FEAST OF MEN

by Ayn Dillard

  I state, “It feels as if I have known you for a long time and we’re running errands on a Saturday.” He’s probably thinking—what a bitch. But why am I acting so childlike and weird today? It feels as if I’ve known him a lot longer than I have, but I need to get a grip and act polite. Except he irritates me and I am enjoying being demanding.

  In the restaurant, Art stares at me. I feel like he’s thinking that he must’ve made a mistake to have driven two hours to meet me. Who could blame him, but I don’t care?

  He looks around the place then declares in his twangy country accent. “Only one other man in here, this is a chick’s kind of a place.”

  I ask, “Um, does that bother you?”

  “No, it’s just a place—chicks would like.”

  I answer, “Well, the restaurant has good food and I assure you lots of men eat here.” What’s this ‘chicks’ deal anyway, I have never heard a grown man refer to a restaurant so stupidly.

  He says, “I am sure it’s good, except it’s just a chick’s place.”

  I think to myself—whoops, meeting this man may have been a big mistake, ‘chicks’? This man’s forty-nine and he’s concerned about eating at a ‘chick’s’ place, like some teenager or red neck. Well, he is a twangy country boy. Then I decide once again to change the downward spiral of negativity beginning to overtake me. I take a look at this guy. Okay, what is it about his man to enjoy? There’s something to like about most everyone. I look into his eyes and then put my hand on top of his. As I do this, he smiles and appears more relaxed. Our touch feels good and diffuses the tension that I’ve created with my grouchiness and he with his negativity. Loosening up, we begin to talk and laugh just as easily as we had last week on the phone. He teases and handles my moodiness just fine because we begin having a good time and laughing.

  Except, it’s ridiculous the exaggerated way he stands up each time I leave to go or come back from the ladies’ room. He resembles a ‘jumping jack’ and his overstated courtesies are more like someone from my father’s generation. Most of dad’s group don’t respect women and they sure don’t consider them equal. So, they over-do the simple things that they ‘think’ show respect—while actually, it’s more for show. Their trite manners and politeness only being a cover for manipulation to get a woman into bed or under their control—getting her to think that they’re gentlemen, when they’re anything but.

  Art remarks. “I like the way you jump from topic to topic. It’s refreshing. At least I know if you’re talking about something that’s giving me a headache and I don’t enjoy—it won’t last long. You’ll be off talking about something else in no time.”

  “You see that in me, huh? Yes, my mind works quickly and your mind seems to do the same.”

  “Yeah I can see you and I like your mind a lot.” He flashes a countrified grin.

  After eating, we run a couple of errands then plan to go to the Dodge dealership in Lewisville to check on the Viper sports car Art claims that he has on order. We return to my house to change cars. It’s too hot in Art’s and he doesn’t seem to flinch at my demands.

  “Girls can’t drive worth shit.” He announces. Therefore, he wants to see me drive.

  I state, “I love cars and am a good driver.” As I think, he’s a sexist freak. He refers to women as ‘chicks’—now women can’t drive. He must be a throw-back to the stone age, a countrified Neanderthal with a twangy accent. Something just isn’t meshing with this man’s talk, behavior or actions. His actions show confusion. Perhaps, because he is confused. I chuckle to myself and proceed with my private thoughts on our ride to the car dealership.

  We talk non-stop as we did on the phone with topics jumping from current happenings to lofty concepts. We share thoughts about people and the world to find this man is just about as opinionated as I am, but much more cynical and judgmental. I chuckle sarcastically—except I do see things with a bit more clarity than he does while thinking he’s way off base. I find him entertaining, but bounce from not liking him at all—to liking him a lot.

  He states, “Natalie, even when you don’t know what you’re talking about, you can give a good argument. I really like that about you. You have a logical mind and most women don’t—so you’re different than most.”

  I laugh hysterically, “Interesting, I feel the same about you. You’re cute even when you’re way off base.” As I think, he must date dumb women to have such a condescending attitude. “You don’t seem to have a high opinion of women. Already today, you’ve said that we can’t drive and aren’t logical. On the phone you stated, we’re only after men for their money. So why are you even interested in meeting a woman and why are you here with me today?”

  He slams back in his countrified humor, “I can’t believe what you just said to me. I’m not used to people talking to me in this way. I love women and am with you because you’re unique and special. I like unique.”

  “In what way did I talk to you that you aren’t use to? I say what I think and what you see is what you get.” As I think—who does this ‘country boy’ think he is? Not used to people talking to him in what way—what’s this bullshit about?

  He continues, “You say what you want. That’s fine and that’s great because I like what I see and like what I hear.” He exclaims full of arrogant laughter.

  He brags continually about his money, his business and what he’s going to purchase. He informs that he keeps all of his money off shore in the Bahamas and that’s why he’s going to build a house there. “I’m going to buy a Viper, a Porsche and a Mercedes. I’m ready to spend some money and have some fun!”

  “Why so many cars?”

  “Why not? I’ve worked for a longtime and am getting ready to do some of the things that I’ve always wanted to do. I’m going to build a fabulous house in the Bahamas and one in Oklahoma City.”

  I comment, “Sounds like you’ve been very successful.” As I think, this guy is probably full of shit. Why does he talk about money all the time, while thinking women are after him for it? It makes no sense—all he’s doing is trying to impress me. He’s just projecting his fears out into the world. Most men I attract have this same damn issue, except of course Boyd. They think women are after them for their money, have had some woman take it from them in their past, or so they say. And now, vow they’ll never let it happen again. Do they think that all they are is their money? I’m going to get to the bottom of this with Art, if it’s the last thing I do. His Ross Perot imitation is amusing and strangely a bit of a turn on, but if that isn’t sick. I can’t stand Perot—the power-driven little wimp, couldn’t pick a man more about money and control than him.

  Art sees more negative than positive and criticizes most everything. Okay, does this mean, I’m recognizing that part of me being reflected in him? Probably means, he’s also critical in his self-talk, puts a lot of demands on himself and is a perfectionist. Well hell, so am I. Mirror, mirror on the wall, but I’m working on loosening up. He’s full of fear about the world even paranoid, and in some ways reminds me of my father.

  I notice an airplane overhead and it triggers my memory of Boyd. I miss him terribly and our magic feeling. I so wish I was with Boyd today instead of this ‘country boy’ from Oklahoma City.

  Art’s twangy voice interrupts my reverie. “What’s it with these kids today? Look at those boys. Why are they wearing their hats on backwards and baggy pants that hang down to their knees? Looks like they’re carrying a load.” He exclaims in absolute disgust. “If I had a kid, there’d be no way I’d let ‘em dress like that.”

  I glance over at the boys riding their bicycles on the side of the road. They look like ordinary kids to me. “They’re just following their peer group’s dress code. If they wear their caps on backwards and baggy shorts—it doesn’t necessarily mean they’re bad kids.”

  More upset in his voice, “Ridiculous the way kids are today. The world’s gone crazy and there’re no real values anymore.” His voice twangs in my ear.

&nbs
p; “Why let those kids upset you and why does it matter to you what they wear? You don’t have kids and most of the time it’s no big deal the way a teenager dresses. It’s a fad, a trend—so what, and who cares? Next year, there’ll be a new one.”

  He exclaims, “I think the world’s going crazy and people are letting their kids go wild.”

  “A kid wearing his hat on backwards doesn’t show the world’s gone crazy. Our parents thought we dressed goofy. I think drugs, violence, and sexual explicitness shown to kids are what’re screwing things up—not wearing a cap backwards. Those kids on the bicycles, you referred to—looked like nice kids just wearing the current teenage uniform.”

  “It’s all of it—the whole thing.”

  I think to myself—what a scrooge you are Art. Something negative to say all the time, seeing what’s wrong, instead of what’s right. Turning things that don’t really matter into things that you declare wrong—judgmental like my father. Oh well—it’ll be interesting to check out this Viper car that he keeps talking about—just like some ‘teenager’.

  We arrive at the car dealership and have a seat in a salesperson’s cubicle. Art and the salesman begin their ‘Viper Talk’. Apparent by their conversation, Art has already purchased a viper at a price that he’s very proud about. I observe, he’s seriously wants to get things at a real good deal. I look at brochures to see that the car’s kind of cute. I state, “It looks a bit like a Corvette.”

  “Hell no!” Art and the salesman shout in unison. “A Viper’s nothing like a Corvette! A Corvette is nothing beside a Viper—no comparison. A Corvette is a piece of junk next to a Viper.”

  As I think to myself, Um, my Captain wants a Corvette. It’s his dream car.

  Art exclaims, “I want a red one. Yep, the red one’s going to be the most limited—the most exclusive. It’s the one I want because I like things unique and rare.”

  The salesman chimes in with his sales pitch. “Yes, the red is the unique one. There will only be a few hundred made and Mr. Houseman we have one reserved for you.”

  “Call me, Art. Yep, it’s the red one I want. Might just get the blue one, too. The blue one has the white stripe, right? The red one doesn’t? Hell, I might as well get both of them.”

  The salesman responds with a greedy gleam in his eye. “Yes, they’re both good investments, especially at the price that you’re stealing the red one. Nope, the red one doesn’t have a stripe on it.”

  I observe as the salesman humors—with his obvious manipulations, as Art inquires, “Who else has Vipers in the area?” The salesman name drops a few people. Observing Art’s show off bullshit, makes me feel nauseated. Art and the salesman—Viper talk for what seems like a decade—about how rare they are, especially the red ones, bouncing to and fro in efforts to impress with their macho-car-lingo. Art gloats in his ability to purchase not one, but two Vipers as he flaunts the names of people that he’s done business with in Dallas. The salesman continues to tout the exclusivity of the Viper car and pats Art on the back for what a great deal he’s getting—and the all significant people who’ve purchased a Viper from him—rapacious their boasting.

  I am simultaneously bored and amused observing this male dance and chime in. “Isn’t that what all salesmen say—that you’re getting such a good deal?”

  Both turn and glare at me. The salesman stares with a forced but convincing look on his face. “Mr... . um, Art here’s getting an incredible buy on this car.”

  Art chimes in, “Yeah Natalie, I’m getting it way below offering price. The red ones are real limited in how many they make.” Art stupidly postures with the salesman against himself to convince the wisdom of his purchase—both happy to be opposing a ‘woman’.

  I state, “All salesmen say this type of stuff. Okay whatever, you ‘men’ say.” Sure, Art’s getting a good deal, but I bet he could’ve gotten a better one. This sales guy’s patronizing Art, while displaying his slimy moves. The way he’s kissing Art’s butt, I bet this is one of the biggest sales he’s made in a while. Anyway, like Art, I always want to feel as if I’m getting the best deal for my money. Weary of this male bravado, I’m having fun irritating the salesman and rustling some feathers.

  Finally, Art catches onto what I’m doing, then playing—we banter and tease back and forth with the yokel salesman. Our eyes meet, as we play our game and we’re having fun.

  “Bet, you wouldn’t believe we just met today, would ya?” tauntingly, Art asks the salesman who by now is flustered. Obviously, a bit worried that Art might contemplate backing out of the Viper ‘so good-he-can’t refuse’ deal.

  The salesman states, “Yes, I thought you two were married and yeah, I have one just like her at home. Let’s go out back, Mr... um... Art, and you can chat with some mechanics who’ll be working on your car.

  At the back of the dealership, where many cars are being worked on, Art, the salesman and several mechanics talk—excluding me. Dutifully I listen, while a couple of mechanics check me out up and down—all ‘manly’ like. Art’s showing me off, while he’s showing off for me. A babe on his arm with the possibility of a hot sports car, the countrified man’s in a testosterone bliss. I am terribly bored, but ‘play-act’ interested. I don’t want to hurt Art’s manly feelings by exploding in laughter.

  Standing near an open garage door, the wind begins to blow and it becomes chilly. A car’s being washed nearby and the cold water sweeps over us.

  I comment “Art, I’m getting cold. Will you put your arm around me to keep me warm?”

  He puts his arm around my shoulder and rubs his fingers softly on my arm. Surprising his touch feels good. I know immediately by a man’s touch if I have any interest. Art continues on with his male Viper chatter. By now, I know all there could possibly be to know about the damn car—so why doesn’t Art? Bored and feeling antsy, I walk back to the car to get my jacket.

  Wearing my jacket, I slowly walk back to where the viper-obsessed men are standing. Art sarcastically comments, “You really were cold, huh?”

  “Of course, I was.” As think, so he thought I asked him to put his arm around me as a ‘come-on’. Geez, so many games. He takes me to this humdrum macho car place, then this arrogant man thinks I’m manipulating him to put his arm around me. Or is it that he’s so maneuvering and controlling that this is what he expects from others? The little jerk, I like him but don’t, but his touch does feel good.

  Finally, thank God, we leave the car dealership and stop to get ice cream at one of Art’s favorite places, the Marble Slab. We talk incessantly. We have been together for five hours and usually I am beyond redemption weary wanting a man to leave, but not today. I like being with Art. He’s amusing and I am comfortable, except when he’s irritating me. His intellect is nice although, he has a bigger than Texas ego. Well so do I—some of the time. We jump quickly from topic to topic. There’re not many men who can keep up with me in the talking department and Art can.

  I inquire, “Why do you want a Viper so badly and why buy both colors?”

  “They are rare and I like things unique. I might get both because I have more money than I know what to do with and now I am buying toys for me.”

  “I’d rather have a Jaguar or Mercedes.”

  “Those are girl’s cars. My first wife had a Mercedes when we lived in Dallas. I took it to a really good mechanic, Rodney someone? The shop was somewhere near where you live.”

  “Henson’s?”

  “Yep, that’s it—an Australian guy?”

  “He’s my mechanic and has been great to me.”

  “Yep, an honest one. Wife’s car needed lots of work and he was fair.”

  “My car’s had lots of work and I feel that he’s always told me the truth and charged fairly.

  After ice cream, we decide to go back to my house and take a nap before going to dinner.

  “Did you make reservations at Café Pacific?”

  “No sorry, I got real busy and forgot—thought we might just drop by.”


  “Drop by? It’s Valentines weekend, Art. They’ll be booked. Oh well, we can go somewhere else.”

  “Yeah, there’re tons of restaurants in this town. We’ll find another one.”

  I am disappointed because Café Pacific is my favorite. Art told me to pick the one that I wanted and that he’d make reservations. What a jerk, but I say cheerfully. “Yes, there’re lots of restaurants. Only since, it’s Valentine’s weekend they’ll all be crowded, especially the good ones.” Feels like Art’s testing me, to see if it matters where we go to eat—to see if I really like him or if where he’s taking me matters more—geez, how insecure. What kind of women is he used to dating? Poor Russian ones—I laugh to myself.

  Back at my house, I notice the people that looked at it, while we were out knocked one of the vertical blinds down in my living room. I try to fix it, but I can’t.

  Art states, “Natalie, let me try.”

  Art stands on a bar stool and we work together diligently making the adjustments to get the darn thing to stay hanging. It feels good—how we’re interacting to solve this problem and nice of him to help me. It’s been a while since anyone has helped me do anything. I begin to notice how comfortable I am with Art and feeling close to him is arousing sexual attraction. After we fix the blinds, I give him a great big hug.

  I exclaim, “Hooray, we fixed the stupid thing together.” I fall into Art’s open arms.

  “Yeah we did! We’re good together. We fit.” Art exclaims as he holds his arms tightly around me.

  I think to myself, hugging feels wonderful. His arms feel great. I state, “Let’s take a nap. I’m tired. So, let’s rest a bit before we go to dinner. Trusting, I’m safe with you that is.”

  “I’m kind of tired too and of course you’re safe.”

  I put on a robe to be comfortable and then we lie down on my bed—on top of the covers, then as the house begins to get colder—we slide underneath.

  I ask, “Would you like it if I put my head on your shoulder?”