Bad Boy

by Olivia Goldsmith

  “She didn’t even thank you,” The Lovely Girl said. Surprise more than outrage was outlined on her pretty face.

  “No, but later she’s going to nominate me for a MacArthur grant,” Jon quipped, hoping that those gray eyes wouldn’t give him the blank look he usually got back from people when he made those kinds of jokes. Instead, she laughed. She actually laughed! Maybe this was all easier than he’d thought. Maybe it was only a question of showing up at the right place wearing the right kind of used jacket.

  Now bags of every description began to slide down the chute and come around the carousel. It was only then that the implications of the fact that his luggage was on the wrong conveyor dawned on Jon. Well, he’d just pretend he’d lost his luggage. That happened all the time. It might make The Lovely Girl sympathetic, although it also might make him look like a schmuck.

  Quickly, he thought about what James Dean might do if his luggage was lost, but none of the films gave him a clue whether that would happen or what James would do if it did. For a moment, Jon felt deep bitterness. What good was tutelage if you knew how to react when your lettuces rotted but not when the airline lost your luggage?

  Desperate, he tried to think of something else to say to The Lovely Girl. It was certainly too soon to ask for her name. The luggage coming out of the hatch seemed to be the only thing of interest to anyone. It came in two types‌—black and indistinguishable from every other piece or one of a motley collection of every kind of bag imaginable, all of which displayed neon yarn, glow-in-the-dark stick-ons, or duct tape so that the owners could distinguish the piece from the myriad others. As if that would be necessary.

  So, what to do? Help her with her bag! He looked at The Lovely Girl out of the corner of his eye and tried to imagine her luggage. She would never have a tatty hard-sided avocado green suitcase with pink pearlized nail polish Xs along the side. He shook his head as that bag rolled past, and then a miracle happened: She spoke. “Isn’t it hideous?” she asked. “What people use as luggage, I mean.”

  In his amazement, he forgot to answer her. He was too busy thinking that she might actually‌—as Molly might say‌—“fancy” him. She’d spoken. And she’d spoken a thought he’d had. Maybe there was real possibility here. Well, no sense sending out the wedding invitations if he didn’t respond.

  “Their bags are as ugly as their travel togs,” he said. God! Togs? Who used the word togs? Men in smoking jackets. Guys who wore ascots and used cigarette holders. He’d better explain that . . .

  “Oh, I know. My mother said air travel used to be glamorous. That people dressed up for it. Can you imagine? Did you see that getup the mother with the spit-up baby was in?” she asked, then paused. “Oh, probably not. You were in first or business, weren’t you?”

  It was unbelievable! Here she was, telling him he looked like quality and actually leading him on. Had it always been this easy, even though he hadn’t known it and didn’t have the tools? Could a leather jacket and the heel blisters make all the difference? Blisters were worth it.

  Newly confident, Jon changed his position to what he considered a cooler stance. “I didn’t see it, but I smelled something sour,” he told her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Huey, Louie, and Dewey. “Care for a Pez?” he asked.

  She chuckled but shook her head. “You’re funny. Do you live here, or are you in town on business?”

  It was his dream come true, but just how should he answer the question? He’d expected her to ask that. Should he lie and make her believe he was a traveler? Tell her the truth and let her know he was a local? And what should he do about his bag on the other carousel? “I’m here scouting for talent,” he said, then thought, What a lame thing to say.

  But she didn’t seem to think it was odd, or a lie. “You’re kidding? I’m just here for a magazine shoot for Micro/Con,” she told him. “They want to make their new motherboards look like a mother lode, if you get my meaning.”

  Holy mackerel! “Do you have any photos you can show me? Maybe I could help you out,” he said.

  “Let me have your number so that once I unpack I can get you a portfolio.”

  “Sure.” Jon couldn’t believe how easy this was. She wanted his number! Okay, so it was under false pretenses, but what the heck. “Do you have a pen and paper?”

  The Lovely Girl rummaged through her bag but could only find a pen. “Here,” she said, and thrust her hand, palm up, at him. “Write it here.”

  Wow! What could be better than this? Jon reached out and took her hand. A shiver went through him at the touch of her flesh. Calm down, he told himself. He jotted down the number and folded her fingers up into her palm. “Don’t lose it now,” he joked as he slowly released his grip on her hand.

  “It’s about time,” she said, and Jon wondered if she meant that he’d been moving too slowly. Then she stepped toward him. Boy, she’s aggressive, he thought, but she went right by him and was reaching out her hand when Jon realized she was after her bag.

  “Let me get that for you,” he said, pouncing on the opportunity. Great. She’d get her bag, leave with his number, and never notice that his bag was on the wrong carousel. He grabbed the bag by the handle, glanced at the name tag, and started to lift it off the rubber mat, then realized he was going completely against the rules. What had Tracie told him? To take, not give. This was old Jon behavior. He quickly let go of the bag as if the strap were burning-hot. The Lovely Girl, Carole Revere if her luggage tag was accurate, looked at him in mild surprise. “Sorry, Carole, I got a cramp in my fingers,” he told her lamely. The suitcase was half on and half off the conveyor. It kept moving down the belt. The Lovely Girl gave him a funny look as she went to retrieve the bag herself.

  Then she just stood there, holding her bag. What was she waiting for? He had apologized for dropping it. What else was he supposed to do? He must have had a strange look on his face, because The Lovely Girl started talking again. “I have two bags.”

  “Uh-oh,” Jon said, and smiled at her. “I’m beginning to think my bag isn’t coming.” She’d notice he didn’t have a bag. What could he say? The crowd from the Tacoma flight was thinning out. He forced himself to chuckle. “Wouldn’t it be a strange coincidence if our bags were lost together?” he asked. “Being together would be our destiny.” Oops, Jon thought, I might have gone too far, been too friendly with that comment. Hadn’t Tracie told him that he was supposed to make them want him, not show he wanted them? But, based on The Lovely Girl’s expression, he figured he was still doing okay. Just don’t screw this up, he told himself. But that made him even more nervous. Keep calm, he instructed himself sternly. He looked at her again. She really was lovely.

  “Maybe our bags have been confiscated. Maybe they’ll check them for weapons,” he said. God, that sounded crazy. What did she think he was talking about? He was only trying to be funny. “You know, like Ted Kaczynski or something.” But she didn’t smile. Maybe she didn’t know who that was. “You know, the Unabomber.” She nodded. He laughed with relief.

  “Why would they search our luggage?” she asked, her voice totally reasonable.

  Yeah. Why would they? What a stupid comment. He was insane and he was blowing this. He had to reassure her. He was panicking. “Who knows what They do. Right? But I can guarantee that They definitely won’t find a typewriter if They search my luggage. The Unabomber wouldn’t travel without that piece of equipment.” He tried to laugh. “My bag’s guaranteed to be typewriter-free. In fact, it’s so light, it could be stuffed with newspaper.”

  Oh no. Worse and worse. Jon was ready to weep, but he tried to keep his face completely neutral. From the corner of his eyes he again saw his bag, black and ominous, abandoned on the next carousel. The cheese stands alone. He felt sweat breaking out under his arms and on the top of his lip. Great. Now he’d look like Albert Brooks in Broadcast News. Flop sweat. He was a flop all right.

  Jon glanced back at The Lovely Girl, whose face had sort of come together in the middle, h
er brows, her nose, her eyes, and her mouth all gathering at the center of her face as if for safety. “Not that my bag is stuffed with newspaper,” Jon assured her. “It’s the normal weight. I mean, it’s even heavier than normal. And it’s not like I could be the Unabomber. I mean, they caught him. My bag just isn’t heavy because I don’t have weapons or stuff.” He laughed again, because he was dying. Maybe a joke would save him. “This trip, I decided to leave the weapons at home. Just this once.”

  The Lovely Girl turned her head toward her carousel. She moved away from Jon, and he knew he’d gone way too far with her. Then he saw her reach for her other bag. Miracle of miracles! Once she had it, she came back toward him. Relief flooded him.

  But The Lovely Girl’s face had changed once again. Now it was closed and aloof, again the face of a stranger. But her eyes darted back and forth, the eyes of a nervous stranger. Yes. He had ruined everything.

  “I’ve got to go,” she said coolly. “I’ll give you a call when I get settled. And I hope you find your luggage.”

  Chapter 17

  Tears rolled down Tracie’s face, but she didn’t wipe them off. She just blinked her eyes to try to clear them, then felt one tear glide to the crease beside her nose, tickling her. She reached her tongue up and delicately licked it from the top of her lip. It was just the slightest bit salty.

  “How much salt?” she called out to Laura, whose backside was up, while her head had disappeared deep in an under-the-counter cabinet, looking for something. “Do I put in salt?”

  Laura grunted and pulled her head out of the cupboard. “Nah. There’s a lot of natural sodium in tomatoes. I think that the other seasonings and the natural salt of the tomatoes make additional salt unnecessary.”

  Tracie nodded, and a tear flew off her chin as she did so. It fell onto the chopping board and moistened an onion slice. She could have thrown the onions into the pot sooner to stop her eyes from smarting, since she had already cut them up as finely as she knew how, but she wanted Laura’s approval first.

  “You know,” Laura said as she stood up, “if you put the onion in the freezer for a few minutes before you slice it, it doesn’t make you cry.”

  “Well, if I had time and could remember things like that, I’d be the type of person who had my panty hose in the freezer, too, so they wouldn’t run.”

  “Does that work?” Laura asked.

  Tracie shrugged. “How would I know? I’m not that type of person.”

  “Thank God!” Phil called from the sofa. “Panty hose are enough of a turnoff. Icy ones would be beyond my tolerance.”

  Tracie picked up the chopping block and moved it to the skillet, where the butter was already melting. “So I just throw these in?” she asked. Then she saw red bloom against the cutting board and realized she had just cut not an onion but deep into the flesh of her thumb. “Ohmigod!” she said.

  Laura was at her shoulder in a moment. Tracie held up her thumb, which was now leaking blood down her hand. A line from one of the Plath poems Laura and Tracie shared with each other came to mind. “ ‘Trepanned veteran,’ ” she said aloud.

  “Hey, no quoting Sylvia when you’re bleeding into the cassoulet,” Laura said, and in a moment she had Tracie’s thumb under the faucet, then dipped in peroxide, then swabbed with Neosporin and tightly bandaged. By then, Phil had gotten to the counter.

  “Hey, girl. Cut yourself?” he asked. Then added, “Why don’t you throw in the towel?” before he idly began plucking the strings of his bass. “You were meant for other things.” He leered.

  “Hey! Be nice. I’m making this for you,” Tracie told him, and instead of the towel, she threw the onion into the sizzling butter. The room was immediately filled with a most delicious smell. Tracie felt like Martha Stewart. “Taa-dah!”

  Laura nodded, then looked over the onions. “Stir them a couple of times. You want them brown, not burned.” She then looked over to Phil and back to Tracie. “Pay some attention to him,” she whispered. “He’s begging for it.”

  “Whom am I making this for?” Tracie asked, her voice raised. “I’m working my fingers to the bone for him.”

  Phil just shrugged. Laura turned to him. “Remember the Partridge Family?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Phil said. “I hated Keith.”

  “That’s just because you were jealous of him,” Laura countered. Tracie almost laughed out loud. “Anyway, did you ever notice that when Danny played the bass, he strummed it? Like a lead guitar?” Laura said.

  “Get outta town!” Phil replied.

  Tracie wondered if he meant it literally. Between her time with Jon and the attention she paid to Laura, not to mention her time at the gym with Beth and the others, she wondered if Phil was getting a bit shortchanged. Well, Tracie decided, that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Usually, he was the one shortchanging her, stretched between his rehearsals, his writing, and his other, less-defined activities. She looked at the pot of peeled and diced tomatoes already simmering on the other burner.

  “You’re really going to love this tomato sauce when it’s finished,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “I’m really gonna love when it’s finished.”

  Tracie turned to Laura. “When do I add the onions to the tomatoes?” she asked.

  ‘When they’re nice and brown.” Laura paused. “You know, it’s my duty to remind you that there are some schools that believe in simmering the tomatoes with the onions. I am of the school that believes that tomato sauce is a tomato sauce and everything is therefore added to it. And that browned onions are better.”

  The only time Laura was dead serious was when she talked about cooking or when she talked about Peter. Luckily, she’d done lots of the former and none of the latter in the last couple of days. “I am of your school,” Tracie said, equally serious in tone. “I hope someday to be in your school yearbook and wear your school letter.”

  “What letter would that be?” Phil asked in his bored voice. “S for slow?”

  “S for sauce,” Tracie told him.

  “S for simmer,” Laura added. They both giggled.

  “S for stupid,” Phil responded. “Both of you. Or b for boring.” He put down his bass. “God, this is dull.”

  “I know you are, but what am I?” Tracie dared to sing out. She and Laura used to shout that back at girls in Encino when they’d been called names. Fat and skinny, Jack Spratt, and even lesbos. She hadn’t thought of it in years. She danced over to the sofa and put her arms around poor Phil. “Just think, homemade spaghetti sauce anytime you want it.” She bent to kiss him, but he pulled away.

  “Jesus,” he said, “you reek.” She put her hands up to her nose, and her eyes began to tear again.

  “Phew.” She ran over to the kitchen sink and began to wash her hands.

  “That won’t do any good,” Laura told her, picking up a lemon, which she pounded with the handle of a knife and then deftly sliced in half with the business end of the same implement. “Here. Use this.”

  Tracie squeezed the lemon juice onto her hands and then quickly washed them again with dish detergent. After checking her simmering pot, she made her way back to the sofa and sat beside her simmering boyfriend.

  “Come here, you,” she said, and pulled him to her, letting his head rest against her chest. He began to pull away, but she captured the top of his head with her chin. “Forget that guitar for a minute and bring those talented fingers over here,” she whispered. He turned to look at her and was about to say something, when the phone rang. She reached over. “Hold that thought,” she told him, picking up the receiver.

  Jon’s voice exploded into her ear. “Okay, forget about it,” he said. “It’s a stupid plan and a stupid idea. Anyway, it’s not going to work. I can’t do it . . .”

  “Hello, Jon,” she said calmly. Phil rolled his eyes and pulled his head away from her. Oh well. She’d just have to warm him up all over again. A woman’s work was never done.

  “It’s not working,” Jon sa
id. “I’m not trainable.”

  “We haven’t even started yet, and you’re giving up?” Tracie admonished.

  “We’re the ones who never get started,” Phil said, while Jon also spoke, but she missed his response. She patted Phil on the knee. There, there.

  “What?” she asked Jon. He was babbling, something about the airport and then luggage and that she didn’t know he was traveling, and then something about someone pregnant and . . . Phil was getting up to put his jacket on, so she had to grab his hand and pull him back on the sofa to kiss him before he actually left. When she got back to the phone, she heard Jon wrapping it up.

  “A madman,” he was saying. “She thought I was some kind of terrorist.”

  “It’s a start,” she said. It was clear that he’d tried to pick someone up. “Better a terrorist than a dweeb. Much sexier.”

  “No. It’s better to be what I was than a failed Ted Kaczynski.”

  “I thought Ted Kaczynski was a failure,” Tracie said, stroking Phil’s arm. “I mean, he got caught, right?” Phil began to pay attention to the conversation.

  “The sauce needs stirring,” Laura called. “Am I making it or are you?” Tracie knew how seriously Laura took her cooking and she gestured to her that she’d only be a moment.

  “Don’t joke about this!” Jon was saying. “I mean, you weren’t there. You can’t imagine the look she gave me.”

  “Did you ever notice how Ted is a loser name?” Phil inquired aloud. “You know‌—Ted Kennedy, Ted Kaczynski, Ted Bundy.”

  “I have a policy not to date any Teds,” Laura agreed. “With Eds, I decide on a case-by-case basis.”

  Jon was still talking, but Tracie hadn’t been able to hear much. She made “hmms” and “mms” to try to comfort Jon. When he paused, she waited a moment and then, to be optimistic, said, “Well, you may get a call from her.”