You Are Here

by Donald Breckenridge

  First Saturday in August

  “You know, there’s going to be a full moon tonight.” The pines surrounding the deck were spotted with lichen. “Can we go for a walk later and take a look at it?” Massive cumulus clouds with pink underbellies had crowded above the bay. “Alright,” the drone of cicadas, “we’ll get a better view from the ocean side,” and intermittent notes from songbirds flitting among the trees accompanied the view, “But haven’t you had enough beach for one day?” The wooden deck gave off the warm smell of creosote. “No,” two wine glasses filled with rosé, “not at all,” were on the wide railing, “and a moon tan will soothe my burn,” beside the bottle of Tavel nestled in a copper ice bucket. Alan had dutifully coated Stephanie’s shoulders and dabbed her nose with a torn aloe leaf after they showered together. “Does it feel any better?” They were on their first bottle of wine. “I feel so relaxed, but I’m sure that you’re getting tired of hearing that.” Nearly invisible flames wavered above the graying charcoal briquettes as fat sizzled off the blackened grill. Alan turned to her, “on the contrary.” A CD of Coltrane’s ballads that she had discovered in the living room was playing on the stereo. “That is such a sweet thing to say.” The sliding screen door was dotted with ladybugs. He stood before the wooden cutting board, “well,” grinding peppercorns onto a pair of plump duck breasts, “it’s true.” The potato salad she’d prepared with olive oil, dry vermouth, chopped scallions and a pinch of sea salt was in the earthenware bowl on the table. “Could you imagine us together out here all year round?” Thick slices of garden tomatoes sprinkled with olive oil and garnished with basil leaves were arranged on the wide glass platter next to the bowl of potato salad. “It isn’t going to get any better than this.” Four folding canvas chairs were situated around the wooden picnic table. She was wearing a yellow bikini top and cut-off jeans, “How can you be so sure that it isn’t going to get any better than this?” The short flight of wooden stairs that lead to the bay sank into the yellow sand. “I think I would go crazy out here in a few weeks.” Her damp hair was pulled back in a ponytail, “How can you say such a thing?” An elderly couple stood by the shore and watched their Collie retrieve a tennis ball from a set of knee-high breakers. “That always happens when I go for too long without working.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and held him close, “I’ll help you get over that,” then kissed him on the ear, “and keep you from going crazy.” The broad bay with its glassy rose-hued surface swayed beneath the clouds. He was wearing khaki shorts, “I think that women have a much easier time not working” and a white Polo shirt. A few gulls circled overhead. “How so?” Three people on the deck of a sailboat, fifty yards from the shore, prepared to launch it. “In the roles they’re expected to perform,” he pulled away from her, “that job you had when we first met wasn’t the least bit important to you and it certainly didn’t last very long.” “Are you referring to all women,” she placed her hands on her hips, “or just the ones you’re attracted to?” He turned to her and nodded, “all of them.” A cloud slowly passed before the sun. She shook her head dismissively, “I really hate your stereotypes.” He regarded her child-like indignation, “but you’re okay with having me pay your rent,” while weighing her rapidly diminishing charms. “You know that,” she countered, “I would rather be working at something that makes a difference.” She had begun to put a serious strain on his energies, “Really?” and the time she demanded from him was becoming increasingly counterproductive, “like what for instance?” “I mean, doing something, having a job, something that I care about,” she shook her head, “ but I really don’t think you want me to get a job,” and was surprised by how quickly their conversation had turned into another argument, “talk about stereotypes,” before recalling the fifth of Stoli that had materialized on the kitchen counter while she was slicing the tomatoes. He turned away from her, “I’ve had to do quite a bit of finagling on your behalf,” and attended to the smoking coals, “and that took up a lot more time then I had initially anticipated.” “Like what… What sort of finagling?” “What difference does it make now that you’ve gotten your interview,” he waved the tongs over the flames, “which is merely a formality.” She made an effort to appease him, “Why won’t you tell me what you did that got me the job then?” “You do things for people, and in turn, they do things for you, like lending you their beach house for the weekend. And don’t forget that when you ask someone for a favor you are expected to reciprocate.” She attempted to disarm him, “So what have I done to deserve all of this?” And when that failed she claimed, “my wanting you to help me get a job isn’t a betrayal of our relationship.” “Wanting to make a difference…Is that what you just said?” He drained his glass and chuckled, “Would it be possible for you to be any more vague than that?” A warm breeze forced its way through the pines. “I said that I wanted a job that I enjoyed. Why are you in such a bad mood?” “Like I just told you,” he took the bottle from the ice bucket, “that interview on Monday is merely a formality,” and spilled some wine while refilling his glass, “so shouldn’t you be out shopping for a new wardrobe,” then pointed, “you’d been out of work for a few months before we met.” She shrugged before quietly saying, “about three months.” He set the bottle in the ice bucket, “And you were okay with that?” “Not really… I was broke… I mean my father helped me out a lot but not having any money or health insurance really sucks… you should try it some time. ” “But you weren’t really looking for a job?” She exhaled slowly through her nose, “I’ve always had a very hard time with rejection.” He knew the answer before asking, “Did you go on any interviews?” She shrugged again, “I must have gone on one or two.” He tried to sound insulted, “And you just couldn’t find the right job?” “At least one interview, obviously,” she decided that tonight wouldn’t be a good time to tell him that her period was almost a month late. “You went on one interview and that was when,” he jutted out his chin, “you had no other choice but to get a job?” She had wanted to tell him over the weekend, “I was broke and I couldn’t borrow any more money,” so they could discuss their options, “and I took the first job that came along.” “I’m certain that you could have found a better job if you had bothered to look.” “But then,” she protested, “we would have never met.” He didn’t respond. She resolved to take the test at home, and if the results were positive, confront him over the phone, what was the point of creating another conflict? He regarded the dark pink wine in his glass. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, “and that makes what you said before sound so disingenuous.” “Oh, does it?” He swirled the wine while adding, “men are forced into a very narrow set of roles,” then held the rim of the glass beneath his nose and sniffed it, “that are pounded into our impressionable heads at a very young age,” before taking a sip, “roles that have to be followed to the letter in order to insure our success as individuals… whereas with women it is much easier for them to live comfortably on the margins because less has always been expected of them.” “That’s bullshit and besides not all men are like you.” “No it isn’t bullshit Stephanie, to have ambition and talent isn’t bullshit… and men who’ve perfected those roles as children… they succeed.” She rolled her eyes, “you’re just talking about yourself.” It was his turn to shrug, “of course I am.” She conceded his point to avoid another argument, “I know that you’re very hard working and ambitious,” while eyeing the wine glass in his right hand, “but maybe money doesn’t mean all that much to me,” before looking down at the narrow wooden slats between their bare feet, “my family didn’t have a lot of money… we weren’t poor—” “You’re from a suburban middle class family.” She nodded, “and after my parent’s split we had even less.” “You went to public schools,” he counted the points off on his free hand, “you haven’t finished college, yet, and you’ve never even been to Europe… But so what?” A broad ray of sunlight fell on the full sails of the boat as it glided toward the center of the bay. “Ma
ybe I’d be happy just being a secretary and riding the subway to work five days a week.” The sailboat gradually shrank into a silhouette before the opposing shore. “There would be nothing wrong with that, assuming it paid well enough,” he assured her, “and nobody would ever expect anything more from you.” “Except you, because you place way too much importance on money.” “You say that now but you’re always pestering me to help you.” “Because I don’t want to be dependent on anyone.” “Do you know how much a weekend in this house is worth,” he sipped his wine, “in August?” “No I don’t,” she shook her head, “and it doesn’t matter to me anyway.” He wet his lips and grinned, “But I am just anyone?” The cloud had drifted away from the sun. “Sometimes you make me very happy.” He took a step forward, “Just sometimes?” She squinted from the glare off the bay, “when you make an effort. You make me very happy.”

  Intermission

  When Janet pressed her palms together, “besides,” and clasped her hands, “my bed is much larger than yours,” the lights in the restaurant were dimmed a notch. “How would you know that?” James asked. She smiled with palpable anticipation, “I think it’s a safe assumption,” while assessing his appearance, “and wouldn’t it be more interesting,” as if for the first time, “for you to find out for yourself,” when looking up from the remaindered copy of The Satyricon in her hands and acknowledging his attention with a discreet nod, “Mr. Intrusive?” He swallowed hard, “let’s leave at intermission,” before mirroring her appraisal with a warm smile.

  They stood next to each other on the crowded sidewalk as he looked down the street for an approaching cab. James had commented on how beautiful the evening was as the stoplight above the intersection changed from red to green. Janet stated that her lamb was much better than Eric Asimov claimed it would be. Three cabs sped past his outstretched arm as she added that her potatoes had been perfectly seasoned and that she shouldn’t have eaten all of them. A cab finally pulled up to the curb and he opened the rear door for her.

  She nudged his ankle with the tip of her pointed shoe, “you know, I really liked that story you gave me.” Furrowing his brow, “You don’t think it’s too melodramatic?” “No,” shaking her head, “not at all,” without taking her eyes off his mouth, “it’s quite sad and really advanced for someone your age.” He delivered the next line with the confident ease, “you’re only saying that because you like me,” that had evolved out of their rehearsals. “Well that, and because you are so profoundly objective,” she ended her line with an exasperated sigh. “You think so?” When she suggested, “but you might have that backwards,” the striking hostess seated an elderly couple at the table beside them.

  Janet told him that she was very happy they were able to have such a pleasant dinner together and added that the wine the waiter had recommended was perfect although they should have ordered a bottle instead of allowing him to refill their glasses whenever he walked by. James nodded in agreement as another block passed by in a blur of neon and glowing florescent storefronts.

  “My story isn’t too episodic?” She wanted to tease him about the questions he pressed on her after she offered him generous interpretations of his fiction, “you’re quite fond of that word,” but didn’t want to risk hurting his feelings. He jerked forward in the metal seat that creaked beneath him, “What do you mean?” At times the coddled boy seated before her seemed so hopelessly young, “that’s the third time you used it tonight.”

  The driver made a left onto Houston.

  He frowned, “I’m being serious.” She regarded his expression with half-hearted concern, “I’m just kidding,” then realized that when she was his age this self-obsessive task he had fretfully tied himself to would have been dismissed as absurd. He clutched the napkin in his clammy fists, “Well is it or not?” “Isn’t fiction episodic by definition?” He shook his head, “you know what I mean.” She wanted to encourage him to inch further away from this all-encompassing and profoundly claustrophobic task, “Do I?” “Come on,” looking closely at her eyes, “I’m being serious.” She conceded his question with a shrug, “the story could be read as sensational because the event was,” while the small flame burning faintly in the frosted glass candleholder wavered in a draft.

  He thanked her for dinner and then kissed her on the cheek as the cab swerved into the center lane. She told him that her ex always made a huge production out of going to expensive restaurants, that he had the ability to ruin every meal with his petty demands on unlucky waiters and how his obnoxious behavior inevitably summoned the attention of a soon to be flustered maitre d’ whose own hand-wringing attempts at placating that jackass of a man meant that every meal they had together became an excruciating exercise in humiliation.

  The waiter crossed in front of the audience on cue and presented her with the bill. James slowly reached for it, “I’ve got it.” She took the wallet out of her black purse, “don’t be silly,” that had been hanging over the metal chair, “remember this was my idea.” He leaned back in the chair, “How much is it?” She examined the bill, “it’s a bit pricey considering the quality of the ingredients,” in her right hand and then muttered, “but don’t worry about that,” without looking up from the narrow columns of handwritten numbers.

  She continued damning her ex, who had just married some Long Island whore, with a scathing description of his shortcomings in bed. James asked for more details and Janet promptly listed the number of ways she had been accommodating and then described how quickly their sex became routine. He squeezed her hand while asking if they ever watched porn together. Janet said that she found pornography to be unimaginative as three fire trucks with sirens blaring raced past. She quietly asked if he liked to smoke marijuana as the cab came to a slow stop. James shook his head while claiming that it made him really paranoid. She mentioned that she had some really good pot stashed away in her freezer and perhaps if they smoked it together he would have a better time.

  He began to blush, “I’ll pay for the play,” as a sheepish grin covered his face.

  She dutifully closed her eyes just before he kissed her on the mouth. Headlights briefly filled the cab’s interior as they clutched each other in the backseat.

  “And the wine was…” she looked at him closely, “How many glasses did you have?”

  She removed the silver compact from her purse and inspected her mouth as he reassured her that she was very beautiful and that he was very lucky—extraordinarily lucky in fact—to be this close to her. She thanked him while slipping the compact back into her purse.

  “I had as many glasses as you did,” he rubbed his nose with the back of his right hand before adding, “it was very good wine.” She placed her gold American Express card beneath the bill, “it was twelve dollars a glass.”

  The driver lay on his horn as they sped through a long yellow light.

  “Usually I don’t drink wine,” he drummed his fingers on the table, “but that was great,” then looked around the dining room before asking, “Why would he give you the bill anyway?”

  James slipped a ten through the slat in the bulletproof partition and told the driver to keep the change.

  He frowned, “Don’t you think that’s rude?” “No, not really,” Janet wondered how he would thank her for dinner, “I was the one who asked for it.”

  James stood between two parked cars and admired her stockinged legs as she slid out of the cab. He reached into the breast pocket of his dinner jacket to reassure himself that the short story was still there. They held hands while walking toward the cluster of people by the door who were stepping on their cigarettes and removing money from their wallets.