Standing a step below, Budge draws her to him in a friendly embrace of enough duration so that he can feel her frail ribcage and drooping breasts, and since their faces are on the same level, he kisses her tenderly on the mouth. Sue does the opposite of recoil, so he kisses her once more.
“Ooh, that’s nice,” she says, “but we better stop.”
“Why?” I ask. “Why can’t we keep on doing this? Heck, Sue, why don’t we just cut through the red tape and become lovers?”
“Oh, you’re a silly man. But I like you.”
“Well, I like you, too. Are we on the same wavelength or what?”
“We certainly appear to be,” she laughs. “But let’s not take things too fast.”
I kiss her two or three more times and walk home, my head confused and reeling. God, what am I doing? What am I getting into?
Again, Budge has to be pardoned for veering into the realm of fiction. No such whys are ever asked, nor do the follow-up kisses take place. When Sue says “stop,” he stops. He sees the impossibility right away.
“Now you walk straight back to your place,” she says. “And be careful.”
“Sure t’ing,” he replies. “Thanksh for the ’lightful evenin’”
Chapter 11
What’s the best way to end this work of fiction? In the past few days, I’ve been looking over what I’ve written thus far, and it’s not bad—if I may say so myself—but I need to deliver a punch line, as it were, wrap up the story with a grand finale. Not an exploding cigar, but something to warm the cockles of the reader’s heart—and make her or him go hog wild with literary satisfaction.
Perhaps my protagonist could get cancer of the prostate, and in the course of his treatment at Rock Hall’s free clinic, meet a nurse who is impressed by the size of his member.
Perhaps he could join a singles’ sailing club and meet a pert sailorette who’s going through similar personal trials—a divorcée with enough independent wealth to float his boat as well as her own.
Perhaps he could just languish at the cottage, becoming one of those colorful local characters (bearded, baseball capped) who ride bicycles with full trash bags on the handlebars. Surely, there’s room for one more such person in Rock Hall.
On the other hand, he could clean up his act, i.e., straighten up & fly right, i.e., forswear his literary ambition entirely, and apply for a managerial position at one of the local marinas.
Or he could just say the hell with it and try living on a boat—a decrepit stinkpot he could pick up for a few hundred dollars, and eke a living as best he could—fishing, crabbing, selling bait—and when he felt there was no point in continuing, he could sail the leaky old tub down the Chesapeake and out to the open sea, and hope that the Coast Guard wouldn’t pick him up until after he was a goner.
Thus Budge considers the options for the final chapter of his work-in-progress. In contrast to these hypothetical solutions, his own life holds no such drama. One day pretty much follows the next; he eats well, sleeps well, and gets plenty of writing done.
To be single and thrifty is the key. I’ve grown to love tunafish, can after can of it, and I love sardines, too. I eat plenty of fruits and veggies, grow sprouts on a plate beneath the kitchen window, make soups from stock, steam lots of brown rice, incubate my own yogurt. I want to learn how to bake bread, and I’m also thinking about keeping bees and making my own cheese and tofu.
Under the circumstances, I maintain as well-balanced a diet as any, considering how little money I spend. Here’s my secret: I limit my grocery shopping to one day a week, and I don’t buy much.
Indeed, he is in the parking lot of Bayside Foods, carrying a meager bag of groceries to his car, when a woman in a champagne-colored Mercedes pulls into the adjacent parking space. Swinging open her door, she views the old Corolla with what appears to be recognition.
“I used to have one just like it,” she addresses him matter-of-factly. “Same color, same vintage.”
She is a well-dressed gray-haired matron with well-delineated breasts and expensive sunglasses that she pushes high on her head to reveal coolly appraising eyes. Budge pegs her as a country club type—a red-meat Republican with whom he has very little in common.
“No kidding,” he says disinterestedly.
Collecting her handbag and sheaf of coupons, the woman locks the Mercedes keylessly. Between the vehicles she pauses, regarding—or pretending to regard—his car with discernment.
“Why, I can’t get over it! It looks exactly like my Corolla. You know, I believe it is the very same one.”
She speaks with a New Jersey accent—flat-voweled, unmusical. Budge doesn’t quite know what to make of her vocalized train of thought, but he figures he may as well play along. Lifting the hatchback to stow his groceries, he says, “Take a look in here. Do you recognize the interior? As you see, it’s kind of stained up.”
“Yes, yes! That big ugly spot in the middle of the carpet—oh, I remember it vividly! That’s where Harold—my husband—put some paint cans to take to the recycling center, and one of them tipped and burst open. Oh, what a mess!”
She sighs at the memory. “It was a great car. Does it still run well?”
“Like a top,” he volunteers. Something emboldens him to take a step farther. “By the way, my name is Budge Moss.”
In the space of a few seconds she looks him up and down before concluding that he is harmless.
“Pleased to meet you, Bud. I’m Matty Klein. You know, I miss that old car. It never gave me a minute of trouble. This one,” she says, indicating the Mercedes, “has had one thing go wrong after another.”
“I’ll sell mine back to you,” he offers with a grin. “How about an even trade?”
Matty Klein’s laughter is loud and prolonged.
“Oh, no thank you!” she finally says. “You better keep yours for yourself.”
More seriously, she adds, “Besides, my husband only got to drive this car for a little while. I’m sure he wouldn’t have wanted me to part with it so soon.”
She gives me an avenue to pursue right there. The convulsive laughter, the appraising eye, the not-so-cryptic message about her husband being dead. Isn’t she indicating that she’s lonely? I must be indicating the same thing (shopping solo, scruffily attired, only one bag of groceries).
We chat for a good five minutes. She tells a Corolla-related anecdote and I chime in with one of my own. The way she interacts with me is unaffected and natural. Outwardly, she personifies an upper socio-economic bracket, but inwardly, something radically plebeian shines through. She’s got a down-to-earth attitude, a zest for life. How I wish I could know for certain that I’m conveying the same impression!
Budge can’t quite muster the forwardness to say he would like to see her again, much less ask for her telephone number. Mainly, he struggles to keep a lid on his mind’s tendency to fast-forward. He is doing his damnedest to act—and think!—as nonchalantly as possible. Can he have learned something from his runaway fantasies and past errors in judgement? It seems unlikely, but it just might be the case.
I decide it’s best to leave it to fate. She’s arriving, I’m leaving—if we’re destined to meet again, we will. I’ll keep an eye out for her; Rock Hall is a small place. At least I know where she shops and the car she drives, so that’s a start.
Back at the cottage, he hastens to commit his latest thought revisions onscreen.
I regard this juncture as a test: if I don’t pass with flying colors, I’ll fall into the same old pattern of hope and disappointment. I’ll reform myself by practicing a little Zen philosophy and switching off my ever-questing brain. I won’t let wishful thinking take the upper hand. I’ll be down to earth with my expectations; if it happens, it happens, and if it doesn’t, well—as they say—shit happens too.
Budge’s newfound objectivity renders him calm, so calm, in fact, that he almost stops thinking about the woman in the champagne Mercedes. He is busy with his writing, particularly the grand de
nouement that will be guaranteed to knock the socks off readers who may be wondering why they haven’t seen a new book from him in years.
I’m gonna make a comeback, goddammit! I’m gonna wrap up my story with a clincher that’ll be the talk of the town. Here’s what I plan to do: my protagonist finds a woman almost exactly his age, possibly a year or two older, and they have such great sex together that he realizes what he’s been missing all along. Because of this, he subjects himself to a massive reality check as he relearns the essential give and take of a healthy consensual relationship.
He realizes that for years he’s been too controlling—this is why his wife left him—and now the tables are turned. He’s the one who’s being controlled! The new woman in his life has a lot to teach him on the subject of respect. Sexually, she maintains the upper hand by only allowing him to do what pleases her. Her pleasure, in fact, is tantamount to anything he may be feeling, or wish to feel. She’s using him—yes, flat out using him—and he enjoys it! Since when has he actually been worn out by lovemaking? Since never! Does he like it? Does the bear defecate in the woods?!
He slips into this role of awkward acolyte with a passion. For once, he’s no longer calling the shots. He gives and gives and gives. It helps him relax, makes him experience every sensation with soul-piercing intensity. She tells him what to do, and he does it. He’s freed of sexual responsibility; he doesn’t have to worry about anything—no mind trips, no comparisons, no romanticizing, no third person point of view. The only thing required of him is to lie down with her (in bed or on the floor, or out in the walled rose garden) and be a man. Moreover, he doesn’t have to do much to stimulate her to orgasm; she comes twice before he’s even on the home stretch.
Yes, I think I can work the sex angle to great advantage. The more she demands of him, the crazier in love he gets. A fine fettle of a finale for such an achingly lonely and lovelorn protagonist (as I’ve delineated him all along). He’s done with the famine, now he’s getting the feast. He’s practically drowning in sexual surfeit. Comeuppance, resolution, validation—these overarching themes will be rolled into one. Maybe one huge fuck scene right at the end to show he’s still got the physical stamina—a subtle reminder for middle-aged male readers to stay fit. Growing soft simply isn’t allowed!
During the weeks Budge is drafting the juicy conclusion of his story, he has the good fortune to meet Matty Klein again. She is at the same Mainstay concert he is attending—a rollicking, foot-stomping Saturday night featuring a boogie-woogie piano player from Detroit. Because the house is packed, he doesn’t spot her until intermission, far across the room. She appears to be in the company of four women, who, by the looks of them, are her age, though not nearly as attractive.
But what constitutes attractiveness? They all have short gray hair (the heavyset lady’s coiffure is bluer than the others’) and they’re all dressed similarly (pressed jeans, turtleneck or sweater, expensive-looking costume jewelry). They all have that time-on-their-hands look: enjoying the fruits of retirement, living on a generous fixed income. (I extrapolate that they can be doting grandmothers when necessary, but most of the time they’re independent self-improvers taking continuing education and exercise classes and zeroing in on cultural events.) I’d hazard a guess, too, that they all play golf.
And yet Matty stands out. She’s no paragon of curvaceousness (like the others, she keeps a stalwart posture signifying that her spine is not succumbing to Time, although Gravity continues to take its toll). Still, there’s a sauciness about her features—the very quality I first observed in the parking lot. I want to believe it’s more than just a facelift. It announces to the world that she’s a woman of passion and a force to be reckoned with. My gut instinct urges me to get to know her better. In a nutshell, she’s sexy.
“Matty! Over here! Remember me?”
She doesn’t hear him, nor does she see him. He has to get closer. Coming up beside her, he touches her shoulder. Within her arc of companions, she rotates to face him with a brittle who-are-you? smile. A whiff of sororal jealousy becomes palpable.
“Matty, it’s me. Budge Moss.”
She looks both pleased and puzzled.
Damn, woman, don’t you remember me? I’m the man who bookmarked you when we met outside Bayside Foods a few weeks ago. I’m a person who could worship you body and soul, who could reciprocate the love only you have to give, who could dedicate his priapic energy to ending your nights of loneliness. Come, let me borrow you from this gaggle of envious companions. We have a good fifteen minutes before the boogie-woogie man cranks up set two. Come away with me to the parking lot where we can talk in private.
“Do I know you?” she asks. “You look vaguely familiar.”
Budge can no longer control his exasperation. “Of course you know me! I’m the guy who drives your old car.”
“Oh, the nice man who bought the Corolla. Why yes, I remember you. It’s good to see you again, Bud!”
“Budge. Rhymes with fudge.”
Astutely, he didn’t say drudge.
“Of course, I’m sorry. Budge.”
“That’s some high-powered piano playing. Is he great or what?”
Budge’s comment and query are directed to everyone. Nodding presbyopicly, the ladies concur. To take up slack, Matty makes pro forma introductions, but a nearby boor’s earsplitting bark of laughter drowns out her words. Budge thinks she says Lena, Loretta, Louisa, and Lorna—all of them falling short of their nominative promise—but he could be mistaken. All are, however, having a wonderful time. The small talk continues for a minute or two, and then suddenly he and Matty are quite alone.
Oh, the wonders of the vibe level! Such a beautifully choreographed scattering—I only wish it could have been captured on video. Thanks to some unspoken feminine rule, Matty has first dibs on me. The others vamoose just long enough for us to turn our casual acquaintance into something more substantial. This is what we do: she helps me memorize her telephone number. By this simple cognitive exercise, we agree to meet again—and this time not by chance.
Three days later, a Wednesday, Budge and Matty are on their first official date. They’ve agreed to meet at The Baywolf, a local eatery featuring an unlimited oyster menu every Wednesday evening during months with the letter R. Throughout the bustling dining room, platefuls of the bivalves (raw, fried, Casino, Rockefeller, and Rock Haller) are being distributed and consumed with dispatch, and pitchers of draft beer, too. Amid the brouhaha, Budge feels calmer and happier than he has felt in months. Across the table, Matty is explaining how she and her late husband came to Maryland’s eastern shore—a generic retirement tinged with melancholy because he got progressively sicker in a relatively short time.
Yes, it’s a sad story, but her telling it makes me inordinately joyful. Something’s definitely happening between us, and we’re not forcing it. She’s as interested in me as I am in her. We seem willing to meet each other halfway.
Budge feels so normal to be sitting with a woman over dinner. Consuming oysters as if he hasn’t eaten in days (“I’ll have one more plate of everything, please.”), he studies her face as she talks. He has concluded that she bears a resemblance to the late Eppie Lederer, a.k.a., Ann Landers. Fluidly, she’ll alternate between solemnity and laughter. In a series of rhetorical questions, her wisdom shines through (“Well, what was I supposed to do?” “What do you think that was all about?”) before she supplies her own answers. Plus, she’s got compassion—a lot more than his wife ever had, by the sound of it—and she’s not afraid to show it.
Knowing her only slightly—and not even that, subjectively speaking—I’m in no position to generalize, but I’ll do so anyway. She’s a rare find. I could do a lot worse. She’s her own creation, fully formed, and she speaks exactly what’s on her mind.
Across the table, I’m thinking how badly I need to update my appreciation of womanhood. Since my youth, the ground rules have been rewritten not once but several times, and I can’t say I’ve always kep
t up with the changes. A man of my years, so inculcated with sexual stereotypes, has to get beyond the supermodel/play-mate/puffed-up-lips-and-tits motif that society has crammed down my gulping male throat. I need to give up false images of advertising molls and Hollywood cutout dolls and indefatigable moms and queens of television shows. I need to stop kowtowing to tight skirts and cleavage and the wet look. I need to curb my fascination with the lesbian lifestyle. Furthermore, I need to stop regarding women, once captured in—or committed to—a long-term relationship (with me), as potentially sniping, nagging, browbeating harridans—the kind “you can’t live with and can’t live without.” In short, I need to grow up.
Strong words, coming from a man who so recently used binoculars to study the fairer sex.
“So, tell me more about yourself,” Matty is urging. “What brought you to Rock Hall?”
How do I answer? Do I go into the whole divorce business and risk sounding like a loser? Do I play it philosophically and say I’m down here taking one day at a time? Better choose my words carefully—tell just enough to flesh out credibility, but retain some manly mystery. No reason to bare my soul at this point.
“My cat and I arrived here by boat. Sold the boat, kept the cat. I came here to figure out what I’ll be doing with the rest of my life. Meanwhile, I’m writing a book. That’s my job. I write.”
Not bad! A little trite with the “rest of my life” bit, but heartfelt. Usually, just mentioning that I’m a writer melts a woman’s initial reserve. Women go deeper into books than men, I’m told, hence they’re always an appreciative constituency.
“That’s wonderful! I’m so impressed.”
“Well, I’m glad that I impress you, because you certainly impress me.”
Washed Up with a Broken Heart in Rock Hall Page 12