Targeted Demographics

by Joseph Sciuto

  I got onto the elevator, trying to process what I had just seen. At the lobby, I saw Maggie flirting with five different guys at the front desk. She was dressed to kill with high platform heels, a short skirt, and a cut-off white T-shirt that left little to the imagination. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought she was the second act after Jack was finished with the three Russians.

  She threw her hands around my neck and kissed me like she was trying to suck the life out of me. The piece of gum she was chewing got attached to my teeth. I detached the gum and put it back in her mouth. We walked to my car and she nearly tripped a half-dozen times. I bent down and took off her high heels. She suddenly was eight inches shorter and I got the pleasure of holding her high heels until we got to the car.

  I drove out of the parking lot and asked, “What, did you smoke a whole field of weed?”

  “Not the whole field, but maybe half.” She laughed and her nose wiggled.

  “You reek of the shit.”

  “Is it really that bad?” She took out a bottle of perfume and was about to spray herself when I stopped her.

  “That won’t do a thing except make it worse. Please, tell me you haven’t been driving in your condition?”

  “No! I took a limo. You’re always telling me I have to watch out for myself. I took your advice. The bill will show up on your next credit card statement, and yes, I left a really good tip like you always do.”

  “Did you actually go shopping?”

  “Of course I did. I bought a bunch of wonderful things.”

  “Wonderful in that they cost a lot?”

  “Wonderful does come at a price, Joe. Surely, if anyone knows that it’s you.”

  “Let me guess … $5,000?” She tried to calculate using her fingers.

  “A little bit more, but that includes the limo.” She handed my credit card back to me.

  I stopped at a red light and looked at her. She was stoned, relaxed, smiling, and adorable. Maggie didn’t have a mean-spirited bone in her body. She was familiar and comfortable. I reached over and kissed her affectionately on top of her head. “I love you, Maggie.”

  “I love you too, Joe.”

  I parked the car in the lot behind the Monte Carlo Restaurant and Deli. I grabbed a pair of sneakers out of the trunk of the car and Maggie put them on. She objected at first but I told her the only one she had to impress was me and she had already done that. The sneakers were way too big on her, but it was better that customers thought of her as a homeless beauty than a high-class hooker. Monte Carlo was famous for its Italian food and pastries. The deli section was as big, if not bigger, than the famous Carnegie Deli in New York.

  We sat at a small table by the window, and before the waiter could say hello or take our drink order, Maggie ordered three cannoli and then another. Our drinks arrived and Maggie scrutinized the menu like an actor trying to remember her lines. She drank her glass of red wine in a matter of seconds. I ordered a bottle and as the waiter was uncorking it, Maggie was ordering lasagna, ravioli, and a meatball hero. She didn’t wait for him to finish pouring the wine before she grabbed her glass. Wine went all over the place but not before Maggie downed what the waiter had managed to pour. It was like watching a Marx Brothers’ movie.

  I finally got her to settle down. In all the years I’d known her, I’d never seen Maggie like this, not that I could recall. She was drawing attention from other diners and the staff for all the wrong reasons.

  At Maggie’s insistence, the waiter brought the food quickly. Her three entrees very likely weighed more than she did. I had a meatball hero, which I ate quickly because I expected at any moment that she might snatch it out of my hand and scarf it down. She slowed down over time and actually waited for the waiter to finish filling her next glass before sipping.

  She suddenly stopped everything — eating, drinking, talking — and looked at me as though for the first time. It was like she had awakened from a trance and found herself in an unfamiliar place. “I have an important question to ask you. Will you please answer it honestly?”

  “Okay.”

  “If I didn’t run off and marry my loser first husband, would you have eventually asked me to marry you? Be honest, Joe.”

  The answer to her question was yes, but I wasn’t sure that was what she wanted to hear. From the moment I saw Maggie I was attracted to her, and after several wild nights together I had fallen for her deeply. She was not only very attractive but had an infectious and carefree personality that made me feel an ease I rarely found with anyone else. Of course it was risky because we worked together, so I told myself it was casual fun and neither of us was taking it too seriously. We didn’t have much in common. I loved classic literature while Maggie enjoyed fashion and entertainment magazines. Her extensive knowledge on both subjects made my job a lot easier. She was often the key advisor I confided in before making a presentation, and her insights and perceptions were always right on the mark. She had wonderful taste and a natural understanding of what women wanted and desired, making her a tremendous asset to the work. She could decipher a bullshit and condescending ad and fix it easily, like a great film editor.

  Well, she did say honestly, so I replied, “Yes, Maggie. I would have married you.”

  Sadly, that was the wrong answer. After a moment’s reflection, she threw her hands straight up in the air and brought them crashing down on the table as she buried her head into the plate of lasagna and started to cry. Her sobbing was uncontrollable, and very loud. The meltdown progressed with plates and glasses flying everywhere. Thankfully, I was able to grab my glass of wine and the bottle before they hit the floor.

  For the longest moment, it was like the place had gone silent except for Maggie’s wailing, and it wasn’t like they were looking exclusively at her but at me, as if I was surely the cause of her tantrum. I calmly sipped the wine or pretended to. Waiters and other employees ran over to the table, asking if she was all right as they hastily tried to clean up the mess.

  I tried to put a reassuring hand on her, and she picked up a knife, screaming, “Don’t you dare!”

  I handed out about $1000 to the staff in appreciation for their help and concern and ordered another bottle of wine. I reassured them that Maggie was fine. She was a little depressed about failing her driver’s test for the fourth time. I stared at her as the sobbing went on nonstop and the one thought I could not shake from my mind was, I truly hope that dish of lasagna didn’t do any damage to that wonderful little nose.

  She finally did lift her head, and her face and hair and clothes were covered with tomato sauce. There was a time not too long ago when the thought of licking all that sauce off her would have been a real turn-on, but it wasn’t now. I quickly checked the table for any sharp objects; there weren’t any. Then I grabbed the bottle of wine. I had already spent a small fortune on Maggie that day and I wasn’t in the mood to have to order another bottle. Thankfully, her nose looked intact as she said to me, “I have to go to the bathroom and pee.” She walked away holding her crotch like a toddler.

  She was gone for a long time. I was reluctant to ask a waitress or the hostess to go check on her. After all, why cut their lives short because the lunatic in the bathroom got a bad bag of weed? I didn’t care how stoned she was — something was definitely not right. Whatever she smoked was laced with something or tainted somehow. This behavior was outrageous.

  I seriously dreaded going down to check on her, but that evening Maggie was my responsibility. She was my one true friend, she had two kids at home, and if past circumstances had been just a little different, she might very well have become my wife. Thankfully, she came back all cleaned up and under control. She sat down and, leaning toward me, informed me that she hadn’t been able get her panties down quick enough and peed all over them, so she deposited them in the trash. She asked the waiter for a clean glass because she wanted to have more wine. I would have objected, but she was calm for the moment and I didn’t want to set her off again.
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  It was as though nothing had happened. We went on with our meal, and she kept alluding to a certain something she had in store for me at the end of the night. “A little thank you.”

  I held on to her as we finally left the restaurant and she stumbled to my car. I buckled her in and she whispered something truly disgusting about the “something special” she had planned. She passed out about fifteen seconds later.

  I pulled into her driveway in the beautiful Brentwood section of Los Angeles. She had no doubt done very well for herself in the two divorce settlements. I carried the sleeping beauty into the house and was greeted by the nanny and Maggie’s two obnoxious children, who were playing Cowboys and Indians. They sprayed their mommy with water from their toy guns but it didn’t wake her up. I tucked her into bed as the children screamed. The nanny looked at me as though I was a criminal. She asked in Spanish about the sauce all over Maggie’s blouse, thinking it was blood and ready to call the police. It took me a whole half hour to explain the sauce. She nodded unconvincingly and then took out a clean blanket and an extra pillow, assuming I was staying the night. I slowly backed out of the room, saying, “No. No. No!”

  Once I made it back to my car, I drove down Sunset Boulevard, passing Bel-Air, Westwood Village, and Beverly Hills, then onto Coldwater Canyon. I had a lot to digest. The same questions I’d been asking myself for the last seven years kept badgering me: What was I doing here in a place so different from the Bronx where I grew up? Was I simply killing time, or would I let myself settle down? Was it finally time to call Los Angeles home?

  My parents died just a few weeks apart, shortly after I graduated college. Since then, I carried around a certain amount of guilt that I was responsible for their deaths. My parents would say it was nonsense, but the guilt has persisted.

  My parents were Italian and Catholic — more Catholic than Italian. God bless their souls, I don’t think either of them spoke a word of Italian. They both worked at a factory called American Banknote, which was located in the crime-ridden neighborhood of Hunts Point in the Bronx. My father was a paper handler while my mom worked on the clerical side. They made a decent living, never missed an opportunity to work overtime, and made sure I attended Catholic schools right through high school. I got into John Jay College of Criminal Justice, which must have been a mistake because my grades were in no way good enough to get accepted.

  I made the most of the opportunity, took a full schedule of classes my first semester, and while lingering in the library between classes I accidently picked up a copy of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. I started reading it and was hooked, finishing the book in no time. It was probably the first book I ever truly read. Even through twelve years of Catholic school I am fairly confident I never read an entire book. Over the next few months I read the collective works of this master, many of which were over 800 pages. The amazing thing was that none of those titles were assigned to me; I read them on my own while taking a full load of other courses, which I aced. It was as though a totally unused part of my brain had suddenly been awakened. Knowledge had become a new and fascinating high.

  After completing my first year at John Jay I transferred to Stony Brook University, which had a highly distinguished English department. It was the first time I lived away from home and my parents weren’t thrilled. Italians find it very difficult to understand why any of their children would ever want to leave home unless they’re getting married. I was an only child and this made it equally difficult for them. The more I think about it, the more I believe I was the reason for their early demise. I left them and broke their hearts. Nancy is the penance I am paying for my disloyalty.

  Chapter Six

  I pulled into my driveway and parked. A comfortable bed was waiting for me and maybe a couple more glasses of wine. That would be a wonderful close to the day.

  Boy, was I wrong once again! I opened the door and found what just a few days ago would have been the most amazing hallucination, but tonight was another bizarre event. Nancy, wearing panties, a bra, and an Armani sport coat, lay across my couch reading a book that she was — naturally — marking up. I walked slowly toward her as she looked up. “Did you break into my house?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it a break-in. I used the spare key that you keep under the third flower pot to the right of the door.”

  “And how would you know that I keep a key under that flower pot?”

  “Because you think in threes. All of your books are arranged in stacks of three, as are all of your jackets.”

  “Is that another one of my jackets that you’re wearing?”

  “Yes, the one you gave me is in the wardrobe department at work. Remember, I’m having them fix the sleeves?”

  “What are you doing here, Nancy?”

  “Well, when you didn’t show up for our dinner date I got worried.”

  “We didn’t have a dinner date.”

  “I’m sorry, I simply assumed we were having dinner like we did the last two nights. My mistake! But it appears you got a better offer.”

  I reached down and grabbed her glass of wine. I took a long sip as I looked down at Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment.

  “What did I tell you about marking up my books?”

  She lifted the book and replied, “This is my book. I bought it with the money I borrowed from you this morning. I guess that promise to buy me all the Russian novels I asked for is no longer on the table.”

  “You guessed right.”

  “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for calling your assistant a dimwit and assuming that you were fucking her. I didn’t realize how much Maggie means to you. It’s kind of sweet.”

  “You’re treading on very thin ice, Nancy. You might want to drop it before I kick your sorry little ass out into the street.”

  “Is that so?” She smiled wickedly, looking at me as though she were ready to dissect and discard me, one body part at a time.

  She left me speechless, challenging me with her gaze, taking the wine glass back from my hand. “I think maybe you’ve already had a little too much wine tonight, hmm?” She picked up the book and started to read and jot notes again.

  “Seriously, Nancy, you insult my friend, break into my house, and now you’re trying to judge how much I’ve had to drink?”

  “You invited me into your house and into your bed. Surely your memory isn’t that bad?”

  “What type of lunatic are you?”

  She put down the book. “I’m going to let that one slide. The ill-advised words of a guy who’s had too much to drink.”

  “Maybe I should call the cops to have you removed from my property.”

  “Why don’t you do that, Joe? I’ll be interested to see how it all ends.”

  This was getting totally out of control. I took a deep breath, walked into the kitchen, and took out a bottle of chardonnay. I opened the bottle and grabbed two glasses. I poured a glass and put it in front of Nancy, then sat down on the couch, poured myself some, and said, “How about we call a truce? I’ve had a tough day.”

  “Of course you have, Joe. It’s not easy for a man who has a conscience like yours to do the work you do.”

  I didn’t even bother to reply because that would only open another vein and I had already bled enough for one day. “A truce!”

  We tapped glasses; she took a sip and gave me that look again, as though she were about to carve me up. “Thank you, Joe.”

  She went back to reading her book and I stared up at the ceiling. I just wanted this day to be done. First, Nancy the psycho had ignited the whole thing with the Russian novelists; she was still sitting right beside me. Jack had thrown gasoline on the flame and etched images into my mind that no one should ever have to see. Maggie, usually my safeguard against insanity, had become completely unhinged, threatened me with a knife, cost me thousands, and put me through fifteen minutes of torture as she slept with her adorable nose buried in a dish of lasagna. And now, for the finale, the psychotic bitch who sta
rted the whole nightmare was finishing it off in grand fashion.

  Nancy put her book down, reached into her sport coat, and took out my spare house key. She placed it in my hand. I asked, “You don’t want to hold onto it?”

  “No, I can pick any lock in this house in less than thirty seconds. Oh, for the record, your alarm system is childish. A novice criminal could get past it with no problem.”

  “That’s reassuring. Any suggestions?”

  “Yeah, two German shepherds.”

  “Why two?”

  “So they can keep each other company. On nights when you and your precious Maggie are out gallivanting around town, and I can’t make it over, the dogs will at least have each other. I recommend getting two puppies from the same litter.”

  She sipped her wine and stared out into nothingness. I didn’t even want to imagine what was going on in her mind.

  “I need to pee.” She put her glass down and walked off to the bathroom. I felt like a prisoner in my own home, held captive by a beautiful sadist whose unpredictability made her all the more frightening and, dare I say, terribly interesting and desirable.

  She returned and sat down next to me. “Please don’t be mad at me, Joe.” At first I thought I heard the wrong words come out of her mouth. Her passions and emotions seemed to be all over the place. She threw her hands tightly around my waist and buried her head in my chest. “Please,” she repeated as I stroked her hair.

  We fell asleep like that, and when I woke up at five in the morning she was — naturally — gone. My wallet was on the table next to the couch. I picked it up and found a note inside. I had to borrow a hundred dollars. I now owe you two hundred dollars. Will see you soon. Love, Nancy

  I picked up the dirty glasses and empty wine bottle and walked into the kitchen. I washed the glasses and then took out the garbage. I desperately needed a shower and shave. I let the water run down my body for a long time. I shampooed my hair three times and scrubbed my body with soap but still felt the dirt of yesterday lingering on me.