“Dan.” She pointed. “Look, buffalo.”
Danny turned and saw there were indeed about a dozen large, dark-brown bison grazing in the distance.
Harley said, “Buffalo are said to be very delicious. Good for hamburgers. But I don’t think I could ever eat one.”
“Are you vegetarian?”
“Me a vegetarian? Hell, no. I love a good steak. Or a good burger. But buffalo have always seemed too . . . special. I think it’s the whole Native American connection. Plus they’re so cute.”
“Cows are pretty cute. But you eat them.”
“That’s true. I try not to think about it when I’m eating a steak or a burger. Grandpa always says, ‘There’s plenty of room for all of God’s creatures. Right on my plate, next to my mashed potatoes!’ If there is a God.”
“You don’t think so?”
Harley sighed. “I’m not sure. I’m a scientist by nature. So I tend to look for proof, for evidence, something I can quantify or measure. How do you measure God? ‘For he whom God has sent utters the words of God, for he gives the Spirit without measure.’”
“Is that from the Bible?”
“From one of the Gospels. John, I think. One of the few things I remember from Sunday school when I was a little girl. Every Sunday my mom made us all go to Sunday school, then to church, then to grandpa’s. Every Sunday I would sit and listen to the choir and listen to Pastor Wayne give his sermon. But I never saw or heard God. I figured if I couldn’t see God or hear God, how could I be certain God is real.
“But . . . sitting here, in this airplane, atop this island surrounded by the ocean, watching the sun go down, watching buffalo having dinner, feeling the breeze on my face . . . it’s easy to see why people believe in God. Who else could’ve created all this?” She swept a hand around to the the Viper Jet, the airport, the notion of flight, the island, the Pacific ocean, the earth itself. She shifted her gaze and locked eyes with Danny. “Do you believe in fate?”
Danny thought immediately of Candy and their blind date, when they’d shown up dressed in virtually identical clothing, the odds of which were so astronomical that poor Roberto had nearly malfunctioned after trying to calculate the odds. Nevertheless, it was a coincidence, random happenstance borne of fashion and geography and socioeconomics. “Fate? No. I believe in choice.”
“Exactly!” said Harley. “I believe in choice, too. Which is one of the biggest problems I have with robots. Robots have no choice. They’re bound by their three laws. They still make choices within those parameters, but it’s not the same. There’s a million things a person could choose to do that a robot could never do.”
“I dunno. Howard, for example, is pretty smart. Today he used sarcasm. And profanity.”
“It did?”
Danny nodded. “Said he heard it on television. Then he chose to repeat what he’d heard. That sounds like choice to me.”
Harley’s eyebrows narrowed while she considered it. “That’s a good point.”
Finally, Harley shook herself and said, “Let’s not talk about robotics. We’re here on this beautiful island, so let’s enjoy it. How do we get to the Blue Bar?”
~
Once they’d visited the terminal (true to his word, Danny paid the modest landing fee) and rented a small two-seat electric-powered cabriolet known as an “autoette”, they made their way toward Avalon City.
The road from the airport wound its way down the side of the island, bordered by fields of grass gone brown in the summer sun, and countless giant oak trees. Danny and Harley took turns pointing out the local wildlife, including fox, horses, many types of birds including bald eagles, and more bison.
They entered the town of Avalon and drove among the narrow streets lined with quaint shops and eateries, and populated with visitors and myriad autoettes.
Harley directed them toward the waterfront, where they turned north and drove along the picturesque beachfront road. All the buildings were lit up, as the sun had descended behind the island.
The massive cupola of the historic ballroom marked their destination. Adjacent to the cupola was the Blue Bar. The building was awash in brilliant blue light, and Danny saw quite literally how it derived its name.
Danny and Harley entered the restaurant. Harley recommended a seat at the bar, where they could look out at the boats moored in the harbor.
Harley ordered the first round of Blue Curacao Margaritas, both being of the virgin variety. Danny could scarcely imagine how a drink without alcohol could be so delicious.
Once darkness fell, Harley led Danny downstairs to a table situated against the transparent wall of the restaurant. The entire lower level of The Blue Bar was underwater, illuminated by blue light more subtle and easier on the eye than those they’d seen shining on the building’s exterior.
Halfway through their Caesar salads, the underwater illuminators kicked on, lighting up the sea on all sides of the restaurant.
The spotlights illuminated kelp forests which grew all the way to the ocean surface, as well as colorful orange and pink and white coral covering most the sea floor.
Fish glowing with uncountable colors swam around the walls of the restaurant.
Dolphins and sea lions frequently swam by, often at alarming speeds. When a large dolphin circled the restaurant slowly, peering into the restaurant, Danny placed one hand against the glass. The dolphin stopped at their table, and Danny leaned close to the glass, looking into the animal’s eye. The dolphin looked back at him.
Harley smiled. “He likes you.”
The dolphin opened its mouth, revealing its rows of white teeth and pink tongue. It flicked its tail and performed a perfect backwards somersault, bobbed its head several times, and then swam away in a flash, leaving behind only trails of small bubbles.
Harley smiled once more. Blue light filled her eyes, lovely on her face.
Danny smiled back.
Chapter 14
The Relationship Oil Change
Twenty-two miles away, while Danny and Harley were landing on runway 22, Maggie sat in Conference Room One of the Encino Royale Community Center, upright on her chair, yellow legal pad on her lap, pen in hand, brow furrowed. She listened intently to the man at the podium.
She did her best to stop looking at the empty chair beside her, the chair designated for her so-called husband.
Tim.
She’d brought an extra legal pad and two extra pens for Tim. The pad and pens sat unused upon the chair, whereas her legal pad already had numerous pages folded over. Both of her pens had been brand new, but she had the second pen clutched in the fist of her left hand, ready for the moment the pen in her right hand faltered or ran out of ink entirely.
Maggie wrote as fast as she could while still keeping her words legible. It wouldn’t serve to attend the Relationship Oil Change class, put forth the effort of taking detailed notes, only to find said notes too difficult to decipher and therefore of little use the first time she or Tim argued or mouthed off or called the other ‘Cocksucker’, ‘Pussy’, or ‘Asshole’.
Granted those were the words which seemed to leap of their own accord from her mouth each time he paid more attention to a football game than he did to her questions about the kids’ academic report cards; or each time he promised to block a Wednesday night for their date night, but then succumbed to Rory’s temptation to go out for a beer which inevitably became five or six, devolving finally into a trip to one of the local strip clubs (Rory called them ‘gentlemen’s clubs’; Maggie called them ‘whorehouses’) and resulted in her changing out of her garter belt and stockings and high heels, blowing out the two-dozen candles, and going to bed alone wearing one of Tim’s old t-shirts.
And those were the words going through her mind as she glanced once again at the empty chair where Tim had promised to be at six o’clock sharp.
Last night’s relationship intensive had been a disaster: Tim spent more time in the men’s room than in the workshop. He said he had a stomach ache
, which was crap, because Maggie could set her watch to the regular timing of her husband’s bowel movements; she knew he was in the men’s room watching Positronic’s replay of the Niner game on his phone; she knew Rory was at the pub watching the game with the millionaire roboticist with the great big boobs and long legs. After breast feeding five children, Maggie’s own breasts were of healthy proportions; not as big as Harley’s, but certainly adequate. Though it had been some time since Tim had spent any quality time with them.
She refocused her attention on Dr. Fox; he’d said something about masturbation, but in her disconsolate reverie involving Tim, she’d missed it; were couples experiencing marital woes supposed to masturbate? Was masturbation healthy? Was it supposed to be done alone? Together? Not at all?
Dr. Simile Fox gripped the sides of the podium, the sleeves of his white, starched shirt rolled up to the elbows of his sun-tanned arms.
From her seat in the front row, Maggie noticed the distinct absence of a wedding band on the ring finger of Dr. Fox’s left hand.
Maggie uncrossed and then, slowly, re-crossed her skirted legs. Her black skirt may have ridden up a few inches.
Dr. Fox glanced down. His eyes lingered on Maggie’s legs, sliding up her body to her nametag. He stared for a moment longer than was required to read the tag conforming to the breast beneath the low-cut pink silk blouse. Dr. Fox’s eyes then shifted up to Maggie’s.
She smiled up at him with her ruby lips and long, perfectly-mascara’d lashes.
Dr. Fox went on: “You don’t ditch your car and get a new one each time it needs an oil change. So neither should you ditch your spouse and get a new one each time the relationship begins to sag.
“What happens when you get an oil change? The car seems to run better, right? You feel good. So you wash it, wax it, clean the brake dust off the wheels, dress the tires, vacuum the interior, get all the crumbs out of the seats, and clean the floor mats.
“Similarly, you need to get the crumbs out of the relationship. Put some effort into it, the way you put effort into your vehicle. Put some effort into yourself, too, to recapture the mojo. We must rediscover the sex appeal we knew we possessed in our youth. For some of us,” he glanced down at Maggie, “this will require little effort. But for others, it will require a newfound dedication. For it is that sex appeal which attracted our mate in the first place.”
Dr. Fox paused and glanced down at his notes, turning the electronic page of his tablet with the smooth, delicate swipe of one finger.
Maggie used the pause to unbutton the top button her blouse.
She thought she saw Dr. Fox repress a smile.
Dr. Fox continued, “If someone falls in love with us because of how we look and dress and speak and act, and some years later, we no longer look or dress or act or speak in that manner, is it not at least somewhat understandable that that person’s level of attraction to us would diminish?
“I’m not saying Love ought not take care of some of that stuff, because it does and it should. That’s part of what makes it special. That’s part of what makes marriage sacred. For better or worse, right? For richer or poorer, right? For fatter or thinner, right?
“But part of being in Love is maintaining our end of the bargain. And that means keeping the car clean. Keeping ourselves in some kind of shape. Keeping our breath fresh, our fingernails clean, our clothes presentable, our hair presentable. Keeping ourselves sexy!” Dr. Fox’s stress on the word, using pronounced sibilants, made him sound like a snake.
He smiled at his audience, which was predominantly women dressed in tight slacks, short skirts, and low-cut blouses.
Many of them, he knew by their class registration forms, weren’t even married.
Many of them, he knew, wanted a private consultation. His eyes shifted to the sandy blond in the front row; Margaret something-or-other according to the nametag hugging her left tit. She’d undone her topmost button. He was willing to bet actual money that she’d let him nail her in the men’s room after class; he suppressed a grin.
The sound of an engine filled the heated silence of the conference room. It sounded like a lawnmower moving through the lobby, mowing the carpet perhaps. A big lawn mower.
The swinging double doors of the conference room burst open.
It was not a lawnmower in the lobby.
It was a motorcycle.
Tim feathered the silver clutch lever and drove the bike into the conference room and down the aisle toward the podium, twisting the throttle and revving the engine. The black motorcycle roared between his legs. The exhaust growled, gurgled, and popped. The bike was sleek with a matte black finish. It shone with chrome in all the right places. It looked like a black panther in motion.
A lot of people stood. Maggie did.
Tim reached the front row of chairs and gently squeezed the brake. He looked toward his empty seat; Maggie liked to sit in the front row; classic overachiever. Even in their marriage. She always did everything one hundred and ten percent. Planning their wedding. Making love. Raising their children, of which there were five. No over-achieving as a mother, no.
To say nothing of marital classes taught by a philandering ex-model who not only was not married but was rumored to never have been married.
Maggie came forward now, into the aisle. She stood in front of the podium, mouth open, as the motorcycle approached.
Tim stopped in front of Maggie. He gave her a few seconds to take it all in: the bike, the black leather boots, the faded blue jeans, the black leather vest over the white t-shirt, the black helmet with the spike on top. The cool sunglasses.
When she opened her mouth to speak, he cut her off. “How ’bout a ride, gorgeous?”
And she really was gorgeous. He’d always thought so. Tonight was no exception. Black skirt and heels, pink silk blouse snug against her amazing breasts. Although she seemed to have missed the top button.
Before she could ask the obvious question (“What the hell are you doing?” or perhaps “Whose motorcycle is this?”), he spoke again, trying to sound nonchalant, like he didn’t give a shit what her answer was going to be. “I’m headed up PCH to the ’Bu. Grab some fish tacos and a cold beer. Watch the sun set. You in?”
When she opened her mouth, he tossed the extra helmet at her. Maggie ran track and played softball in high school. Paid her way through four years of university on a softball scholarship. Tim had no doubt she could catch the helmet.
Maggie caught it.
“Hop on.”
This was the make-or-break moment.
The moment he’d been anticipating in his mind while he sat on the bike in the dealer showroom.
The moment he’d been pondering while the salesman helped him pick out the appropriate safe but very studly riding gear.
The moment Maggie would swing her leg over the back of the bike, wrap her arms around him, and never let go.
Tim waited. He tried to effect an aura of calm indifference, like cool guys in the movies, cooler than he’d ever considered himself to be.
The moment stretched on. And on.
She was having doubts.
He had to sweeten the offer. Or threaten to withdraw it.
“Some other time.” Tim released the clutch and the bike rolled forward.
“Wait!”
Tim stopped.
Maggie took one last look at the bike, a final look at him, and smiled. Tim hadn’t seen that smile in a long time.
Maggie hiked up her skirt, swung one leg over the bike, and planted the spikes of her high heels over the footpegs. She tossed the yellow legal pad in the air and it went flapping to the floor, along with the pens. She thrust the helmet onto her head.
Tim looked back at her over his shoulder. He revved the throttle and the bike growled. Vibrations shook the bike, rumbling between Maggie’s legs. She smiled at Tim. “Hit it!”
Tim released the clutch and drove around the front row of chairs and gawking Relationship Oil Change attendees. Tim saw Maggie’s yell
ow legal pad on the carpet and drove over it, leaving black tire marks on the yellow paper and the poorly photocopied Relationship Oil Change Class Syllabus. He nudged open the swinging doors, retraced his path through the lobby to the entrance, and drove out into the street.
~
By the time the sun was setting, they were in Malibu.
Chapter 15
Too Powerful to Resist
About the time Tim and Maggie were preparing to leave Malibu, Danny and Harley had the Viper Jet chalked in Danny’s hangar at SMO and were ripping through the dark and winding canyons of Mulholland Drive in Harley’s expensive red convertible.
And boy did Harley like to drive fast. She may have been a novice in the air, but she was a natural when it came to driving. The twists and curves of Mulholland were favorites of thousands of weekend warriors intent on testing the capabilities of both themselves and their expensive sports cars and motorcycles. The California Highway Patrol routinely scooped up bodies from the shoulders of the historic highway, bodies of those who’d tested themselves only to discover they weren’t up to the challenge.
Danny resisted the urge to grab the door handle as Harley downshifted into a descending hard left turn and then powered hard and fast out of the turn and up onto the straightaway which followed.
Harley upshifted and her hand came to rest on Danny’s left thigh.
“You sure you don’t want to come back to my place?”
“Sorry, no sex until the second date.”
“This is our second date.” Harley shot him a sly grin and steered into a banked curve to the right, with tires screeching in protest. “Our first date was at the pub last night. Remember?”
“Was that a date?”
“I’m calling it a date.”
“Oh. Well, no sex til the third date. That’s the rule.”
“You just said no sex til the second date. You can’t just change the rules all of a sudden.”
“Sure I can. They’re my rules.”
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