Searching for Steely Dan

by Rick Goeld

  Finally, she put down her pen. “Eddie, I’ve been thinking about our marriage, too. I think I still love you, but …”

  But what?

  She looked around the restaurant before finally locking her eyes onto his. “But, we’ve just grown apart.”

  That sounds rehearsed. The waitress arrived with coffee, and Eddie watched as she filled two cups and moved to the next table.

  Alison continued, “I think we’re going in different directions.”

  He felt a twinge of fear. “What do you mean?”

  “Can’t you see it? Haven’t you felt us growing apart, these last few months?”

  Since that night at their apartment, he’d done a lot of thinking. He believed that he was still in love with her. She was the only girl—the only woman—he had ever loved. Sure, he’d gone out with lots of girls in high school and college, but Alison was the only one he’d ever fallen for. And he’d fallen hard. But he had to be honest with himself, as much as it hurt: they didn’t seem to be on the same page anymore.

  “I guess I agree with you, to some extent.”

  “To some extent? Eddie, I’m trying to build a career. I work all the time trying to get ahead. I was trying to get us to the point where we might have been able to move to a nicer place. And what are you doing to help? You can’t hold a job, and you don’t even try to write anymore.”

  “Alison—”

  “And need I mention your fixation on Steely Dan? Parading up and down the sidewalk carrying a sign?”

  “I just do it in my spare time. It doesn’t interfere with my job or anything.”

  “Eddie, listen. You’re twenty-nine years old and you still act like a teenager.” He could see her anger building. “I’m not sure I want to be married to a person like that. I don’t understand you anymore.”

  Don’t bother to understand … “Alison, it’s just a hobby. I don’t see why you object to me having a hobby.”

  “A hobby? That’s no hobby, Eddie, that’s an obsession.”

  He felt a narrow blade slide slowly and painfully into his belly. He took a deep breath. “Alison. I know I still love you. And you said you think you still love me. Doesn’t that count for something?”

  “Yes, Eddie, it counts for something, but it’s not enough anymore. Not for me, anyway.” She drained her coffee. “And I’m not really sure I’m still in love with you.”

  Eddie felt the blade twist. “Alison, is there someone else?”

  His wife looked uncomfortable. Maybe she blushed a little; it was hard for him to tell with all the make-up she wore. “No, Eddie.” She tapped her fingers on the empty cup.

  There wasn’t much to say after that, and it quickly became uncomfortable to sit across from one another. Alison glanced at her watch and stood up. She had to get to her next meeting, she said. Eddie watched as she picked up her handbag, scarf and overcoat and headed for the door.

  The rest of the day was a blur. Having lost his appetite, Eddie decided to skip lunch and go directly to work. Arriving just before noon, he worked straight through to six—no breaks, no nothing—and then hit the wall. Starving and exhausted, he told his boss he had to leave, and was surprised to find out that he’d been scheduled to work from one-to-five, not one-to-nine. Not a problem, his boss said; he appreciated the initiative.

  Eddie walked west toward his brother’s apartment. Stopping at a hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant, he gorged on half a dozen egg rolls dipped in sweet and sour sauce laced with hot mustard. He washed the egg rolls down with a Coke, and belched the rest of the way home. Mark was out—another dinner date, he had said—so he could suffer alone. He decided to put on some Santana. By seven, he was stretched out on the sofa, popping Rolaids and listening to “Fried Neckbones and Home Fries” until he couldn’t stand it anymore.

  21

  Friday, March 17, 2000

  It was a strange noise. Eddie opened his eyes. A fly in the room? He glanced out the window. The office building across the street was shrouded in mist. A buzzing sound … a bumblebee under the bed? His brain, foggy from sleep, finally kicked into gear. Still lying under the covers, he reached down and walked his fingers along the carpet until he found his cell phone. He picked it up and brought it to his face.

  “Hello?” he mumbled.

  “Eddie? Did I wake you?”

  “Who is this?” Alison?

  “It’s Marcie. Did I wake you?”

  Marcie … “Oh, hi.” He sat up. “No, I was just getting up. What time is it, anyway?”

  “It’s almost ten.”

  “Almost ten. Man, I must have been zonked.”

  “Out drinking?”

  “Uh, no.” Think fast. “Just working too hard.”

  “Oh. I thought you might have been out celebrating that newspaper article.”

  “That article … . No, no celebration.”

  “Did you get my email?”

  “Yeah.” His mind was clear now. “Yeah. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you.”

  “Busy, huh?”

  “Yeah. Like I said, working some long hours.”

  “Eddie?” He heard hesitation in her voice. “I just wanted to apologize, again, for coming on so strong last week.”

  “Uh, it’s okay, Marcie. I guess I’m just not ready yet. You caught me off guard.”

  “Well, like I said, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “So, what do you think? Can we start again? A little slower this time?”

  Slower … Eddie had been thinking about Marcie for days. Yeah, there was too much going on in his life right now. He did need to take it slower. But he felt his penis getting hard.

  “Yeah, Marcie, I’d like that.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Well, you cooked last time. How about letting me take you out to dinner one night?”

  “How nice. Thank you for asking.”

  “There’s a good Chinese place I know, Ming’s, on Third Avenue at 34th. How about next week?”

  “How about tonight?”

  Tonight … He thought for a few seconds. He was working another one-to-five shift today. It felt a little sudden, but, what the hell.

  “Yeah. I guess I could do tonight.”

  “Chinese sounds great. What time?”

  “Uh, why don’t we meet there at seven?”

  “Ming’s on Third Avenue at 34th.”

  “Yeah. You know the place?”

  “No, but I’ll find it. Casual dress, I assume?”

  “Yeah.” Yeah, why don’t you wear that denim skirt again … with no pantyhose. He remembered how smooth her skin felt that night. He was getting harder.

  “Okay, I’ll see you tonight, Easy Eddie.”

  “Oh, yeah. No one’s called me that in a while.”

  “Easy Eddie. Take it easy, Eddie.” She hung up.

  Two minutes later, he was in the shower, all soaped up and masturbating.

  *****

  Eddie arrived at Ming’s just before seven. Before he could get his name on the waiting list, he heard his name being called. He looked toward the windows and spotted Mark, sitting with a woman, waving him over. He waved back and started toward them. As he walked between the tables, he took a good look at his brother’s date. She was pretty enough—nice figure, as far as he could tell from far away—with a light complexion that contrasted sharply with jet black hair, deep red lipstick, and heavy, dark make-up. She was wearing black slacks, a red blouse, and a short black leather jacket. An average face, he thought, but the overall effect was striking. Almost Gothic.

  The scene was, Eddie thought, a virtual riot of colors. The restaurant was decorated in traditional Chinese red, with gold trim and lots of wood paneling. Mark’s date was drinking something purple. Cranberry juice? And his brother was looking sharp in a navy blue suit—Mark must have owned dozens of suits—with a white shirt and a green tie. And drinking a large mug of green beer. Eddie realized that he had never seen his brother “out on a date.” He
looked a little closer—did Mark’s hair appear to be a little thicker? Was he wearing a weave? Using Rogaine? And his skin … was Mark going to a tanning salon?

  Mark raised his mug and said “Cheers.”

  “Hey, Mark.” Eddie stopped beside the booth. “I almost forgot it was St. Patrick’s Day.”

  “How could you forget that?” Eddie glanced at Mark’s date, who was eyeing him as she sipped her drink. His brother continued, “Eddie, this is Connie Lee Wilson. Connie, this is my brother, Eddie. Easy Eddie.”

  Eddie offered his hand. “Nice to meet you, Connie.”

  “Connie Lee,” she corrected.

  “Connie Lee,” he repeated, nodding. She nodded back.

  “So what brings you here?” Mark continued. “Take-out?”

  “No, as a matter of fact, I’m meeting someone.”

  Mark grinned. “You have a date?”

  Shit! Eddie coughed, glanced at his watch, and tried to think of some way to avoid answering that question. But he was trapped. And he knew it. After another cough, he replied, “Uh, yeah, I guess you could call it a date.”

  Mark raised his eyebrows, wondering, Eddie was sure, why his married brother was “out on a date.” Mark glanced at Connie Lee—who had a blank look on her face—and turned back to Eddie. “Well, why don’t you join us?”

  Join us? “Uh,” Eddie stammered, glancing toward the restaurant’s entrance. Marcie was just coming through the door, wearing tightly woven fishnet stockings under a leather skirt. He felt a tingle in his groin. “Uh … sure, why not? Hold on,” he said, moving away from the booth. “My date just arrived.”

  Minutes later, after a round of introductions, smiles, polite handshakes, and the ordering of food and drink, the couples were settled in the booth, Mark and his date on the window side, Eddie next to his brother, and Marcie, looking a little uncomfortable, sitting next to Connie Lee. The drinks arrived; Marcie going with a glass of chardonnay, and the brothers splitting a pitcher of green beer. Connie Lee had ordered another Portuguese Breeze; which, she said, was a mixture of madiera, vodka, and cranberry juice that she herself had “invented.”

  Eddie tried to jump-start the conversation by asking how long Mark and Connie Lee had been seeing each other. A look passed between them, and Mark finally responded, “Oh, a few months,” with Connie Lee adding, “We work at the same place.” More details followed: Connie Lee had been hired a year ago by Mark’s boss, as secretary of the department. They had dated on-and-off, trying to keep it quiet, but their “thing” had soon become the worst-kept secret in the office. So now they were open about the fact that they were dating, but played it cool at work. It wouldn’t be long, Connie Lee figured, until she was transferred to another department.

  When Mark had mentioned that he was in investment banking, Marcie’s eyes lit up like Chanukah candles. “That sounds so interesting,” she said. “What kind of deals are you working on?” This was an open invitation for Mark, who presented Marcie with one of his business cards and proceeded to describe his latest project, a merger between restaurant chains, and his recent trip to Miami as part of the negotiating team. That led to “Where did you stay?” and “What did you see?” and “Where did you eat?” kind of questions. It turned out that, as a teenager, Marcie’s family had vacationed in Miami Beach just about every year. She loved Cuban food—paella, fried plantains, the works.

  And Mark was fascinated to hear that Marcie was in law school. “How long until you graduate?” he asked, and then, “What branch of law are you specializing in?” The word “branch” had gotten a chuckle out of Eddie, who remarked that he thought branches only grew on trees. Marcie politely ignored him, and responded to Mark with, “Well, I’ve always been interested in mergers and acquisitions.”

  Eddie tried to engage Connie Lee in conversation, but now working on her third, or maybe fourth, Portuguese Breeze, she seemed oblivious to her surroundings. Finally, he shut up, occupying himself by pushing chunks of orange beef around his plate. He was miffed and embarrassed, but still smiled, nodded at the appropriate moments, and jumped into Marcie’s conversation with Mark whenever he could, which wasn’t very often.

  On the sidewalk, they hailed a couple of taxis. Connie Lee was hanging all over Mark—eyes shining, cheeks glowing—perhaps, Eddie thought, anticipating another drink or two and some deviant sex before passing out. Mark guided her into the back seat, and then winked at Eddie and told him not to wait up.

  As the first cab sped away, Eddie turned back to Marcie, who mumbled something about needing to get some sleep. Her shift at Zabar’s began at eight the next morning, she explained. After a polite good-bye kiss, Eddie helped her into the second cab, and watched as it pulled slowly away. Then he turned and began walking back to his brother’s apartment. At least the sizzling black pepper shrimp had been good.

  22

  Saturday, March 18, 2000

  After another night of tossing, turning, and wrestling with sheets and blankets, Eddie dragged himself out of bed just after nine. He walked into the kitchen and spotted a post-it on the counter with I’m at work—Mark printed on it. He poured a cup of coffee—at least his brother had left him some—and scanned the headlines of The Times, noting that now it was The Reverend Al Sharpton who was blasting Mayor Guiliani and the New York Police Department. By the time he looked up, it was almost ten. He was working an eleven-to-five shift today. Time to get moving.

  *****

  Just after five, Eddie let himself back into the apartment, and was surprised to see his brother sitting on the sofa, sucking on a Heineken, and watching what sounded like CNN.

  “Hey, Eddie, why don’t you grab a beer and join me?”

  “Will do.” He perked up a little. He’d been depressed all day thinking about Marcie and last night’s dinner. He got a beer out of the refrigerator, walked back to the living room, and plopped down on the loveseat.

  Wolf Blitzer was rambling on about the Middle East. “So, Mark, you worked today?” Then remembering that his brother had left him a note to that effect, he added, “I mean, how many hours did you work today?”

  Mark used the remote to mute the television. “Nine to three.”

  “Mmm.” Eddie tried to lip-read what Blitzer was saying.

  A few seconds later, Mark switched the television off. “Eddie … we need to talk.”

  Eddie looked at his brother. Mark looked a little tense, and cleared his throat before speaking: “Eddie, look, I don’t know any good way to tell you this. Marcie and I have been in touch with each other.”

  Eddie stared at his brother. Shit. He had entertained hopes that Mark might apologize for coming on to Marcie over dinner. “And?”

  Mark drained his beer. “I want to be straight with you, Eddie. We want to begin seeing each other.”

  “Uh … how did she contact you?” Eddie remembered that Mark had given her his business card, but he thought he’d ask anyway.

  “Email. She sent me an email at work.”

  “I thought she was working today.”

  “I guess she sent it before she went to work.”

  “So you exchanged emails?”

  “Well, she sent me an email, and then I called her on her cell. Hey,” he grinned nervously, “it’s hard to communicate with emails.”

  Yeah.

  Mark continued, “So, anyway, I hope you understand.”

  Eddie thought back to last night’s dinner. At the time, he couldn’t tell whether Marcie had been flirting with Mark, or Mark with Marcie, or whether they had just “hit it off.” But what did it matter? He took a long pull on his beer. Act natural, like you don’t care. “Yeah, I understand. I saw that you guys were interested in each other.” It hurt to say it out loud.

  “I know things have been rough on you, Eddie.”

  “It’s okay, Mark. Hell, Marcie and I weren’t going together or anything.” Past tense.

  “She said she was going to call you.”

  “Mmm,” was all he cou
ld manage. He drank some more beer and stared out the window.

  Mark got up. “Well, look, I’ve got to get dressed.” He turned and moved toward the master bedroom.

  *****

  From: MarKau55@rr.nyc.com

  To: EZEddie32@rr.nyc.com

  Subject: (no subject)

  Eddie, I told your brother that I would call you, and I intended to call you, but maybe it will be easier in an email.

  I assume by now (I’m writing this Saturday at 6 PM. I just got home from work) Mark has spoken to you. I am sorry things worked out this way. Maybe you saw it over dinner, that Mark and I were interested in each other. You know, chemistry between people is what it is. I can’t explain it. It just happened.

  I know you are going through some tough times, what with the separation from your wife, etc. I feel guilty that I have contributed to your unhappiness. Eddie, I wish the best for you, however things turn out with your marriage. And I hope we can remain friends.

  …Marcie

  *****

  From: EZEddie32@rr.nyc.com

  To: MarKau55@rr.nyc.com

  Subject: Thanks for the email

  It’s okay, Marcie. Mark did talk to me, and I do understand. Hey, I learned something: not to take your date to your brother’s favorite restaurant.

  Seriously, I want you to be happy, and I want my brother to be happy. If you guys hit it off, well, then, I’ll be happy, too.

  …Eddie

  23

  Working title: The Story In Your Eyes

  An unpublished short story

  by Eddie Zittner