by Al Riske
Randy feels certain Deirdre would find it all amusing if she cared to notice.
“What is it with these kids?” she says.
“They’re flirting with you.”
She smiles. “Is that so?”
Randy nods. She looks great: short blond hair, dark tan, bright white one-piece, womanly curves. He recognizes Deirdre is older—she knows more and has more than he does—but he doesn’t know how much older, because she won’t tell him.
When Randy finishes his drink and sinks into the water, Deirdre does the same, and … boingk! The beach ball bounces off her head.
“You’re just asking for it now,” she tells the boys. “Behave yourself.”
“Or what?” says the older one.
“Yeah, or what?” says the younger.
“Or I’ll pants you. Both of you.”
The boys look as surprised as Randy is.
They break the silence with a rapid-fire barrage of splashes, and Deirdre lunges toward them. She chases one until he climbs out of the pool, then goes after the other. Pretty soon, though, the first one is back with a cannonball splash that hits her right in the face.
“Help me,” she says.
Randy shrugs and shakes his head. What can he do? He is not about to pull some kid’s trunks down. Of course, neither is Deirdre, but the kids don’t know that.
Finally, a woman’s voice calls, “Lunch!” and the kids scamper away.
“Guess we showed them,” Deirdre says.
She swims toward Randy and he quickly scrambles out of the pool, clutching the waistband of his trunks.
THE CHARTHOUSE, WHERE Randy works nights as a waiter, sells some of the city’s best seafood in one half of a converted cannery right on the waterfront. High ceilings. Exposed beams and heating ducts. Very industrial and very noisy when the place is full of people. Right now it’s quiet, though—the doors just about to open.
Randy can see his brother Jonathan in the kitchen now with the sous-chef, a real goofball named Mike, making last-minute preparations. As Randy walks over to say hello, the back door opens and in walks this tall busty redhead in a thin cotton dress that buttons all the way down the front. She smiles and waves on her way through the kitchen.
“I think she likes me,” Mike says as they watch her push through the swinging door into the dining room.
Later, he comes back from a break with this report: “Her name is Roxanne Thomas, and they’re real.”
Randy snaps a ticket on the order wheel and spins it around.
“And you would know because …?”
“I asked.”
Jonathan shakes his head, takes the ticket.
“Hard to believe,” he says.
“I’ll tell you what’s hard.”
Mike holds a long wooden spoon behind his back and slides it between his legs, making his apron stick out about twelve inches in front.
THE SCREEN DOOR rattles open on its loose hinges as Randy and Roxanne walk out of the Charthouse into the back lot. Randy’s car happens to be parked right next to hers.
“Is that your MG?” she asks. “It must be fun to drive.”
Randy lowers himself into the driver’s seat of the Midget convertible and switches on the ignition, but the engine fails to turn over.
“It is,” he says, “when it will start.”
Until this moment, he has been, for the most part, an observer, amused by the stir Roxanne created among the waiters, the jealousy she aroused in the waitresses. But somehow she chose to walk out with him—not Jim or Bill or Mike.
“What’s wrong?” she says.
“I’m not sure.”
He turns the key again with the same result, though he knows that all he has to do is step on the gas—just a touch would be enough.
“Want me to give you a ride somewhere?”
“Everything’s closed.”
“Well, you can’t sleep here.”
Just as he’s getting into Roxanne’s Jeep, he catches a glimpse of his big brother standing off to the side, smoking one of his expensive Dominican cigars, and shaking his head.
DEIRDRE CALLS FROM work the next morning as Randy is just waking up.
“Are you hard?” she whispers.
AFTER WORK, RANDY joins his brother for an ice-cold Pilsner at the bar, a long rectangle in the center of the cannery-turned-restaurant.
The first thing Jonathan says is, “Deirdre asked me about you and Roxanne.”
Randy feels his stomach twist tight.
“What’d you say?”
“I told her not to worry, but I’m not sure she believed me.”
Randy slides his glass back and forth between his hands.
“Good,” he says, finally. “Be good for her to worry a little.”
“So what are you saying? You want to make her jealous?”
Randy nods silently.
“Then why all the secrecy?”
DEIRDRE THINKS RANDY is joking when he tells her she was his first, and that’s fine with him. He never wanted her to know he was still a virgin at twenty-two—especially not that first night. Remarkably, she never guessed.
She knew exactly what to do and never hesitated—and he certainly never objected—so it all seemed quite natural when she straddled his hips and smoothly guided him home. Of course, he came much too quickly the first time, but she didn’t seem to notice even that. He stayed hard long enough for her to finish.
Over the past year he’s gained a lot more experience, all of it with Deirdre. Until now. Until Roxanne. The truth is he really can’t believe his luck. Roxanne seems completely out of his league. Well, Deirdre, too, but he’s somehow gotten used to her wanting him. It’s still clear to him, though, that they’re not equals. Roxanne sort of evens that out a bit.
TO RANDY, DEIRDRE seems a little stiff—something in her posture and the way she carries herself—and all through dinner she keeps taking deep breaths, as if she’s about to launch into something important, but she says little or nothing. Even the little French film that he hadn’t wanted to see (but secretly found thoroughly charming) hasn’t elevated her mood as much as he hoped. Finally, he takes her home, and he isn’t planning to stay, but she grabs his arm.
In a low voice, stern but not unpleasant, she says, “Hold on, you. We need to talk.”
THE NEXT DAY at work Randy runs into Mike, the sous-chef, who wants to know about Kung Pow! Enter the Fist.
“Don’t know,” Randy says. “Didn’t see it.”
“What happened?”
“We saw Amelie instead.”
“Chick flick!”
“It was good, though.”
“Oh, man, I hope I’m never as pussy-whipped as you are.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Randy says.
He’s still in a Deirdre-induced daze, and all through the night, he keeps messing up orders, which ordinarily drives Jonathan crazy, but this time, for some reason, his brother seems amused.
“You look tired,” he says. “Did you and Deirdre work things out?”
“You could say that.”
Jonathan shakes his head. “How do you do it?”
“I didn’t have to do a thing,” Randy says.
AT THE SOUP station where Randy is dishing up two cups of clam chowder, Roxanne asks him what’s wrong.
“Mmm, I don’t know, I don’t feel too good.” A lie.
“Really? What is it?”
“Probably something I ate,” he says, just loud enough for the cooks to hear but not the patrons.
Roxanne touches his shoulder. “Does my Randy need some TLC?”
Her hand is warm and feels good as she runs it down his back and up again. He shivers slightly and says, no, he’s going to head home as soon as he can.
It’s the first of several awkward encounters.
AFTER A WEEK and a half, Roxanne comes into the restaurant through the back and looks around briefly. In a voice that is both high-pitched and husky, like a young girl whispering—inno
cent and knowing all at once—she says, “Is Randy here?”
Jonathan says, “He’s running an errand for the owner right now. Can I give him a message?”
“Just, well … tell him I was wearing these.”
Roxanne then lifts the hem of her dress enough to reveal lace-topped stockings, garters, and a quick glimpse of her delicate lavender panties.
“They’re his favorites,” she says.
JONATHAN DECIDES NOT to tell Randy, but Randy hears about it from Mike, who saw it all from his station at the grill.
“She didn’t,” Randy says.
“I can’t believe Jonathan didn’t tell you.”
“Maybe because it never happened?”
Mike just smiles.
“Okay, then, what color?”
“Lavender,” Mike says.
“No shit. Those are my favorites alright.”
“I can see why.”
Randy shakes his head. Mike shakes his, too.
“She could have any guy she wants, and she wants you. You going to call her or what?”
Randy is thinking about the first time Roxanne came into the Charthouse and how she left with the one guy who didn’t make a play for her—him.
“I’m starting to think she only wants what she can’t have,” he says.
“Then I hope you’ll tell her for me that I have no interest in sleeping with her,” Mike says. “No interest whatsoever.”
AS IT TURNS out, seeing both women proves irresistible and not really difficult. Deirdre works days, so Randy generally sees her only on his nights off, Sunday and Monday. Roxanne, on the other hand, works nights, so he can see her after work or during the day if they’re in the mood for a picnic or something. Since she has different days off than he does, there’s rarely a conflict. But, being impulsive and somewhat forgetful, he still manages to get himself into a tight spot.
On a date with Deirdre—dinner and a really awful movie of his own choosing—he suddenly remembers he’s supposed to pick Rox-anne up and take her dancing when her shift ends. The only thing he can think to do is play sick, again.
“Stay,” she says. “I’ll brew a pot of herbal tea.”
“Naw, I’ll just go.”
“You sure? The tea will make you feel better.”
“Can’t have you getting sick, too,” he says.
When he pulls up to the Charthouse, just ten minutes late, Rox-anne climbs into the car, letting her dress ride up and her garters show. Randy smiles—she knows what those stockings do to him—and drives them to Club 75 as fast as he can.
The place is dark, crowded, and noisy. They find a table and knock back a couple of drinks. Then it’s time to hit the dance floor. Her hair a wild tangle from the drive, her body a sensual blur, Roxanne has Randy worked up in no time. Sweat pours down his face. His clothes—and hers—grow darker and heavier with each song.
When the set finally ends, they make their way back to their table, where Randy can’t wait to sit down. Roxanne kisses his forehead and pinches his nose.
“Be right back,” she says.
Then, as he’s watching Roxanne’s hips swing through the narrow spaces between people and tables, a strange woman appears.
“I want to talk to you,” she says.
In her shit-kicker boots, she towers over Randy. A little drunk, he looks around.
“Me?”
“Listen,” she says, sitting down in a chair across from him. “You’ve had it pretty good for quite some time now, but don’t think it’s gonna last forever.”
“What are you—”
“Just listen now. I’m telling you this for your own good.”
She leans forward, elbows on her knees, which are spread far apart, though covered by her checkered farm-girl dress. She lets her long-necked beer dangle casually from between two fingers. Randy is mesmerized.
“Who are you?” he says.
The woman shakes back her hair, looks perturbed and amused and flattered somehow.
“Deirdre wanted my advice, so I told her: treat him good and he’ll come to his senses. But maybe I was wrong,” she says. “How long you gonna take advantage like you been doing? ‘Cause I can give different advice, you know.”
Suddenly Roxanne is standing there, arms folded, eyes narrowed.
“Don’t mind me, honey,” the woman says. “I’m the least of your worries.”
THE NEXT DAY, Randy shows up at the Charthouse a couple of hours before his shift is supposed to start and finds his brother alone in the kitchen.
Jonathan says, “What’s this? You break your watch or something?”
“I have a favor to ask.”
“Shoot.”
“Could you show me how to make that salmon dish—the one with the capers?”
“Why? For Deirdre?”
“It’s her favorite.”
“I know, but if you start making it for her, I’ll lose one of my best customers.”
“You can get by with one less,” Randy says.
“Yeah, so could you.”
Randy closes his eyes and rolls his head back in slow motion as if Jonathan has just landed a huge haymaker punch.
“You have a fight?”
“Not yet.”
Jonathan takes down a sauté pan and places it on the burner.
“So don’t,” he says.
“Mmm, that may no longer be an option.”
Jonathan lights the burner, shakes his head.
Randy says, “Look, stop treating me like a boy—that’s just what she does.”
“Well, maybe you need to grow up.”
“I am grown up, dickhead.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious.”
“Okay, relax, would you? What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is I’m twenty-three and she treats me like I’m twelve.”
“You just don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?”
“Never mind. Look, you heat the pan first, then add some olive oil…”
“No, I want to know. Tell me, you’re so goddamn smart.”
“Do you know, do you have any idea, how many guys would kill to be in your place?”
“To be treated like a boy?”
“Ah, but that’s just it. She likes boys.”
“What, like twelve?”
“Don’t be a pervert.”
“What then? I don’t get it.”
“To her we’re all boys.”
“And that’s supposed to be a good thing?”
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You’re too young.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m serious. You don’t see it, but she indulges you, man. She—”
“She what?”
“You’re my kid brother and I love you, man, but you’re going to have to figure this one out for yourself.”
THAT NIGHT DEIRDRE dumps her drink in his lap. As she walks away, Randy watches her hit a wet spot on the parquet floor and nearly fall. He calls her name, but she keeps walking.
“Go after her,” Jonathan says.
He wants to, but doesn’t.
“Don’t be an idiot. Go.”
Randy orders another beer, doing his best to ignore the cold liquid in his lap.
THE NEXT NIGHT, Randy has a fight with Roxanne, too—a yelling match over whether Ben Stiller is funny. It seems important, absolutely critical, in fact, that she agree with him. But, of course, she doesn’t.
Randy goes to bed feeling frustrated, angry, and stupid and wakes up with a ringing in his ears. It turns out to be the phone. At 5 stinking a.m., for God’s sake! And now the ringing is inside his head, banging around even after he picks up the receiver.
There’s a pause. Then, in her husky whisper, Roxanne says, “I just wanted to let you know, Randy, if you hadn’t left last night, you’d be waking up right now to the best blow job you’ve ever had.”
With that, she hangs up.
Part Three: How It Ends
DEIRDRE IS SO groggy she doesn’t know what day it is, but she’s pretty sure it’s a work night and that Randy should not be outside her door at one in the morning.
She lets him in.
“What’s wrong?” she says.
“I don’t think I should be driving.”
“No, you shouldn’t.” That much is immediately obvious.
“Don’t be mad,” he says.
“I’m not mad.” She takes his jacket, which is half off anyway. “Are you okay?”
“Telephone pole tried to hit my car.”
“Where have you been?”
She can see he is thinking hard, knows he has to be careful.
“I was … on my way over here.”
She shakes her head and leads him into the living room, where he lands on the sofa. She knows where he’s been; she can smell it. It smells good to her, even as it makes her stomach hurt.
“How was it?”
“What?”
“You know what.”
He tries his innocent, choirboy face, but Deirdre isn’t falling for it this time.
“No, really, I’m curious.” She sits beside him with her legs curled under, his jacket folded over her arms. “What’s she like?”
He gives up his passing-through pretense—she sees it drain away—and then he seems to decide, almost bravely, to be honest. He can do that when it’s really called for, and that’s when she likes him best.
She almost stops him.
“She’s nice,” he says. “You’d like her.”
Why the hell did he have to say that? It’s probably true. The one time Candace pointed her out downtown, she did seem nice. Deirdre could barely hear Roxanne’s whisper of a voice, but she appeared poised and pleasant and not at all what Deirdre had imagined.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What then?”
“Is she good in bed?”
She watches Randy’s guard come up, like he’s putting on a steel breastplate or something.