Waiting for the Man

by Arjun Basu

  “I don’t know,” I said. And I didn’t. “Is everything all right?”

  “I think I’m about to get my period,” she said and I could not remember a time in my life when a woman had told me such a thing. “We have to stop somewhere for tampons soon. Otherwise I’ll bleed all over the car.”

  Angie had let her hair down. She had splashed water on her face. “I was thinking,” she said.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I’ve been having this conversation with myself,” she said.

  We had something in common.

  “You know? Don’t you?” she said.

  No, I didn’t. It couldn’t possibly be happening. Not here. Not after all this time.

  “Look,” she said, her hands on her hips. “I’ve always liked you, and we’re in the middle of nowhere. I’ve been wearing dumpy clothes and I feel like shit.” She smiled again. “I want to feel something. I’ve come all this way. We’ve come all this way.”

  I walked toward her. I stopped halfway. I felt like a blind person trying to cross an unfamiliar intersection.

  “This whole thing has no meaning,” she said. “Your trip. Everything.”

  She wasn’t thinking about me. And neither was I.

  I walked to her and grabbed her and she kissed me. My hands eased their way under her shirt and I felt the softness of the small of her back. I lost all sense of myself.

  She took my hand and we entered a stall. Her desire for privacy at this hour struck me as odd. The stall was clean, the porcelain on the toilet gleamed. Were all women’s restrooms like this? She closed the door behind us and leaned into me and we kissed. She undid my pants and they dropped to the floor. I did not know what to do. She pulled my underwear down and took my penis in her hand. It was hard before her fingers were wrapped around it. She kissed me some more and pushed at me and I was sitting on the toilet. She straightened up and pulled her pants down. I kissed her belly and buried my face in it. I licked her and tasted the wonder of her skin. She stepped away and stepped out of her pants and then pulled her underwear down. She straddled me and guided me into her. “It’s safe now,” she whispered.

  We made love in the stall and I could think of nothing but hanging onto Angie as she clung to me, bobbing up and down slowly, her hands clutching my head, my shoulders, her fingernails digging into my skin. Her inside was soft and tight and wet. I leaned back to kiss her and our mouths gripped each other’s, sucking tongues, inward. We tried to inhale each other’s mouths. I could feel our juices running down my balls and then I could hear them dripping into the toilet. Angie breathed heavily and her breath against my face was a warm and happy wind. I stood up and leaned her against the door, holding her up by cupping my hands beneath her bottom. I pushed as deep as I could into her and it was not far enough. I wanted to consume her. She held on to the top of the stall and pushed herself down upon me. A warmth was running down my legs and they felt as if they were about to give out, that they could no longer support the weight of Angie’s need. I leaned into her even harder and her back slammed against the door with each of our thrusts. She let go of the walls around us and held on to me, her breathing getting more and more labored. My legs were liquid. My muscles burned. And then I felt my life empty into Angie. She pulled me closer, squeezing me to her. She climbed atop me. She swallowed me up. She pushed herself against me with urgency. I knew I would soon fall over. She grabbed my hair and let out a sound, an operatic note that quickly drowned in her pleasure and soon her body was limp and the only sound in the bathroom was of our tortured breathing, of our mouths taking in huge gulps of air. I stepped backward and sat down on the toilet and Angie collapsed in my arms. She stroked my hair. I kissed her forehead and tasted the salt of her exertion.

  “My God,” I whispered.

  She pulled me out and stood up. She smiled. “Get off the toilet,” she ordered.

  I did and she sat down and started dripping into the water. I had emptied myself into her and now she was emptying me from her. She looked at me and put her hand to her mouth and stifled a laugh. I looked down to see my penis covered in watery blood. Trails of red flowed from my penis to my balls and down my legs like varicose veins. Drops of blood covered the floor and our pants. The stall was a mess. Angie laughed out loud.

  We spent minutes that turned into hours cleaning up. We washed the floor and ourselves, soaked our pants in the sinks. I soaped my legs and my groin. The restroom had sanitary napkins and Angie used them as sponges to clean off the blood. She took a handful for later. We used the hand dryers to try to dry our pants. “Now we can say we actually did something on this trip,” she said.

  “I guess,” I said, feeling strangely shy about the whole thing.

  “Neighbors. And we had to come to Wyoming,” she said. She didn’t mean it that way, but I heard the reproach. Blame. I heard regret and perhaps hints of a future that might have been.

  I put my pants on. The clammy feeling one gets at the end of a long walk on a humid day. “Thanks,” she said, and she kissed me on the cheek. “We could have done that a long time ago.” I stumbled for words.

  We left the restroom and walked toward the Odyssey. Dan was sitting on a picnic bench, smoking a cigarette. Jealousy wracked his face. We walked to him. “You guys stink,” he said.

  “For real?” Angie asked. “Or are you just unhappy?”

  “We cleaned up,” I said.

  “You can’t wash that kind of smell away,” he said.

  I held out two fingers and Dan produced a pack of Marlboro Lights. I took one out and lit it up. “I’m spent,” I said.

  “Fuck off,” Dan said.

  We heard clapping and saw the media stepping out of the bus one by one, applauding us. “Care to share your thoughts?” Dan asked.

  “Very funny,” Angie said.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  I got in the minivan and started it. Angie got in. We did smell. We smelled of sex and blood and something powerfully rank. “Keep the window open,” I said.

  The eastern sky was a light blue. The next day was approaching quickly. “Is there anything to talk about?” I asked.

  Angie thought about this. “Is there?”

  We drove into Montana in silence. Angie stared out the window at the grassy hills and mountains that rolled away from the interstate. The sky seemed closer to us and ahead the interstate looked as if that’s where it went. A sign told us we were in an Indian reservation of some kind. The land and the sky schemed to inspire thoughts of the Man. We passed signs for Little Bighorn and Custer’s Last Stand. Angie took my hand and squeezed it. “There’s nothing to talk about,” she said dully. Hours later I didn’t believe her, even though I had nothing to say.

  Accept Yourself

  Athena says, “Do you know why you’re here?”

  I say nothing, my silence perhaps all the answer she’ll need. “How I got here doesn’t matter,” I say.

  She says, “I didn’t say how. I said why.”

  It is an unfair question. It can have no answer. “I came here to talk about some ideas I’m mulling over,” I say.

  She says, “I’m curious.” She stands behind her desk, arms folded. The questions, I’m assuming, are the result of something Lindsay has disclosed. I don’t even care why Athena is asking them.

  “I’m here.”

  She asks, “Are you happy?”

  “I believe I am.”

  Athena lets slip a small, indiscreet smile. She has spoken to Lindsay.

  “I got short-hopped, but adjusted,” I say.

  She says, “I’m not American. I have no idea what that means.”

  “It’s a baseball term.”

  And Athena makes a face. She’s not American. “Maybe I don’t care either. Maybe I only care if it will affect your work here.”

  “There’s an irony to what I’m do
ing,” I say. “I came all this way to do something I was doing before. Sort of.”

  “Anyone who can get away with living an ironic life must be doing something right.”

  “Irony isn’t safe,” I say. “It’s a dangerous way to live. It can be complicated. Irony is someone else’s tragedy. I don’t want irony or tragedy. I want things to be simple. And that’s why I like it here.”

  Athena sits in her chair. She fiddles with a pen. “The owners have five other properties across the West. Arizona. Colorado. Washington. One in Canada. In Alberta. One in Idaho. They want to get this place right and then move the brand forward. They want to test all the ideas we come up with here. They are suddenly obsessed by plunge pools. They want to be a luxury ranch and spa brand. Very American. They see equity in a western concept. They know, I know, that this place is trying too hard. It’s all over the place. They want to be hoteliers. They want to take their ranching background and make it a luxury brand. A fetish really.”

  So this is the plan. “So this is the plan,” I say. I’m about to be offered a job.

  She says, “If they are pleased with your proposals here, they will offer you a job. Director of Marketing. Chief Branding Officer. Something like that.”

  And so this is the hotel business. I’ve arrived in the hospitality industry. In the lobby of a brand with aspirations. I’m thinking like someone I might have mocked before. And yet it feels oddly natural. Who am I?

  “And you?” I ask.

  “I’m along for the ride.”

  “That’s a very American expression,” I say. She’s withholding the extent of her involvement.

  “I just don’t like baseball.”

  A long pause. I am deciding to accept the offer. Lindsay’s cloud hasn’t lifted. Athena doesn’t care. And I can’t do anything about Dan’s ambitions either. I will be found one day, discovered. Its inevitability is like the rising of the sun. Or death. I will once again attain some status, some middle class of fame. Perhaps I will become the spokesman for the place. Tell everyone I found what I needed here. Every few years a tabloid will interview me for a “where are they now?” feature. Dan’s book will get published. A movie will get made. My celebrity will ebb and flow.

  I can’t decide whether Lindsay’s email should feel liberating or not. “I don’t know why I’m here,” I say. “I understand even less how I got here. There’s no answer for it. But I’ve found myself here and I may have even found myself.”

  “Lindsay sent me a curious email.”

  I nod. “It’s all true.”

  “You don’t know what she said.”

  “I can guess.”

  “Does this mean you’ll shave?”

  “I’m growing fond of this look.”

  “I finally Googled you.”

  I can only imagine what she’s found. I can only imagine the type of information, the amount of information, out there. I once held a slice of the public’s consciousness. “I don’t understand fame,” I say. “Or why anyone would seek it.”

  Another pause. “When can you share?”

  “Share what?” I ask. My past? The reasons why?

  “Your ideas,” she says.

  “Am I giving a full presentation? To you? Do I have to do some kind of awful PowerPoint thing? Because I hate PowerPoint.” So many questions. I ran away from work to discover answers to the unknowable. And it turns out that I ran to work. To an odd but definite happiness.

  “Do whatever you want. Use puppets. I don’t care.”

  I take a long walk. A cold wind slaps my face. I walk to the spa and the wind gets colder, fiercer. It’s a seasonal wind, with a certain menace. It swirls around me now and I run into the spa, out of breath. A couple walks by in fluffy bathrobes, each with a cup of herbal tea in hand. They are glowing. The man slides his hand down the woman’s back and rests it on her ass. They walk to the desk and a general mumbling takes place. His hand strokes the contours of the woman’s back. Their level of contentment is astounding. Enviable. They are in their late fifties. Satisfied. Writing another chapter in their lives. Accumulating stories.

  The woman behind the counter walks them through a door that will take the couple to what we call the Wet Bar, an area devoted to hydrotherapy. The couple will shower together, receive a variety of water-based massage treatments side by side. Later, they will enjoy dinner, share a bottle of wine. Retreat to their room. Explore their newly softened skin. Sleep the deepest sleep they have known in months. Tomorrow they will repeat it all. Tomorrow they will seek out the same feeling, the same comfort. Tomorrow they will write another chapter in their life story.

  I stick my head out the front door. The wind shows no sign of abating. It’s a windy day. I should get used to it.

  I’m thinking this place should align itself to a kind of celebrity in a low-key way as it expands. This person and the overall brand should be intertwined. Or it could be a series of people, good mid-level celebrities not yet tainted by the public’s expectations and prejudices. All appearing in tasteful print ads shot onsite. People who mean good taste, who mean something. Whose own brands go beyond their own celebrity. To a value.

  The ranch needs a new name. I keep calling it Special K. Tomas called it Four Creeks once. That’s an evocative name for an overall brand but it doesn’t sound western enough. It sounds falsely international and ambitious. I don’t know if I’m supposed to brand the future or just worry about this one place, right now. Was Athena telling me what to do or what I should expect?

  At my computer, I sketch out an overall feeling for this place. The offering needs to be focused. Simplified.

  We all desire simplicity. It’s why people come here.

  This place should be about people’s stories. We crave narrative. We believe we are uninteresting without a compelling story. This is the guiding principle behind reality TV and its replacement, the participatory web. A narrative validates us. It makes us tangible. As the world grows larger, we need to break its component parts down to manageable bite-sized chunks. We live surrounded by more people now, more density, and so we are more anonymous. With our own narrative, we feel a part of the world. Stories connect us. They intersect.

  And then this narrative is finally about empowerment. Which is what a spa is about. Luxury is power. The ability to add luxury to your narrative is the totem of everything we strive for. Luxury itself is not a goal. This place is about vanity as well, but again that’s not a goal. It is the ability to proclaim your indulgence in luxury. To be vain and not feel shy about admitting it. To not apologize for what you want or who you are. To be able to tell the world that you can experience it. That you have experienced it. And how that experience makes your narrative appear richer and more robust than anyone else’s.

  Over dinner with Athena, I say, “We’re going to need some creatives.”

  She says, “I understand.”

  “An agency. More than PR.”

  “I can recommend that.”

  “We’ll need to create a bible.”

  “I know the branding game.”

  “It’s a racket, isn’t it?” This is most obvious to those who do the work.

  “It’s necessary.”

  I cut through my steak. I’ve been craving Chinese food of late.

  She asks, “Will everything change?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Look at what I ate.” Chicken marbella. A maple squash puree. Accompanied by a white wine from South Africa. And not a very good one at that. An uneaten profiterole on her dessert plate.

  “I haven’t thought the entire thing through,” I say.

  “We need to be thorough.”

  “I agree.”

  “They’ve been drinking their way across the world. They’re taking notes. Suddenly they think they know a lot.”

  The owners are phantoms to me. Athena
has no idea when they will return. It doesn’t seem to matter.

  A waitress comes by and pours Athena a coffee. “The wine is terrible,” Athena says.

  The waitress takes this in. “Should I tell Frank?” she asks. Frank is the sommelier. He is South African.

  “I’ll speak to him tomorrow,” Athena says.

  I have spent the day putting thoughts about this place on paper. I have enjoyed myself. I have used the process to block out my narrative. I can’t tell whether or not I have a story anymore. I’m the same person who drove across the country. I’m not the same person who drove across the country. “Tomas told me he doesn’t want to change,” I say.

  Athena takes a sip of her coffee. “He will. He’s done it before.”

  I take another bite of my steak. “How many hits?”

  Athena gives me a look, of being spoken to in a foreign tongue.

  “On Google.”

  “More than I would have imagined.”

  “What did you imagine?”

  “I had low expectations.”

  “And?”

  “In the hundreds of thousands.”

  “Not millions?”

  She sips her coffee some more. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  I’m relieved actually. It’s a relief I need. My past is a shadow that I can’t outrun. Even when the sun sets, a shadow hides. It waits. My relief is the hope that my shadow recedes into something else. Something less than memory. A small tattoo, perhaps. A tiny scar. A snake that has shed its skin.

  Alone Again

  I drove through the endlessness of Montana in a daze. My head was cluttered with what Angie and I had done. By what it might have meant in another time and place. By the road not taken. And the Man. The endlessness of him. The mystery of him and his whereabouts. I searched deep inside myself and he was not there. The relentlessness of the ordeal I was suffering. I felt the force of his hand on the steering wheel. This looked like his place, something I’d been feeling a long time now. And nothing had happened.