Bad Boy

by Olivia Goldsmith

  “Get a call from her?” Jon echoed. “I’m lucky if I don’t get a call from the police. You don’t understand.” Even from across town, Tracie could hear his sigh. “You had to be there,” he repeated. “I’m hopeless at this. I acted like a madman.”

  “Girls could like a madman,” Tracie said as reassuringly as she could manage. Phil began nibbling her ear and Laura put her hands on her hips to indicate sauce consternation.

  “Not ones like this,” Jon told her grimly.

  “Well, you get an A for effort,” she said. “You set your sights too high. It’s just too hard to pick someone up cold without some common interest.” She pushed Phil off her and got up.

  “The sauce needs stirring,” Laura repeated. Tracie got over to the stove, and in doing so, she missed something else that Jon had said. “Slow down. Slow down,” she told him. Her comfort hadn’t helped. From the pitch of his voice, she realized she’d have to take this more seriously. It was obvious he was deeply upset.

  “. . . because I’d worked it all out. I thought I had it perfect. But you can’t work it out. You can’t control it. ’Cause when I got to the airport and there was nobody good on that flight‌—I mean, there was somebody good, but she was too good, and, like I said, the other one was pregnant.”

  “What other one?” Tracie asked as she took the spoon and stirred the sauce. She felt pulled in too many directions at once. How did women raise two or three children?

  “Did Danny really strum his bass?” Phil was asking Laura.

  “Absolutely,” Laura said. “And did you know Laurie was anorexic?”

  “Get out! I had a huge boner for Laurie.”

  Tracie tried to silence them with her hand motions. Jon was still talking. “So I moved to the next carousel and started talking to Carole, and then my bag was on the wrong carousel, and I guess I panicked and said something stupid, and then she started to act as if I was‌—”

  “Who is Carole?” Tracie asked as Laura handed her some big leaves, which Tracie had no idea what to do with.

  “This girl I picked up at the airport,” Jon said, his voice showing his exasperation. “Carole.”

  “I’m listening. I just missed her name.” What else did I miss? Tracie wondered. “Where were you going?” she asked.

  “Going? I wasn’t going anywhere.”

  “Well, where did you meet this Carole?”

  “Tonight. At the airport.”

  “So why were you at the airport if you weren’t going anywhere? Were you meeting Carole?” Tracie didn’t remember that there was any Carole in Jon’s life. Meanwhile, Laura pulled out a leaf from Tracie’s hand and threw it into the sauce.

  Next, Phil made a gesture with his finger across his throat to say cut it short, but she couldn’t. Laura took back the spoon. Tracie shrugged an apology. “I don’t understand,” she told Jon. “What were you doing at the airport?”

  So, while she stirred the pot with one hand and held the phone to her ear with the other, he told her a long, crazy story that only Jon could tell. She laughed a couple of times, until she realized that that might hurt his feelings. Then she managed to keep a straight face during all the rest of the crazy recitation. Jon was one of a kind.

  “So anyway, I wrote my name and number on her hand. Can you imagine how embarrassing?”

  “Well, you’ll never see her again.”

  “I might. I know she’s got a gig with Micro/Con.” Then he really lost touch with reality. “Do you think if I track her down, find her number, and wait a day or two until I call, she might go out with me?” he asked.

  “I think she’d have you arrested,” Tracie told him. “Look, you tried. Forget it. There will be dozens more. Don’t sweat it. And you get an A for originality, as well as extra points for neatness. But it wasn’t such a good idea.”

  “Why not?” he asked. “Just because I panicked? Maybe I could try it again?”

  “No. Not that.” She sighed and looked down at the sauce, which was thickening nicely. “I mean that the two of you had nothing in common except that you were both at the airport. You weren’t even on the same flight. Usually, there has to be some kind of shared something to get things started,” she explained. “So you were working against yourself there.”

  Actually, as she thought about it, his idea was pretty neat. Crazy, but so Jon. That he was capable of thinking it up made her smile. The fact that he wasn’t capable of carrying it off was because he was Jon. He was nuts, but in a kind of adorable way. He’d eventually make some woman a really great husband. But first, she had to get him a date. She lowered the flame under her sauce. Laura nodded approval.

  She tried to think of a place where people gathered‌—not at a bar or club, because she knew Jon would never be comfortable there, but‌—It came to her like an avalanche and she smiled at her own analogy. Perfect! Much better than an airport. “Look,” she said. “I’ve got an idea. How about if I take you somewhere where you’ll have something to talk about to women?”

  “Are you talking to me?” Phil asked, raising his eyebrows. “Because I’m interested.” Tracie frowned at him.

  “Where?” Jon asked at the same time, his voice suspicious.

  “That’s for me to know and for you to find out,” Tracie announced, again reverting to Encino talk.

  “It’s time to get serious here,” Laura said, interrupting. “We’ve got some major seasoning that’s got to go in.” Tracie nodded to her and gave her the “just one minute” sign.

  “Trust me on this,” she told Jon, and she wondered if she could write about his airport fiasco in her article. It would be really hysterical, but that would be what he might not like. Guiltily, she thought she really ought to tell him about her article idea, but she certainly couldn’t do it now, not after his humiliation, and not with Laura and Phil breathing down her neck. “Look, don’t lose heart,” she told him. “It was great that you took the initiative. Rome wasn’t built in a day. The longest journey starts with a single step . . .”

  “Not enough cooks spoil the sauce,” Laura said pointedly.

  “A stitch in time saves time,” Phil added.

  “That’s not right,” Laura said to him.

  “I get the idea,” Jon told Tracie.

  “It’s nine,” Laura was saying. “Nine.”

  “It’s past ten-thirty,” Phil responded.

  “The saying is, A stitch in time saves nine,” Laura was explaining.

  “Nine what?” Phil asked.

  Laura ignored him.

  “Okay,” Tracie told Jon. “So I have a plan. You in?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You promised me I’d pass calculus. I promise you you’ll get a date,” Tracie assured him.

  “Okay,” he agreed, but he still sounded pretty demoralized.

  “Nine stitches!” Laura shouted.

  “I have to go. We’ll talk tomorrow,” Tracie told Jon.

  “Okay.” He paused. “Hey, Tracie, thanks.”

  “De nada,” she replied.

  With relief, Tracie hit the off button and laid the phone on the edge of the stove. “You have to put in the oregano and the rest of the herbs now,” Laura instructed. “But I want you to add some more garlic first.”

  “I have to chop garlic again?” Tracie asked, dismayed. She had started with that even before the onions. She was never going to smell sexy again, unless Neapolitan kitchens were a turn-on for Phil. Remorselessly, Laura handed her the cloves and the chopping board. Tracie shrugged her shoulders and did as she was directed for a few minutes, until the phone rang again. She shrugged at Laura as if to say, Not my fault, and then picked it up. It was Beth.

  “I’m going to call him. I’m sitting here alone and he’s sitting there alone and there’s no reason for me not to call him,” Beth said.

  “You’re not going to call him,” Tracie told her. “First of all, he’s probably not alone. Second, he’s made it clear he doesn’t want a relationship with you. And, in
case you’ve forgotten, he is your boss. You’ll wind up not only losing his respect but your job, too.”

  “I don’t want my job,” Beth wailed. “It’s torture seeing him every day but not being able to have him.”

  Tracie shook her head. Her hair fell into her eyes. She had to remember to book an appointment with Stefan. Beth groaned. How Beth could manage to get so emotional about a middle-aged, slightly balding, mean guy was beyond her. What Beth needed was a distraction. “You’ve got more important things to do,” Tracie told her. “I want you to go through your closet and figure out what you’d wear on a Friday date.”

  “Why bother?” asked Beth. “I haven’t had a date in months.”

  “You have one for next Friday,” Tracie informed her. “I fixed you up.” Laura was tapping her finger against the side of her forehead with the gesture that said, You’re crazy. Then she pointed to the sauce.

  “With who?” Beth asked, and Tracie could hear the curiosity and interest in her voice, though she was trying to sound disinterested. “Not one of those loser musicians of yours,” Beth added. “I don’t want to be stuck paying for their beer all night like the last time.”

  “No, no,” Tracie assured her. “This guy’s really cool and he’s not a musician.” Better leave a little mystery. She lied: “I’m not sure exactly what he does, but he’s really cute.”

  “What’s his name?” Beth asked.

  “Jonny,” she lied.

  Laura now had both hands on her hips again‌—not a good sign‌—and Phil was seriously sulking. “I gotta go,” she told Beth. “We’ll talk tomorrow at work.” At least that will give her something to think about, she figured as she hung up the phone and turned back to Laura.

  “You’re getting him a date?” Laura asked.

  “Well, first I thought I’d take him to a place where he could pick up a girl for himself. But you know, in case it doesn’t work out, he needs a date.”

  “I’ll go out with him,” Laura said. “I mean, just as a practice.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” Tracie said as offhandedly as possible. “I don’t think we should try that. Not after you dissed him at the market.” She thought for a moment. “It’ll be good for Beth. She’s trying to get over Marcus.”

  “Beth from the gym?” Laura asked. “She’s an idiot.”

  “Well, yes. But she’s a cute idiot, and it’s just a date.”

  Laura turned to the sofa as if to ask Phil . . . but Phil wasn’t there. “Where did he go?” she asked Tracie.

  Tracie shrugged. He must be in the bedroom, sulking. She covered the pot with the only lid in the house, one she had improvised with a plate and aluminum foil. “Can I leave this now?” she asked, feeling as if she were stretched in a half dozen directions. She had to go to Phil and make everything okay with him. And she had to do some work on her article, at least to bring her notes up-to-date.

  “Sure,” Laura said acidly. “How important is tomato sauce compared to true love?”

  Tracie’s hands really stank now from the garlic. “Give me a break, will ya?” Tracie asked her. “Also, while you’re at it, give me another lemon.”

  “Sorry. No more lemons,” Laura said brightly. “Except for the guy in there.” She indicated the bedroom with a tilt of her head.

  “Thank you,” Tracie told her. “Pete’s a great guy, too.”

  “But Pete is not in my bedroom,” Laura pointed out. “I don’t have to go in there and give lemon aid.”

  Phil was lying on her rumpled bed with his guitar next to him. He was breathing deeply, his face stuffed into one of her pillows. But somehow Tracie could tell he was faking. She used to do it herself when she was a kid and her father would check on her. She sat down at the foot of the bed and put a hand gently on his ankle. “Are you sleeping?” she asked.

  He immediately picked his head up in an exaggerated start. “No,” he said after a moment, rubbing one eye with the back of his hand. “I was just going to try out a few new licks.”

  There was something very intimate about knowing he was faking his composure, as if she had caught a child in a game of pretend. He was like a child in many ways. Tracie became almost shy. “Look, I’m behind on my meat loaf sampling and I also have to cover the opening act at the EMP for the Times. Remember? I thought you might want to go.”

  “To EMP? Jesus, that place is so lame.” Again, Tracie could see that he was covering his disappointment. Bob had talked of the Glands playing at the Experience Music Project through some friend of a friend. But the gig‌—if it had ever existed at all‌—had never materialized or fallen through. Since then Phil had had nothing but criticism of the museum that had made news all across the country. Sometimes Tracie thought highly of Phil’s iconoclasm and fierce independence but at other times‌—like this one‌—she began to believe that he simply rejected things defensively before they rejected him.

  “Frank Gehry is going to be there,” Tracie coaxed. Gehry was the genius who had created the Experience.

  “So what,” Phil said. “They spent two hundred and fifty million dollars on something that looks like the wreck of the Partridge Family bus.”

  “I’m going to try to get an interview with him,” Tracie said. “My father knows him from L.A.”

  “Fine,” Phil told her. “Use insider contacts that others don’t have. I don’t care if that’s the only way you can make it, but don’t expect me to watch or help.”

  Tracie shook her head. Why did he have to be so nasty? Sometimes she believed that each time they got close to one another Phil was obliged to spoil it by being what Laura would call an IPP. She shrugged. She wouldn’t press him or chase him and after this behavior she certainly didn’t feel like bringing him as a companion. Then she remembered that she had yet another agenda. She decided to try one more time.

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “We could have fun. We could dance like we used to.” When they’d first met, they danced all the time. She’d been impressed with his weird dance moves. They were . . . unique. He didn’t dance like a white boy, but he wasn’t doing some pathetic imitation of a rapper, either. He moved like a robot ballet dancer. It seemed to Tracie that they hadn’t danced together in a long, long time. “Oh, come on,” she begged.

  Phil fell back onto the mattress. “Nah. I’m really into my playing.”

  That’s such bullshit! Tracie thought. Annoyed and hurt, she tried to cover it. “Okay. I just thought you might want to meet Bob Quinto, the manager. And you know, he’s looking for help booking . . .”

  “Are you trying to talk me into taking some kind of straight gig again?” Phil asked, sitting up now.

  Uh-oh. Not this argument tonight. “No. I just think . . .”

  “I just think you don’t have much confidence in me. I don’t appreciate that.” Phil threw his long legs over the side of the bed and began to push one foot into his boot.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I just thought he’d be a good connection for you. Then, afterward, I thought maybe you’d come back here and . . .”

  “Forget it, Tracie. I’ve got a late rehearsal.” He put his other boot on.

  “Fine,” she told him. “I want to work on my article about the makeover anyway.”

  “Fine,” Phil repeated. “Then we’re both busy. Too bad I didn’t know that before I wasted all this time waiting for you.” He stood up and put his guitar in its case. “Good luck with your sow’s ear.”

  “That’s not nice,” she snapped.

  “Oh, I think it’s nice,” he said. “Nice for you. Nice for your ego.” He paused, then cocked his head and raised his voice. “You could be the next Emma Quindlen,” Phil said, imitating Jon almost perfectly.

  “Anna, not Emma,” Tracie snarled at his back as he left.

  Chapter 18

  Tracie was driving over to Mom’s, a diner on the other side of Seattle, where they served things like baked macaroni and home-style chicken potpie. She’d been turned down on the makeover article, but the
idea of the best meat loaf in town was worthy. She sighed. After thinking for a while, she’d come up with an angle she liked: Guys in films noir always seem to have a cup of joe and some meat loaf, so she was getting Mr. Bill from the video store to find a few of the restaurant scenes from the thirties and she was going to sample all the meat loaf in town, as Jimmy Cagney or Humphrey Bogart might. Needless to say, Jon had insisted that she include Java, The Hut’s, although Tracie didn’t feel it was necessary to do any favors for the place. It wasn’t as if they gave her good service.

  After Mom’s, Tracie was going to meet Jon at Java, and over another meat loaf sampling, she’d fit in another lesson. Despite his mission impossible at the airport‌—she giggled when she thought of it‌—she could see he was getting close to scoring, or whatever it was that guys called it. The fact that he’d even try on his own was incredible, given what a mess he’d been. But now that he was close, she also knew that Jon needed preparation in one more area. Tracie had thought long and‌—excusing the pun‌—hard about discussing sexual etiquette with Jon. She shrank from it, though.

  The two of them were really best of friends, but while they talked about virtually everything else, she had never talked to him about sex. Somehow, while she could describe to Laura‌—or even Beth‌—the exact dimensions of a man’s private parts and any peculiarity thereof, the idea of doing that with Jon gave her the willies. Of course, she didn’t have to talk to him about willies. He had one and, one presumed, he knew how to use it. But what she knew from sad experience, as well as from the experiences of her friends, was that most men had not read the operating instructions for women’s parts. If her work on Jon made him look good and sound good, it still wouldn’t be enough, as far as she was concerned, if he couldn’t also put them over the top sexually. She told herself she shouldn’t expect too much from Jon‌—after all, she knew he hadn’t had that much experience.

  Freud had pondered on what women wanted, but he must not have asked his wife, or any of his female patients. Because, based on her own sex life and what she’d heard from her friends, what women wanted was oral sex, and plenty of it. Not that they necessarily liked giving blow jobs, though Tracie herself enjoyed it. The problem was that no matter how good you became at playing the skin flute, men usually left you with a lick and a promise. That is, if they went south of the border at all. Tracie was always deeply offended by men who had an aversion to going down on her but who expected her to look at their own private parts as if they were ice-cream cones with sprinkles. One of the things she loved about Phil was how much he seemed to like all of her body, and her secret place the best. It was also so much easier to have an orgasm if a man knew what he was doing. God, when she thought about the oafs she’d occasionally been with in college who’d thought that pumping away until a girl came passed for good sex! She had to tell Jon about delicacy and teasing, about developing a pattern and then, just when the next touch or stroke or flick was expected, to withhold it and go on to something new until a woman was almost out of her mind.