
“I’ll try.”
“Good.”
“Fine.”
We studied our menus in hostile silence. Tom returned with our wine.
“Did you open a new bottle?” I asked, looking at my small, half-empty glass.
“Yeah, of course.”
“Good. Then let’s not let it go to waste. Bring us the rest.”
“You want the bottle?” he asked, excited at the prospect of a bigger tip.
“Yes.”
“We do?” asked Andre, surprised.
“We do,” I said, scowling at him across the table.
“Well, all right then. Whatever will make princess happy. Let’s hope they take Visa, or if that doesn’t work, Discover, or Amex. . . .”
Tom disappeared again with our new order, and we glared at each other from time to time over our menus until Tom came back with the wine.
“I gather you have someone in mind,” I said, still looking down at my menu, a tinge of bitterness in my voice.
“We’re not talking about it, remember?”
“You might as well tell me who it is,” I said.
“Why? So you can throw another tantrum?”
“Look, I’m sorry,” I said softly, pouring him some more wine. “I’m just a little touchy about some things lately. I haven’t been sleeping well.”
“Oh, I know,” he said, his voice softening, “and I didn’t mean to piss you off. I was trying to explain, before you flew off the handle, that it’s not really a date.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I won’t do it again. Who is it?”
“Do you really want to know?” he asked coyly. I nodded. Tom returned.
“Ready to order?”
I did so quickly, but Andre, as usual, lingered annoyingly over the menu.
“Is that made with field greens or Bibb lettuce? Hmmmm, salmon does sound good, but is that fresh or frozen? Grilled or blackened? Can I get the haricot vert instead of the potatoes? Oh and some water, please, Tom.”
Finally Tom went away and I looked at Andre, exasperated.
“Who is it?” I asked.
“What? Oh, that.” He sighed, feigning disinterest. “Well, he happens to be very wealthy.”
“Okay. Good. So what’s wrong with him?”
Andre raised his brow and considered the question.
“That’s a toughie,” he said. “It’s hard to know where to begin.”
“Is he married?” I asked.
“Oh, God, no. I think he may have been, once upon a time, but probably not.”
“Uh-huh, how bad is he?”
“Let’s just say he’s not very pretty.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t think you know him. I barely know him. His name is Frank Glory. Affectionately known to his small circle of friends as ‘Hole.’”
“Hole?”
“Hole.”
“You’re right; I don’t know him. Who is he?”
“Well,” said Andre, leaning closer to the table, warming to the subject. “He happens to be one of the hundred richest men in Colorado, according to Mile Hi magazine, although I’m sure they were a little reluctant to publish that fact.”
“And just what business is ‘Hole’ in?” I asked. Again Andre raised an eyebrow and looked around. Then he leaned forward and whispered.
“Here’s where we get into murky waters. He owns a sort of chain, you know, retail stores.”
“Retail stores?”
“Yes, out of which he sells a variety of merchandise: magazines, books, clothing, and accessories, all, uh, sort of pertaining to sex.”
“Oh, no!” I groaned. “You mean he owns porn shops!”
“Twenty-seven of them, to be exact, spread over nine states.”
I rolled my eyes. “And just why, exactly, did you think I’d be interested in him?”
“Now, girl, let’s keep a tight rein on that temper. I never would have thought of you except that, like I said, he’s been watching you for a while. He thinks you’re pretty and he wants to get to know you, but he doesn’t really want you for your body.”
“Oh, he doesn’t? Well, that’s flattering, I guess. A wealthy, ugly man who works in the sex trade has admired me from a distance but doesn’t want me for my body. This opportunity is sounding better all the time. What does he want? Someone to clean his house? Someone to man the cash register at one of the twenty-seven stores, or maybe I’d be a regional manager.”
“All right,” said Andre, fed up. “I think that’s enough. You’re getting offended, and there is no real reason to. Sometimes you are so suburban. Can’t you step out of that middle-class mentality for just a minute? I’ve tried to be diplomatic in my presentation, but get a little wine in her and she turns into a spitting cobra. To be as clear as I can be,” he said, taking a deep breath and placing both hands palm down on the table, “he does not want you for sex. He does not want you to do retail. He does not want you to work for him at all, really. He wants you for . . . well, I’m not really sure, but I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
“Oh, you don’t?” I cried. “And why’s that?”
“Oh, lord, I’m not setting you up with Jeffrey Dahmer, for Christ’s sake. Look, Hole has heaps of money but he’s not pretty, and he doesn’t have many friends.”
“So that’s where I come in? Friend of the friendless?” I asked. “I fail to see the opportunity here.”
“Of course you do, girl,” he said, patting my hand condescendingly. “Doesn’t surprise me. Middle-class mentality. If the opportunity isn’t dressed in clothes from Target and driving a taupe minivan you wouldn’t recognize it. The opportunity is that he’s willing to pay you to be his companion, and girl, if anyone needs money right now, it’s you.”
I mulled this over in my mind. Andre sipped his wine. Neither of us spoke for several minutes.
“How would it work?” I asked.
“Good question. Like a tulip in the springtime, her mind has finally opened. All the details haven’t been worked out, but I was thinking he would of course pay for the cost of whatever we did that evening, maybe give you a clothing allowance, and then some sort of monetary compensation for your time. Not an hourly rate or anything, kind of leave it up to his discretion.”
I was amazed that he had thought it out so thoroughly.
“What do you mean, ‘we’?” I asked.
“I mean I’ll help, of course, and will take him out on some of the evenings, but you can keep all of the money.”
I smiled and looked up at Andre, who had put his sunglasses back on.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was something like a nice gesture on your part.” And I tried to catch his eye.
“Girl, of course it is,” he said, waving his hands in the air flamboyantly and then flipping me off. “I’m full of nice gestures.”
“How did you meet him?” I asked.
“Another good question! I guess I’ll have to tell you the truth, because I can’t think of a good lie on such short notice. I know him from one of his shops, which I used to frequent when I was dating Menachem, who was not, bless his old weak heart, a dynamo in bed. I needed some things to, how do you say, stimulate my imagination, and Hole’s little stores cater to people with needs like that. Now, in one of those cruel twists of fate, the little smut peddler lives in my very building, and I guess he’s seen you come and go, or seen us out together, whatever. He pitched the idea to me one day at the mailbox. It’s not a big deal, really. I know it has the faint whiff of prostitut
ion, but it’s not really; he just wants company.”
“And you’re sure I won’t have to bend over in order to help him?”
“Yes. He made it very clear that no sex need be involved unless you wanted it to be, and believe me, girl: you wouldn’t want it. He’s seventy if he’s a day, and like I said, he is not pretty. But I was thinking, maybe we could help him with that, too. Sort of make him over. Help him get some better outfits going, get rid of that frumpy hairdo.”
“A makeover?”
“Exactly.”
9
GAME PLAN REVISIONS
Shortly after my dismissal from the coffee shop and my lunch with Andre, I decided to forget about welfare and the idea of becoming Hole’s companion. Instead, I set my sights firmly on acquiring Burl as my next boyfriend. Not as a life mate, mind you, but as a transition—a stepping stone on to someone better. That sounds calculated and cold, I know, and it was, but I didn’t see it that way at the time. I was frantic and frightened and was not thinking of anything but how I could save myself. Burl would be the branch I’d grab to pull myself out of the whirlpool of debt I was being sucked into. He was hardly an ideal savior, but I decided I might as well put all my faith in him because at that point (as I sat in the cruel light of a Saturday morning, the Visa, Discover, and Nordstrom’s bills in my lap, all screaming for attention, and Andre’s frightening suggestions swimming in my head) Burl seemed the most accessible person with money. And money was what I needed above all else. With that in mind I came up with hundreds of reasons why he’d be the perfect boyfriend: he was rich, he had a nice house with lovely appliances, he was smart and could be quick-witted, and in dim light he was not all that bad-looking. Never mind about his acute alcoholism, his obnoxiousness (both public and private), and the fact that he is more lust-driven than a fourteen-year-old boy. I would be a settling influence on him, and his money would enable me to settle and stop feeling panicked all the time. I could buy some time to figure out what I was going to do. No more whiling away the carefree days as I’d done with Paul. No, I’d taken a sip from the bitter well of poverty and it was enough to know that I wanted no more. This time around I’d be good. I’d be grateful. I’d get a job and start thinking seriously about school or a career.