Bad Boy

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Bad Boy Page 10

by Olivia Goldsmith


  Tracie stood beside Jon outside the shoe store. He was wearing the cool shoes, as well as the great jacket she’d found, but he’d begun to show his fatigue. Poor guy. Just another couple of stops.

  “You’re doing great,” she said, and took his hand, leading him across the street toward a toiletries store. As they passed a young woman in the crosswalk, she turned to look back at Jon. Yes! Although Tracie noticed, Jon didn’t even realize the girl was interested. What’s wrong with his radar? Maybe he hasn’t used it in so long, it’s permanently broken, she thought.

  She nudged him. “You’re being checked out,” she whispered.

  Like a dork, he began to crane his head in every direction. Finally, he saw the girl. He returned her glance and then, to Tracie’s horror, spun in a slow circle to show himself off.

  “Are you nuts?” Tracie hissed, grabbing his arm and pulling him into the store. “Don’t you know how to behave?” she asked him, as stern as a mom reprimanding a nine-year-old. “Never let them know you’re looking back.”

  “But then how will they know I’m interested?”

  “You’re not supposed to be interested in them. They’re supposed to be interested in you.”

  “But then how will we get together?” Jon asked. It was a reasonable-enough question, but somehow Tracie hadn’t actually imagined that part. She’d thought of renovating him and about the before and after, but not about seeing him walk off with the girl in the crosswalk. But, of course, that was the whole point.

  “We get to that later,” she said, and took him to the men’s cologne and aftershave counter. A group of bored saleswomen at the counter tried to glom on to them, but Tracie dismissed all but one‌—the oldest, most motherly one. The sales clerk proceeded to spray thirty different scents on various areas of Jon’s body: his wrist, lower arm, upper arm, elbow, and neck. Tracie watched Jon twist with each spray and thought that ever since she’d met him back in college, he’d been dorky but kinda cute. Now, she noticed. Maybe he’d grown out of his dorky stage. When had that happened? Was it only now, with some cool clothes on, or was it earlier and she’d never seen it? “What do you think?” the saleswoman kept asking, and it wasn’t in a motherly way at all.

  In fact, a small crowd of saleswomen were gathering. Tracie looked at Jon. Once she had stripped off the ugly veneer of lameness, he was kind of cute, and there was something so sweet about the way he took the saleswoman and her advice seriously that it attracted the others. He was too inexperienced to know that fragrances were about hype more than anything else and that saleswomen would tell a size-fourteen customer in a size-ten skirt that she “really looks great.” As her mean but shrewd stepmother used to say, “They lie like they breathe.” Now the coterie consisted of two younger women, one blonde and one a horrible fake red, who began to flirt and bat their lashes at Jon.

  “I think he’s an Aramis man,” the blonde who repped that line said.

  “What’s an Aramis man like?” Jon asked.

  “Handsome. Important. And single.” The blonde looked at Tracie. “Is she your sister?”

  “No. I’m his mother,” Tracie snapped, then looked at Jon, who appeared to be blushing. “We’re looking for something a lot more subtle than you have to offer,” she declared, and turned back to the older woman.

  Meanwhile, the redhead had picked up Jon’s left arm and was nibbling on it the way you might pick at corn on the cob. Jon smiled at the redhead with a kind of goofy look. Tracie yanked his arm away.

  But by this time, the saleswoman had run out of available skin on Jon’s wrists and arms. She picked up a crystal vial and smiled at him. “You might like this,” she said. “It’s very expensive, but I think it would suit you.” She sprayed it on his neck and turned to the blonde. “What do you think, Margie?”

  Margie immediately moved close to Jon and put her face up against his chest, nuzzling his neck. Tracie couldn’t believe it! These women were without shame.

  “It’s got patchouli in it,” Tracie said. “Nobody has worn that since 1974.”

  “It’s coming back,” Margie said, and then she looked at Jon. “I hope you do, too.” Jon blushed again.

  Tracie felt as if she was losing control of the situation, and she didn’t like it. When the older saleswoman picked up another bottle and started to open Jon’s shirt to spray some cologne onto his chest, Tracie slapped her hand away. “We’ve already got plenty to choose from,” she told the woman. Jon kept sniffing like a beagle, while all three of the women gave him the eye but kept their hands off. Jon seemed to be enjoying the attention, until all at once he began to sneeze.

  And it wasn’t just one sneeze. It became three and then a dozen. In no time, he was spraying them all with bodily fluids. Even the blonde backed off. Tracie handed him a tissue. Freed of the fan club, she finally selected Lagerfeld. The saleswomen cheered and, despite his sneezing, Jon held the purchase over his head like a trophy. He grinned and, without being told, reached for his credit card.

  Out on the street, Jon struggled with most of the bags. “I’m exhausted,” he said.

  “Yeah, shopping can wear a person out,” Tracie agreed, but she was exhilarated. And when they passed a car stopped at the light, an older blond woman lifted her sunglasses to give Jon a better once-over. “You’re ready,” Tracie said.

  “Ready for what? A couple of anti-inflammatories and a day of bed rest?”

  In the safety of Java, The Hut, Jon, in some of his new regalia, and Tracie were seated at their regular table, packages piled around them. Molly approached, but Jon was too tired to raise his head to say hello. He pulled his feet out of his new boots. They already hurt.

  “What are you doing ’ere? And where’s Jon?” Molly asked Tracie. For a moment, Jon thought he might have disappeared from fatigue. But Tracie smiled, as if she knew what was happening.

  “That’s for me to know and you to find out,” she told Molly, doing another Encino imitation.

  Molly handed a menu to Tracie and then handed one to Jon. When Jon reached up to take the menu, she stopped, squinted at him, and did a double take. “Bugger all! That is you, isn’t it?” She looked at Tracie with renewed respect. “You go, girl! Brilliant!” Then she turned to Jon. “Stand up, Cinderella.” Molly took his hand, pulled him into the aisle, and then walked around him slowly. “My God! You look bloody marvelous. And you ’ave trouble written all over you.”

  “I do?”

  “Big-time! Where did you get that fab jacket? And the excellent jumper?” Molly asked.

  Since he had no idea what a jumper was, he only shrugged. “Tracie helped me,” he said.

  “Bloody marvelous! I love everything but the glasses. You going to get ’im some Elvis Costello ones?” she asked Tracie and gave her a look of something close to respect. “I take it all back. You’re not useless,” she told Tracie. She looked back at Jon with concern. “ ’e looks tired.”

  Tracie shook her head. “No. His eyes are too good. He’s going to get contacts.”

  Jon felt as if he had really disappeared from the table. Is this what women meant when they said men “objectified” them? Jon wasn’t sure if he disliked it, but it felt odd.

  “Tracie, I can’t wear those things.” Jon took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  “Wow!” Both Molly and Tracie exclaimed simultaneously.

  “Is it because ’e can’t focus ’is eyes?” Molly asked Tracie. “Or is it ’is eyes themselves that ’it you?”

  “I don’t know, but it works for me,” Tracie cooed. “You’ve got to give them up,” she told him.

  “I’ll be hitting walls and doors if I can’t wear my glasses,” Jon whined.

  “Great! Scars are a real turn-on,” Tracie said as she stood up, stepped back, and looked at him from a different angle.

  “Why not? Did you ever try?”

  “Call me crazy, but I can’t stand the idea of pushing tiny bits of glass into my eyes.”

  “Well, it’s ei
ther contacts or flying blind, because you can’t wear these,” Tracie said, twirling the glasses in her fingers. “You look like a newborn puppy, blinking like that.”

  “On ’im, it looks good.”

  Embarrassed, Jon felt himself blush, and he took his glasses back. Then Molly noticed the motorcycle helmet on the table. Oh, don’t go there, Molly, he thought.

  “Did you get a motorbike, too, luv?” she asked, as breathless as an original Beatles fan at Shea Stadium.

  “No. Tracie said I just have to carry the helmet as if I have a bike.”

  “It was my one cost concession,” Tracie told Molly, unusually chatty with the waitress for a change. “Plus, he’d probably kill himself on it and ruin all my work.”

  “Thank you for that compassionate expression of concern for my welfare.”

  “Is ’e tattooed? Or pierced?” Molly inquired.

  Tracie took a disappointed breath and sighed. Jon knew that sigh. She’d be trying to talk him into a Suzuki GS 1100 before the end of the week. “He drew the line.” She looked at Jon. “You know, I never noticed how heavy your beard is.”

  “Probably because I usually shave twice a day.”

  “For real?” Molly asked, raising her brows. “That’s a lot of testosterone, darling.”

  Tracie stared at him, thinking. “From now on, you also can’t shave‌—except once every three days,” she pronounced.

  “Oh. The old George Michael thing,” Molly said, nodding in approval. “It would work.”

  “But I wouldn’t,” Jon told them. “I can’t show up at work like that‌—looking hungover.”

  “Why not? It would make women wonder about your private life,” Molly said, leering.

  “Yeah. And then you might get one,” Tracie added.

  Molly crossed her arms then and looked down at both of them. “So, what are you two fashion victims ’aving? I’ve never served you dinner, so I’m curious.”

  “I’ll just have a beer,” Tracie told her.

  “I’ll have a mochaccino.”

  Tracie made a face.

  Molly went off to fetch the drinks. Tracie leaned across the table. “You do look really good, Jon. And you were so patient. You didn’t yell once. As a reward”‌—she paused for effect‌—“I’ll buy you the mochaccino. It may be your last.”

  “Promises, promises.” Jon sighed. Now that it was over, it seemed as if the episode had had a certain kind of charm. He imagined Tracie and himself years into the future, talking it over: Remember that time we shopped till you dropped? Back in the days when people didn’t do all their shopping on-line?

  Tracie got up from the table. “More lessons as soon as I come back from the ladies’ room . . .” She was off, and Jon sighed in relief.

  Molly returned with their drinks. She slipped into the empty seat opposite Jon and looked him over again. “Bloody amazing,” she said. Then she took his hand. “But Jon, don’t you think this might be going a little too far? It might be fun to play fancy dress just once, if you got invited to the Oscars or something. But changing your whole persona . . . well, on some level, it must be scary.”

  “Especially when I look in the mirror, or at next month’s MasterCard bill,” Jon agreed. “But I’ve seen five or six women look at me tonight. That’s never happened before.”

  “I’ve never ’ad cirrhosis of the liver before, but that wouldn’t mean ’aving it now would be a good thing, would it now, luv?” Molly responded. “I mean, so what if a girl looks at you now? It’s not the real you, is it?” She paused. “On some level, this is a betrayal of yourself.” She waited for another moment, silent, letting that sink in. Jon was too tired for this. He just sat there, rubbing one foot with the other under the table. She looked around the restaurant, as if that would explain what she wanted to say. “I don’t want to throw a spanner in the works, but ’ave you been to Freeway Park?” she asked.

  Freeway Park was built on the roof of a highway. It was beautiful, with waterfalls and big lawns and terraces. “Sure,” he said. “I watched them build it.”

  “Well, I can never rest there,” Molly said. “No matter ’ow lovely and serene the fountains and the grass look, underneath it, there’s insane traffic going in both directions. What I’m trying to say is, it doesn’t matter if you pave over yourself with good sod.” She plucked at his arm. “You’re still you underneath these clothes. Think about what you Americans call your ‘inner child.’ Isn’t ’e weeping?”

  “I don’t have an inner child, Molly. I have an inner dweeb, and he’s doing the mambo because he thinks he just learned the magic words: ‘Open sesame.’ ”

  Molly shook her head. “I predict that at some point your inner dweeb is going to start fighting with this outer wild one,” Molly warned. “Mark my words.”

  “What a world! A girl goes to the bathroom for two minutes and her so-called waitress becomes a psychiatric aide,” Tracie cried. She stepped up to the booth and used her hip to evacuate Molly. “Traitor! I thought you were being too nice! Jon doesn’t need any bad pop psychology advice from you.”

  “You’re right, ’e’s getting more than necessary from you.”

  Tracie ignored Molly. “You know, I was thinking. You need a new name. Jon is weak and Jonathan is lame.”

  “Oh. Perfect! Now it’s not just ’is wardrobe and personality. Even ’is name needs changing,” Molly said.

  Tracie continued to ignore her. “Have you ever had a nickname?”

  “My dad used to call me Jason sometimes, but I think that was because he forgot what my name really was,” Jon admitted. “And my second stepmom called me ‘the pest.’ ”

  “It doesn’t quite convey the sense of danger and sexual urgency I had in mind,” Tracie told him. “How about Eric? I always thought that was a sexy name.”

  “Look, get real. I can’t just have a totally new name,” Jon protested.

  Molly began to laugh. “ ’ow about Big Swinging Dick?”

  “I like it,” Jon chimed in with excitement. “Or Big Swinging Richard, if I go formal.”

  “As long as it’s not Little Richard, luv.” Molly added. “Although I always ’eard ’e was very well equipped.” Whether it was from fatigue or nerves or humor, Jon joined in Molly’s laughter.

  Tracie ignored the two of them. “There’s got to be something . . .”

  “Tracie, I’m not changing my name,” Jon insisted.

  “How about Jonny?” she asked. “Guys named Jonny are cool. Johnny Depp, Johnny Dangerously, Johnny Cash. They wear black and they’re intense. They’re heartbreakers.”

  “Yeah, like Johnny Carson,” Molly agreed. “Or Johnny ’oliday, the French wanker.”

  He calmed down. “Well, I always wanted to be called ‘Bud.’ ”

  “Bud?” Molly asked. “Like on a tree? You can’t be serious.”

  “No, like on a TV show. Father Knows Best. An old sixties thing,” Tracie told Molly. “I wanted to be ‘Princess.’ ”

  “Now, that’s perfect for you,” Molly said sarcastically.

  “Enough of that,” Tracie said to Molly. “So, it’s Jonny. And now that you’re cutened up enough, I want you to go out on your own and start trolling for skank.”

  Chapter 13

  A warren of a thousand tiny shops stacked on a Seattle hillside, the main fresh-food market of Seattle was a hive of produce sellers and their customers. But the market had become a lot more than that. Well-dressed Yuppies walked through, selecting endive or frisée for their dinner salads as they sipped their lattes from paper cups marked Counter Intelligence. It was incredible how espresso had become the craze of Seattle. Espresso drinkers had a language all their own‌—Milky Way, grande, skinny, extra foamy, half-caf. Jon always asked for a McD’s spill, which meant the temperature should be as close to boiling as possible. Though he had been born and raised in Seattle, he still didn’t know the names of most of the special coffee drinks.

  Like most natives of any city, Jon didn’t take advant
age of what Seattle had to offer. He had never taken the Bremerton ferry, just across from Pike Place, still hadn’t gotten to the EMP, never hung out in Gas Works Park, and he’d avoided the market, partly because when he was younger it was tougher and navy guys often hung there‌—a draw for hookers. What with work and the few dates he had, he hadn’t been to Pike Place in years. When he wasn’t working, Jon hung out at the Metropolitan Grill, which was the favored place for all Micro/Con employees. Here, though, there were Asian women dressed in Gucci, naval officers, a few hippie chicks wearing clothes they might have gotten from their mother’s closets, an African-American who was wearing a turban and had a parrot walking across his shoulders, as well as the usual tourists. Jon’s head was spinning.

  But he was here to “troll for skank,” as per Tracie’s order. He stood in front of a baked-goods stand. Well, no time like the present. A blond woman, short and thin and dressed all in gray, stood outside. She looked like a nice person, so he tried to catch her eye. She avoided his glances, though, so he gave up. Blondes were cold, anyway, Jon decided.

  Looking across the way, he spotted a tallish brunette in jeans and a green sweater. She also looked like good company‌—until she smiled. Jon wondered, for a moment, how much lipstick the average woman ate in a year. A tubeful? Two? What was in that stuff, anyway? Red dye number two? Did he eat it when he kissed a girl? (Not that he was in any danger of being poisoned lately.) Lipstick on the teeth, he decided, was a definite turnoff, but she did smile at him. He pushed himself forward and approached her. Now what? For a moment, he panicked. Why hadn’t he prepared a line, a hello, a speech. God, he was standing there with his mouth open like a guppy. Think, Jon, think. “Do you know what time it is?” he finally managed to ask.

  The brunette’s smile faded. She looked him up and down. “No,” she said, turned around, and walked away.

  Embarrassed, Jon cowered next to the candle shop entrance behind him. God, I’m such a loser! Then he wandered over to a third woman, this one a little older and maybe a little less attractive. “Do you have the time?”

 

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