Bad Boy

by Olivia Goldsmith

  “You made dinner, Phil?” She looked at the pot. “Gee. I’m sorry. I’m just not hungry.”

  “But . . . I did it for you.”

  “Why don’t you eat with Laura while I take a bath?” she suggested. “All I want to do is crawl into bed.” Tracie went into the bathroom. Phil followed her.

  “Tracie, this is important,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you over dinner. I thought I might . . . There was this job‌—” He stopped talking. She was looking under the sink for her Vitabath.

  “You mean with another band? Leave the Glands?” Tracie asked, shaking her head.

  “No. I mean a real job,” Phil said. “Well, it’s like a trainee job. Can you imagine me in semiconductors?”

  Tracie stopped rummaging under the bathroom sink and stared at him. “Did I just hear you say something about getting a job as a train conductor?” she asked him.

  “That is not what I said. Jesus, if you paid half the attention to me that you’re giving to the nerd and that article, you’d know what I’m talking about.” He turned and walked out the door.

  Fine. He could go home. All she wanted was a hot soak in her tub.

  Chapter 27

  Low conversation filled the Malaysian restaurant. Waiters and waitresses glided back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room with huge serving trays. Jon sat at a table in the corner with Samantha. He was in his James Dean/Rebel Without a Cause pose, just ending an intense story.

  “I’ve never told anyone before,” Jon said, then paused. Jon was nervously playing with the Goofy Pez dispenser. The ears were flipping around in circles. What now? he thought. For brevity’s sake, he’d decided to combine two of Tracie’s directives: He’d made up a tragedy and simultaneously told it as a secret imparted only to Samantha.

  Samantha’s sympathy, an altogether appropriate reaction to his story, filled him with contempt. He supposed it was because he’d made a sucker out of her with the lie. But if he told a stranger he was Mormon, or an orphan, or that his birthday was on Independence Day‌—it was actually on December 3‌—there would be no reason for them not to believe him. Lying to Samantha was no big trick. So why did it make him feel superior?

  Something else troubled him: The more he lied, the easier it became. And the more it made him wonder if anything anyone said was the truth. How about his father? Had he also lied to Jon all those years like he lied to his mother? He paused and stared down at the table.

  “I just can’t get over how I misjudged you,” Samantha was saying. “I mean, I’d noticed you, but somehow I thought you were . . .” She paused, and Jon wondered what version of the word nerd she was thinking of using. “Well, I just imagined you as very different,” she said.

  He nodded, then executed a perfect James Dean shrug. “Yeah. A lot of people don’t see the real me.” He sighed and looked down at the Pez dispenser. “My brother really loved Pez.” He’d already figured out it was best if he didn’t talk too much. If he did, he’d only screw things up or have to lie and remember what he’d said. Maybe that was why men like his father moved on: The lies got too complicated and the truth was unacceptable, so you just started over.

  Samantha heard the sigh and reacted with greater attention. “What are you thinking?” she asked. “You can tell me.” Her eyes were pleading. Lie to me, they said. Tell me something dramatic, something that makes me privy to the drama. “What happened then?” Sam asked, leaning toward him.

  “He was on the back of my motorcycle . . . and I wiped out. There wasn’t a scratch on me, but he”‌—Jon paused for effect‌—“he died.” He let silence reign again for a few moments while he looked out toward the kitchen and worked his jaw muscle as visibly as he could. God, I’ll wind up with a jaw like Jay Leno’s by the time I’m done. He figured he’d better finish the story. “I’ve always felt responsible, but since then, I just don’t get frightened.”

  Sam nodded her head. “I think I understand,” she said, which was a good thing, because Jon certainly didn’t. What bullshit! Women actually liked this crap.

  The cute young Asian waitress came over to their table. Jon looked up from Sam and, in apparent surprise, took the waitress’s arm. “Doesn’t she have the most beautiful eyes?” he asked Sam as he smiled up at the girl. When he saw the reaction on Samantha’s face, he knew he was golden.

  The next morning, Jon was walking down the hallway at Micro/Con, feeling pretty cocky. He had his radar on for Samantha, when he spotted a familiar-looking woman in the distance. He’d all but slept over at Sam’s the night before, and although they hadn’t gone the entire distance, Jon felt that an excellent blow job was nothing to sneeze at. And somehow he knew that oral sex was Samantha’s prelude to the real thing. It was her way of showing him she wasn’t the kind of girl who went all the way on the first date.

  Sam had been very sweet and giving‌—surprising in a woman who was so successful and assertive in the office‌—but perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised. He was finding out that a woman’s sexual personality wasn’t necessarily obvious from her public personality. While he pondered this, he kept his eye on the woman he’d clocked in the distance. Until he realized who it was. “Carole!” he yelled. It was The Lovely Girl from the airport! Hadn’t she said something about having Micro/Con as a client?

  She turned around and, once she did, Jon did everything he could to recover his cool. He certainly shouldn’t have yelled her name. Now he wouldn’t run to catch up to her or anything. If she waited for him, maybe he’d just pretend to walk by her. No begging girls to turn around and look at him. It was a bad slip.

  Sometimes he thought he’d never learn. But The Lovely Girl, Carole, once she saw him, approached slowly and, as she did, he watched recognition dawn across her face. He had assumed another one of his James Dean poses; this time it was the defiant one from Rebel Without a Cause. He hated the idea that she would remember him as a geek, that he had called out to her, and that she must realize he worked here, but he wanted to conquer. Maybe he could make his early gaffe of seeming as close to a serial killer as possible without DNA evidence work for him. Being dangerous yet respectable enough to work here actually might make him a more acceptable candidate. Maybe it was all for the best.

  Carole eyed him up and down. “The plane, right?” she asked. He kept his face blank. Could it be that easy? No. Because then, her eyes flickered and she said, “Oh, the luggage.”

  Well, a good offense was the best defense. He managed a laugh. “Yeah. I lost my luggage and you misplaced your sense of humor.” He paused. “Man, you completely missed my madman riff,” he said, making a gesture with his hand over his head to indicate the joke had gone over hers.

  To his surprise, she blushed. “Sorry. I was probably a little tense. I don’t like lying. But . . . you look . . . different.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe it’s the boots,” he said, and she looked down at his feet.

  “You work here?” Carole asked. “I didn’t realize you worked here. Did you tell me that?”

  He could see her relax. She smiled. Clearly,, she was deciding he wasn’t a maniac living in the woods, waiting for his next victim. Or if he was, he was a maniac who at least had excellent health coverage. “Sometimes I’m here,” Jon said truthfully. For once, having been exposed as a guy with a day job would work for him. He smiled. He had to admit he was starting to get it. All you had to do was try to anticipate a woman’s thoughts. “What is it that you do here?” he asked.

  Carole smiled. “I can’t tell you that,” she said.

  He shrugged. By asking, he’d lost a few points, but he didn’t really care. After all, he had a date with Ruth tomorrow, one on the weekend with Samantha, and Beth kept calling. If she didn’t stop soon, he guessed he’d have to sleep with her again just to keep his phone line open. He almost smiled to himself at the thought, but instead he looked at Carole. She wasn’t just pretty; she was smart. And she was working at Micro/Con. They would probably have a lot in common. Jon wonder
ed what it would be like to be with a woman who understood his work and the implications of it. Even Tracie didn’t get it. He smiled more broadly at Carole. “Can you tell me if you eat?” he asked.

  “Eat?” she said. “Of course I eat.”

  “Can you tell me if you’ll eat with me?”

  She smiled back at him. “Of course I’ll eat with you.”

  And afterward, you’ll kiss me and then probably sleep with me, too, he thought hopefully. Jon grinned. This was a lot more interesting than Parsifal.

  “Where?” she asked.

  “I can’t tell you that,” he said, and she laughed. “If I told you that, they’d find me and they’d kill me.”

  “Don’t you hate that when it happens?” she asked, and he realized she was flirting with him. Ah, flirting. He looked Carole over. She was funnier than Sam, and probably funnier than Ruth would be. And she was very, very lovely. But not quite as lovely as he’d remembered.

  Jon was at a corner table at Vito’s on Ninth and Madison with Ruth, the mountain climber. The room was dimly lighted and candles burned in tiny glass lamps at each table. He had just led her up to his obligatory drama/secret/I’ve-told-only-you story. “What happened?” Ruth asked breathlessly.

  “I was a twin,” he said. “But my brother killed himself. I was better at school, better at sports, better with girls. To me, it was never a contest, but I guess he just couldn’t . . . compete. I always felt responsible.” He paused for a moment, surprised to actually feel a bit of the pain of his lost imaginary twin. He shrugged. “Well, since then, I just don’t get frightened.”

  “Really?” Ruth said, and he could see the sympathy blossom across her face.

  When their chubby blond waitress approached the table, Jon stopped her from taking away his plate by putting his hand on her elbow. “Doesn’t she have the most beautiful eyes?” he asked Ruth.

  Jon leaned back against the banquette. He had gotten a corner booth at Java, The Hut, but he wasn’t alone, waiting for Tracie. He was with Doris, the Asian-American waitress he’d met while out with Samantha. “What happened?” the girl asked him, as if her total existence depended on his next words.

  “We were fooling around at target practice,” he told her. “I’m a great shot, and he dared me to shoot a cigarette out of his mouth. You know, even though I was only fourteen and he was my dad, I said no. He got belligerent, but even so, I said no.” He took out a Casper-the-Friendly-Ghost Pez, and offered it to her as if it was the Legion of Honor. Jon continued, “Then he bragged to all the guys, his pals, about my aim and bet them I could do it. It was a big pot. After he shot his mouth off like that . . . well, I had to try . . . and I shot his mouth off. Literally. It was an accident, of course.” He sighed deeply. “But I always felt responsible. Since then, I just don’t get frightened.” He heaved another deep sigh, then turned his head toward the window, as if his dad was out there in the dark parking lot.

  Molly came up to the table to give them their dinners. After she slid the hot plate across the table and handed each of them a plate, Jon grabbed her hand. He looked up into Molly’s face. “Doesn’t she have the most beautiful eyes?” he asked his date.

  Chapter 28

  Tracie sat at her desk, grumpy and resentful. She should be working, but since the morning editorial meeting, she’d lost all motivation. Instead of beginning a new draft, she picked up the phone and dialed Jon. She hadn’t heard from him in days. Not only was she curious as to what was going on with him, but she needed to vent.

  Nobody was as good to complain to as Jon. Laura only made jokes and tried to cheer her up. Phil tried to distract her. But Jon knew how to empathize.

  Even before Tom Brokaw had written The Greatest Generation, Tracie had been deeply fascinated by Pearl Harbor and World War II. Her mother’s father had died in the Pacific, and her paternal grandfather had served there. One of the few things she’d enjoyed in Encino were visits from Papa, and each time she’d ask him for stories from the long-ago war. So it came as a deeply unpleasant shock when, at that morning’s meeting, Marcus had assigned a follow-up piece about local World War II vets to Allison.

  “Marcus, I’m prepared to cover that. I have some material I didn’t use in my Memorial Day story,” Tracie had said.

  “Thank you for that spirit of volunteerism and cooperation,” Marcus had told her, “but I feel certain Allison will be able to meet the challenge.”

  It was so unfair. Tracie had been stuck with a lot of stupid topics for almost a year, and now a story that held real interest had been wrested from her. Her disappointment was so sharp that she couldn’t even look at Allison without imagining what Marcus had made her do to get the assignment. In the meeting, Allison had glanced over at her, shrugged her shoulders, and given her a sorry-what-can-I-do? smile. Tracie would have enjoyed wiping the smile off her face with steel wool and a little muriatic acid. To add insult to injury, Marcus had assigned her a Father’s Day feature. As if she didn’t have a serious father issue, along with most of America. “Can I do deadbeat dads?” she’d asked, but Marcus had merely laughed dismissively.

  She lifted the phone and punched in the Micro/Con number again. Not only was Jon still not available, but his voice mail was full and Tracie couldn’t even leave a message.

  “Have you heard from Jonny?” Beth asked from the doorway.

  Startled, Tracie looked up. “No,” she snapped. “And even if I had, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Oooh,” Beth cooed as she stepped away. “I guess it’s best not to speak to you until the end of the day.”

  Tracie could hardly believe that Beth seemed to shrug off Tracie’s mood as she went back to her cubicle. Usually, she was good for at least half an hour of obsessive pestering. Tracie was getting so tired of Beth’s inquiries about Jon that she wished she’d never set them up together. How was I to know that it would go this far? Tracie asked herself. But with any luck, the whole situation would go away soon.

  At least she’d made progress with the makeover article. It needed a good rewrite and an ending, but she thought it was funny and pithy, and even the photos looked good. She wondered if she had the courage to send the draft to Seattle Magazine. Then she thought big. They had seemed interested. Why not try Esquire? She had never been published in a national magazine. She knew she ought to look at some magazines and see who was on their masthead and what they were publishing.

  Which reminded her: She’d finally gotten another appointment with Stefan, and if she didn’t leave soon, she wouldn’t be there in time for the haircut she so desperately needed.

  Screw Marcus, Allison, and the Times. She’d be taking a long lunch today.

  Music blared in the shop as Laura, with her hair in a hundred strips of aluminum foil, waited for her process to work. Meanwhile, Tracie was finally getting her hair cut by Stefan. “Not too short,” Tracie instructed him. Stefan had granted a special dispensation and was allowing Laura to watch him while her hair was being processed.

  “I know,” Stefan said. “Never too short.” He sighed heavily, as if he was tired of every hair on every head in Seattle. Tracie hoped he wasn’t in a bad mood. Stefan in a bad mood was not a good thing. “How is your little experiment vorking?” Stefan asked, and for a moment, she didn’t have a clue as to what he was talking about. Then Stefan continued: “He’s some cute cookie boy.” Tracie knew he was talking about Jon. “He vas in two days ago. I liked the blue. It vorked on him,” Stefan said.

  “Jon was in?” Tracie asked. “Jon came in here by himself?”

  “Yes, two days ago,” Stefan told her.

  Tracie could hardly believe it. First of all, Jon had gotten a haircut just recently, and second . . . “How did he get an appointment before me?” she asked.

  Stefan smiled, not at her, but to himself. He shrugged. Tracie just managed to catch the movement from the corner of her eye. “He is most persuasive, your cookie boy.”

  Laura giggled. “Cookie Boy?” she asked. “That’s
worse than Kissy Face. Do you really call him that?”

  “No,” Tracie snapped. “The only thing I’ve called him lately is ungrateful.”

  Tracie couldn’t believe he’d made an appointment. Nor could she believe he had time for things like that but had no time to call her. Just then, the door opened and Beth, her hair plastered to her head in some kind of mud pack of color, stuck her head into the all-white sanctum, then walked in.

  “No interruptions,” Stefan said, holding up his scissors hand.

  “Not too short,” Tracie reminded him. “Beth, what are you doing here?” How many people could ditch work without the Times shutting down, and could they all be here? Was Allison getting a facial while Sara had a pedicure and Marcus got a perm?

  Beth ignored Stefan and walked over. “Obviously, I’m not having root canal.” She smiled. It was a big cheery smile. Tracie braced herself for the next question, sure to be about Jon, but Beth merely took a seat on the floor.

  “No spectators, please,” Stefan said, brandishing his scissors and then taking another snip off the top. Tracie looked nervously from Laura to Beth. If he was taking off too much, they would tell her. At least she hoped they would. Calm yourself, she thought. Stefan is the only man in Seattle you can truly trust. That’s why you come here, put up with his idiosyncrasies, and pay his outrageous price. But she wished she had a mirror.

  “Beth, you better go,” she told her friend nervously.

  “That’s okay,” Beth said. “Stefan doesn’t really mind.”

  “So, how is job on Cookie going now?” Stefan asked.

  “Just great. Almost too great,” Tracie told him. “My friend Jon needed a lot of help, but he’s looking good.”

  “Way too good,” Beth agreed.

  “You can be too rich or too thin, but you can’t look too good,” Stefan intoned.

  “He’s right.” Beth groaned.