Nocturnal

by Nathan Field

  “Jealous of what?” she asked playfully, fishing for the tacky compliment. Seeing if I was stupid enough.

  But I wasn’t about to bite. “Of your delicious chili, obviously.”

  She shot me a reproachful ‘Oh, you!’ look and took the empty cup from my hand, her fingers brushing my knuckles. “I think someone just earned seconds.”

  Another full helping of chili was the last thing I needed, but I accepted anyway, grateful for an excuse to linger.

  She studied my perspiring face as I worked through a second tongue-roasting cup, her lips twisting to the side. “That’s who you remind me of,” she said decisively. “Johnny Roberts. He was my first real boyfriend, back in tenth grade.” She tilted her head slightly. “You’re not related, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  “I thought you might’ve been a younger brother or something. My God, Johnny Roberts. I haven’t thought about him in years.”

  “Good memories, I hope.”

  She laughed. “Bad ones, I’m afraid. Johnny was a sweetheart and a heartbreaker, all wrapped up in one. We’d been going out two months when he dumped me for our English teacher. Can you believe that? It was the biggest scandal our town had ever seen. I couldn’t turn on the TV for months – I was sure they were going to pop up on Jerry Springer.”

  I sniggered with my mouth full, and a thick glob of chili suddenly went shooting up my nose, launching me into a raucous coughing fit. I backed away from the stand, bending over to clutch my thighs while I rode out the convulsions, all the time thinking – so much for playing it cool. But she only saw the funny side of my abrupt loss of composure, giggling as she circled the table to hand me a bottle of water. Even with my eyes watering and nostrils dripping, I loved being the focus of her attention.

  “Well, thank you Mister Reporter,” she teased as my spluttering drew to a close. “Who’s going to try my chili now?”

  I held up my hand, warning her not to make me laugh again. “Sorry, it was no reflection on your cooking.”

  “Oh well,” she sighed, moving back behind her table. “It’s not like I had a chance, anyway.”

  I righted myself and grabbed a wad of paper napkins from the table, wiping my hands and mouth. “Let me make it up to you,” I said, retrieving my camera from its satchel. “How would you like your picture in the paper?”

  She grinned wickedly. “I would love my picture in the paper. Do you know how much that would tick off the people round here?”

  She didn’t wait for direction, taking a proud stance beside her chili pot and flashing her best Suzy Homemaker smile. Watching her from behind the camera lens, I realized it wasn’t just her breathtaking appearance giving me goose bumps – it was the slow, deliberate way she moved, the mischievous lilt to her voice, and the hint of intimacy behind every subtle gesture. There was definitely an element of theater about her, like she was playing up to her sensual good looks, but I didn’t mind. Performance or not, she was completely captivating.

  “I should take your name,” I said, pulling out a pen and notepad even though there was zero chance I’d forget it.

  “Lucy. Lucy Piper.”

  “Thanks, Lucy,” I said, scribbling down her name. “I’m Peter, by the way.”

  She screwed up her nose. “Peter? No, you don’t look like a Peter. I think Johnny suits you much better.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment.”

  “I guess it’s an insult to your name but a compliment to you.” Her eyes drifted into the meandering crowd and she sighed softly, perhaps thinking of the hours ahead. “Thanks for coming over, by the way. It can get pretty lonely out here.”

  “No, thank you. My taste buds are still tingling. Honestly, that was some of the best chili I’ve tasted.”

  “Then you really should get out more,” she laughed.

  I shrugged, half turning. “Don’t forget tomorrow’s paper. It’ll be in the lifestyle section, next to the recipes.”

  “I’ll look out for it, Johnny.”

  I forced myself to leave, heading to the judges table to see if I could get an early word on their decision. I was already looking forward to driving straight home, locking my bedroom door, and fantasizing about Lucy Piper in her white keyhole dress. The fact she was probably married with young children crossed my mind, but only briefly. Instead, I chose to believe she was a bored, restless divorcee on the lookout for adventure – whether it was skydiving, a romantic weekend in Paris, or a long, passionate affair with a younger man.

  The wedding ring, I decided, was just to ward off the sleazebags.

  3. “I don’t pretend to be normal”

  I left a note on Ralph T Emerson’s desk, advising him that a strange man had phoned at 1.05am, asking for Johnny. If he knew who the caller was, terrific, but if Ralph himself had been responsible, I hoped the nonchalant tone of my note would frustrate and bewilder him.

  Studying Ralph’s family snaps again, I found it hard to reconcile the ruddy-faced man with the sinister late night caller. Ralph appeared completely ineffectual, the kind of schlubby, middle-aged dad who appeared in ads for life insurance and outdoor grills. But I couldn’t deny that the caller had sounded remarkably like him. Not at first, but towards the end of the call, when he chuckled low, and his voice dropped slightly. I couldn’t get the image of Ralph T Emerson talking into a cupped hand out of my head.

  I usually had a good memory for voices, but I hoped like hell I was mistaken, telling myself that a random shit stirrer or mentally unstable client of Ralph’s were still the more likely explanations.

  However, the following evening, my creeping suspicions were confirmed. The note on Ralph’s desk had disappeared, but my own desk was conspicuously bare. Ralph had obviously read my phone message and then disposed of it, not bothering to reply. My mind ticked over. If Ralph didn’t know anything about the mystery caller, surely he would’ve scribbled me a few lines as a courtesy. Surely.

  I imagined Ralph sitting at his desk, raising a contemptuous chuckle as he read over my note, not fooled for a second by my laid back tone. He’d detected the fear in my voice from the night before. He knew he was already inside my head.

  I put on my aviator shades and walked straight back out of the office, taking the elevator down to the parking level. If I stayed at my desk, I’d only end up stewing over Ralph T Emerson for the rest of the night, slowly driving myself crazy. I needed a distraction, and one of my favorite stand-up clients was performing across town. I wasn’t exactly in a laughing mood, but I did feel like a strong drink.

  There were about a dozen comics in San Francisco who regularly used my material. They covered a wide range of stand-up styles: observational cynics, flamboyant surrealists, aggressive ranters, even a ventriloquist with a sarcastic rabbit. My own particular talent, if you could call it that, was a knack for tailoring jokes to a client’s persona. Coming up with a clever one-liner was one thing, but unless a joke strengthened a comedian’s identity, giving them ownership of the material, it would never lift them above the glut of mildly amusing wannabees.

  The client I was driving over to see was a six-four, 250-pound ex linebacker who’d made a career out of acting pleasantly dumb. I met Bruno Vek at a sports bar during an abysmal Giants-Brewers game, one of many low points of the 2013 season. We were bored and trading Wisconsin jokes when he asked what I did for a living, which led to a long discussion about comedy, and an exchange of business cards. He called the next morning to commission a stand-up routine, and Bruno the genial meathead was born. More than a year later, Bruno was yet to crack the big-time, but he made enough from corporate events and hosting open-mike nights to make ends meet. By his reckoning, it sure beat security work.

  Apart from being a valued client, Bruno was also my best friend in the world. It was a dubious honor, as he liked to point out, since he could equally be described as my only friend in the world, or the only human being who talked to me without money changing hands. Nonetheless, when the
chips were down, he was someone I could depend on.

  Tonight Bruno was hosting a rising stars show at part-time club in Fort Mason. The job didn’t pay much, but it was a perfect opportunity to try new material in front of an audience. If a joke bombed, it could easily be swept under the carpet by introducing the next comic.

  Bruno was beginning one of his link pieces when I entered the club – actually just a run-of-the-mill Irish bar with a makeshift wooden stage – and the dim lighting meant I could safely remove my sunglasses. It looked like a typical midweek crowd: a mix of college students attracted by the cheap cover, and tourists looking to cross “comedy club” off their San Francisco checklist. I ordered a Johnny Walker neat, took a seat near the back, and tried to engage my business brain.

  Bruno had just segued into the new Pandora routine I’d written for him – his voice a heavy thud in the microphone, hitting every table in the room. There was mostly mid-range laughter, somewhere between ‘I get it’ and ‘that’s actually funny’. A couple of young women up front were totally in the zone, whooping and clapping every second line. Drunk, most likely. Possibly Canadian. There were also a few blank expressions – doubtless from people who had no concept of Pandora or personalized radio. Ignorance of contemporary culture could be a stand up’s worst enemy.

  By the time Bruno described the random songs his playlists came up with, and the embarrassment of having Nickelback play on a first date, he’d won the entire room over. The girls up front were bordering on hysterics, and they’d pulled the rest of the crowd in with them – even the po-faced luddites.

  Bruno knew to leave the crowd wanting more, and he promptly introduced the next act, a young, curly-haired comedian who gave the host a small bow of appreciation as he walked on stage.

  Bruno’s broad face was beaming as he approached my table, clutching an ever-present bottle of Miller in his meaty paw. “Hey Sam, you hear that?”

  “I did. Nice reaction. I told you Pandora’s a household name.”

  “Yeah, you did. Thanks for the lead-in. You see I added the bit with Nickelback?”

  “That was the best part.”

  “I think so,” he agreed proudly. “Everyone hates Nickelback.”

  I answered by raising my glass and nodding sagely. Bruno had come a long way in the last six months. He was already learning more than I could teach him – coming up with his own material, and tweaking his routine to fit the audience. That’s what happened with all my genuinely talented clients. Eventually, they moved on.

  “Hey, you okay?” Bruno asked.

  “Yeah, of course.”

  Bruno’s eyes narrowed. “Bullshit. Those stress veins in your forehead are bigger than your scars already. And that’s saying something.”

  I smiled at the familiar gibe. From day one, Bruno had been obsessed with my scars. He couldn’t get through a conversation without throwing in a random theory on how I’d been cut, hoping that one day he’d hit on the truth and a facial tick would betray my secret. I considered it a mildly amusing but ultimately pointless exercise. He’d never come close to guessing the truth.

  “There’s something strange going on at work,” I said. “You know that lawyer who shares my office? I think he called me last night, at one in the morning. And the weird thing was, he disguised his voice.”

  Bruno lifted an eyebrow. “Yeah? So how do you know it was him?”

  “Just a feeling I got. So I left a message on his desk, and he didn’t bother to reply. I mean, if he didn’t know anything about the call, why wouldn’t he say so?”

  Bruno shrugged. “Fuck, I don’t know. Unless…do you think he’s the dirty cop who pushed you in front of a streetcar?”

  I ignored his latest stab in the dark. “And he kept calling me Johnny. That was my nickname years ago.”

  “Johnny. Why Johnny?”

  “Long story. Anyway, he acted like he knew me.”

  “Johnny’s a pretty common name. It could’ve been a wrong number.”

  “I know, I know,” I said, lifting my glass. Bruno’s indifference was making me feel better, like I was making a mountain out of a molehill. “You’re right, it’s probably nothing.”

  “No doubt. You should be more worried about finding the crazy bitch who attacked you with a kitchen knife.”

  “Jesus, Bruno. Give it a rest.”

  “Never,” he said, checking the stage. The curly-haired comic looked relaxed, and was generating a steady stream of laughter, earning him the right to finish his set. Bruno could relax for another five minutes. He said, “Oh yeah, I’ve got something that’ll cheer you up. I’m playing a club in Oakland tomorrow night. Chloe’s coming over for it. She’s bringing a friend from her gym, this girl Maxine….”

  “–I’m not interested…”

  “–Just hear me out, okay?” Bruno said, leaning forward to give me a whiff of his sour beer sweat. “I checked the club out, and they turn the lights down nice and low, so you won’t need shades. And I swear to you, Maxine is smoking hot. She’s not one of those girlfriends with a bubbly personality and an ass the size of Rhode Island. I’d take her over Chloe any day, but she happens to think I’m a pig. You’re more her type. You know, the brooding writer with a troubled past.”

  I groaned, reaching for my drink. Chloe was Bruno’s girlfriend of the last three months, and while I liked her well enough, she was constantly trying to set me up with her single friends. She thought a good woman would somehow “fix me”.

  “Is that a yes?” Bruno said.

  “No.”

  “Fuck it, Sam, why not? You can’t tell me you’re happy living like a goddamn hermit. It’s not normal.”

  “I don’t pretend to be normal. Or happy.”

  Bruno stared at me and shook his head. “Man, some girl sure did a number on you.” He paused to drain his bottle of beer. Then he sighed and said, “Look, I get that your life’s not exactly normal, but don’t you ever get lonely? Even freaks need company, sometimes.”

  “I’m not always alone.”

  “Hookers don’t count.”

  I winced. “Ouch.”

  Bruno blinked, annoyed with himself. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t judge. I’m trying to be your friend, that’s all. Chloe thinks I should be doing more to help you.”

  “For the last time, I don’t need any help.”

  “Then come along for my sake,” Bruno pleaded. “When these girls get together, they start talking about exfoliators and throw cushions and I never know where to look.” He ran a hand over his prickly scalp. “One day they’re gonna try and French braid my hair, I swear.”

  I laughed – relieved for the lighter mood. “You should use that line, it’s good. But Oakland’s a bridge too far. Tell you what – next time Chloe proposes a double date, I’ll try and make an appearance. Just make it in the city, okay?”

  “You mean it?” Bruno asked, checking the stage again. The audience had fallen silent, and the curly-haired comic was looking uneasy, his best jokes behind him. “’Cause it’d mean a lot if I could take that promise to Chloe. I might even get some sleep tonight.”

  I whacked him heartily on the back. “You have my word. Now get back up there.”

  “Roger that,” Bruno said, hurrying towards the stage.

  I stared down at my drink, already regretting the promise I’d made. My only consolation was that even if I tried my best, I’d doubtless prove to be such a rotten date that Chloe wouldn’t bother setting me up again. After all, what girl in her right mind would want a boyfriend who couldn’t take her to the beach? Or the zoo? Or even out to lunch? Unless her friend was a night owl like me, Chloe’s attempt at matchmaking was doomed to fail.

  I left the club before another drink tempted me. Thanks to Bruno’s reality check, I was ready to put the previous night’s disturbance behind me. If my invisible colleague happened to moonlight as a crank caller, there wasn’t much I could do about it. And I’d convinced myself that the whole Johnny business was simply a coincidence
. It had to be, since all other explanations were impossible.

  I arrived back at the office with the greater part of the night still ahead of me. Settling into my chair, I took a deep breath and re-opened Sensible Shoes on my computer, resolving to finish at least five scenes before taking a coffee break. The mediocre script, I decided, was the reason I was so on edge.

  Sensible Shoes opened in the widow Charlotte’s living room. The curtains are drawn, but the golden light inside tells us it’s the middle of the day. Charlotte is slumped on the couch, mouth agape, hypnotized by a young couple making passionate love on the television. When the racy scene finally dissolves, Charlotte rewinds the DVD and starts watching it over again.

  Her trance-like state is interrupted by a loud knock on the kitchen door. When the knocking persists, she rises to her feet with a beleaguered sigh.

  The visitor is Bill, a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman in his sixties. He’s heading to the supermarket and wonders if Charlotte needs anything picked up. The longing in Bill’s face suggests he’s fond of the widow, but his affection is not reciprocated. She cuts short his attempt at small talk by claiming that her cousin from Montana is on the phone.

  I remembered the opening scene well: it was nicely written, and I especially liked the way Charlotte’s repressed personality was introduced. However, it was also pretty damn depressing, and more suited to a drama than a comedy. That’s why I was keen to add another dimension to the interaction between Charlotte and Bill – to somehow lighten the mood.

  But at the point where I thought the first scene ended, the conversation took a disturbing turn. My heartbeat grew faster as I read on.

  CHARLOTTE: I’ll see you later, Bill. Thanks again for the offer.

  BILL: You’re welcome. (Pauses, checking over his shoulder). Actually, I have a small confession to make. I’m not really going to the supermarket.

  CHARLOTTE: I’m sorry, perhaps another–

  BILL: (interrupting) Please, don’t brush me off. This won’t take long, I promise.