by Paul Kropp
“My problem?”
“Yes, your problem,” Maggie replied, her voice serious. “It’s not an uncommon problem for boys, probably a genetic defect passed on from generation to generation. My friends call it ‘Roman hands and Russian fingers.’”
“Roman hands and…ah, roaming hands…”
“You’re not alone in this, Alan, a lot of guys have this problem—you can’t control your hands. Let’s just recap the events. First, I give you perfectly good advice before the date. I believe I said explicitly, do not grope, manhandle or squeeze. And what did you do?”
“I groped.”
“You also manhandled and probably squeezed.”
This ought to have been funny, but Maggie was in a deadly serious mood. Her eyes were virtually breathing fire. This was an attractive look for Maggie. In fact, she had been looking quite good for the last week—something I attributed to Braden’s influence. Her clothes were less baggy, her hair less frizzy, her eyes without glasses really quite large. If Maggie kept this up, she might actually turn out to be a bit of a babe.
“And so, Alan, I have decided that you require aversion therapy.”
“What’s that?”
“I was reading about it in Psychology Today. Basically, we have to train your nervous system to reject certain behaviours by associating them with pain or displeasure.”
I looked at her. Maggie had the capacity to toss out something like that and actually expect that it would make sense to someone like me.
“So we’re going to train you to control the ‘Roman hands,’” Maggie said. “Now some of this may seem strange, but consider me your therapist as well as your adviser.”
“Do I pay extra for this?”
“Just the usual ten dollars an hour,” she said quickly, “but pay attention. For the next few minutes, I’m going to be Taylor Hoskin.”
“You don’t look like Taylor Hoskin,” I said, grinning just a little.
“I’ll ignore that,” she snapped. “Let us assume that I am Taylor Hoskin or, for that matter, any girl. We are out on a date and have spent a nice evening together. Your hand accidentally brushes against my leg—so do it.”
I brushed my hand against Maggie’s leg. For the first time, I noticed that her skirt was really quite short.
She flinched. “Okay, and then your hand comes to rest naturally on my leg.” She took my hand and put it on her knee.
“Actually, it would probably come to rest a little bit higher up,” I said, adjusting my hand slightly.
“Okay,” she said, so tense that she seemed to be holding her breath. “So now we talk for a while and what happens?”
So there we were, in two rolling computer chairs, my hand on Maggie’s bare leg just above her knee, her eyes looking into my eyes. Half of me felt like laughing at how silly this was, and half of me was starting to get a little bit excited. After all, Maggie was a girl—a fairly attractive girl if you like that pushy redhead kind of woman—and my hand was nicely placed on a nicely shaped leg. So naturally I began to run my hand up her thigh, just a little, when—
Whap!
Maggie slapped me, right across the face.
“What?” I said, my cheek stinging. I raised my hand from her leg to bring some relief to my burning cheek.
“That’s the aversion therapy,” Maggie explained. “Your hand started roaming…uh, where it shouldn’t, so the slap makes you associate that with physical pain. You do feel the pain, don’t you?”
“Yeah, slap me in the face and I feel pain.”
“Now we’re going to try it again,” Maggie said. “Put your hand back on my leg and keep it still. Do not—I repeat—do not let the hand climb up my leg!”
I was successful at this, really I was. I sat there for two, maybe three minutes with my hand resting quietly on Maggie’s leg. Then I became aware of the warmth of her leg, its softness. I realized that Maggie was really far more attractive than I had thought before, that her lips were especially luscious and her eyes were very erotic. So my hand moved, just slightly—
Whap!
“You’re getting better, Alan,” Maggie said, looking down at her watch. “That was two and one half minutes.”
I was holding on to my cheek, wincing in pain. Maggie herself was breathing hard, either from the situation or from the exertion of slugging me.
“Let’s try it again,” she said.
“But…”
“This is therapy, Alan. It’s your only hope.”
In all, we went through this routine five times. When I complained about the pain in my left cheek, she switched hands and slugged my right cheek. On the sixth attempt, I was able to keep my hand still and resist all temptation for a good twenty minutes.
“Excellent,” Maggie declared. “You may be cured.”
“Does this mean you’re going to become a psychologist rather than a lawyer?”
“Absolutely not,” she replied. “I’d far rather write you a memo than have to go through something like this again. So please, Alan, please don’t mess up this time.”
12
My Limo, My Driver
JUST SO YOU don’t think I’m a total idiot, let me explain that going to Rayburn’s for dinner was not the first time I met Taylor Hoskin. After some days of emailing and a couple of phone calls, we decided to get together for coffee at the Starbucks near her school. I had already mastered the art of the coffee date with Mel: lots of praise, attentive listening, eyes on her eyes. This routine was much easier with Taylor because she was (a) beautiful, (b) intelligent and (c) had gorgeous light blue eyes. The only flaws I could detect in her appearance were minor: a slight gap between her two front teeth and a tendency to flip her blonde hair to produce a peculiar curl. Given the many flaws in my appearance and personality, I couldn’t help but be amazed that a girl as perfect as Taylor would consent to sit and talk with me. But she did, and she seemed to find my praise, attention and romantic gaze—not to mention my wonderful sense of humour—more than a bit interesting. When I asked her out for a dinner date, she cheerfully agreed.
So when the day of my big date arrived, my expectations were high. Jeremy was instant messaging me that afternoon.
BIG JERRY SAYS: Hey, Al, you’re in luck. I got the limo for you.
AL SAYS: Half price?
BIG JERRY SAYS: 50 bucks. That’s a deal. A couple cab rides would cost you almost that much.
Another fifty bucks. I had already taken a hundred dollars out of the bank to pay for dinner and I probably owed Maggie another fifty. If I didn’t reach my Ultimate Goal pretty soon, I wouldn’t have enough cash to reach the summer.
AL SAYS: 50 bucks isn’t peanuts.
BIG JERRY SAYS: When she sees the limo and you give her those flowers, she’ll spread like butter.
AL SAYS: What flowers?
BIG JERRY SAYS: You gotta give her flowers, man. Don’t you ever watch TV? You give her a big bouquet or one perfect red rose.
Add another five bucks for a flower, I said to myself.
AL SAYS: Okay, I’ll get the rose.
BIG JERRY SAYS: You’ll find a little present from me when the limo shows up. I think you’ll like it.
AL SAYS: Thanks in advance.
BIG JERRY SAYS: Just don’t do anything that I wouldn’t do. lol
AL SAYS: Fat chance!
BIG JERRY SAYS: Don’t sell yourself short. Play your cards right and this might be the night you get laid.
I should be so lucky, I thought, signing out.
A bit later, my father got home from work and saw me getting dressed for the big event. I figured some kind of jacket would be a good thing, since snooty restaurants will sometimes toss you out if you don’t have one. I even considered a tie, but that was going too far. A blazer over khakis, that was the outfit, even if my dad’s blazer was a bit too small.
“Big date?” he asked me. My dad tries hard not to be pushy on these things, but he can’t resist asking.
“Yeah,” I said. “A girl f
rom St. Agnes.”
“That’s the all-girl school, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Yeah. Really nice girl, too. Looks like Gwyneth Paltrow…and her dad is a brain surgeon.” I knew that Dr. Hoskin was a surgeon, but I thought the “brain” part made him sound even more impressive.
“And she’s going out with you?” My dad tried to control his amazement, but those were his words.
“A little miracle,” I said. “I’m giving thanks to St. Agnes. And do you have any shoe polish?”
“Down in the basement. So…where are you two going, all dressed up like that?”
“Dinner,” I replied. My mind was only half on this conversation. The other half was worried about something strange that was happening to my hair—something like spontaneous hat head.
“Not McDonald’s,” he said.
“No…the, uh, the Beef and Barrel.” I’m not sure why I lied—maybe part of me knew that Rayburn’s would be over the top. Maybe part of me knew that my parents had never, in their lives, gone to Rayburn’s. My dad was a salesman for a small auto parts company and my mom did temp work. Big dinners at pricey restaurants weren’t part of their budget or their lifestyle. So I lied, just so my dad wouldn’t feel bad.
“Well, my little guy is growing up,” my dad said. I believe there were tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “You have a great time tonight,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “And maybe this will help.”
He reached forward and stuck a ten-dollar bill in the blazer pocket.
“Hey, thanks, Dad.”
He gave me a wink. “Just remember what’s important with girls, Alan. Respect. Give her lots of respect.”
I could have told my father that he’d been through the “respect” routine a few weeks ago, but decided to let it pass. This was one of those rare incidents of father—son bonding in our house, so it seemed a shame to spoil the moment.
Besides, after Maggie’s therapy I was mastering self-control. Surely that was the largest part of respect.
I think I looked pretty good when I skipped out of the house: navy blazer, pressed shirt, clean khakis, some well-shined Dockers on my feet. I had a hundred dollars in my wallet and ten bucks in my blazer pocket, and one perfect red rose in my hand (cost $17.95, but never mind). I had asked the limo to come to Jeremy’s house, just down the road, so my parents wouldn’t see it. No sense rubbing it in, I thought.
I could see the limo from my front door, gleaming golden white under the setting sun, looking about as big as a yacht. The closer I got to the car, the bigger it became. When I got to it, the car looked like it had been stretched in a funhouse mirror—in fact, it was sagging slightly at the middle. Or maybe that’s why I was able to get such a good deal.
The driver was waiting beside the limo, dressed in a smart uniform. He must have known I had arranged for it by my confident step as I walked up. He opened the back door for me, then stood at attention. “My name is Ahmed, sir, and I am your driver.”
“Uh, great,” I replied. I had never been called “sir” in my life.
The door slammed shut and I found myself in a massive compartment almost the size of my bedroom. If it had been any larger, Taylor and I could have set up a Ping-Pong table and played a game. Way up in front was a glass partition with curtains that separated the back section from the driver.
“Hello,” I shouted.
Since there was no response, I figured that the partition was soundproof as well. So how was I supposed to talk to the driver? The answer came when Ahmed talked to me through a speaker.
“Where would we be going, sir?” he asked.
“321 Mayfair Drive,” I shouted.
“You must press the talk button beside you, sir.”
I looked at an array of buttons on the armrest and found one with a picture that looked vaguely like a microphone. I pressed it and repeated myself, trying to figure out the curious symbols on the other buttons at the same time. Which would open the sunroof? Which was really an ejection seat? My mind was already boggled.
“Yes, sir,” Ahmed replied through the speaker. I felt the limo start to move, a bit like an ocean liner.
There may be a more wonderful experience than being chauffeured in a stretch limo, meeting a wonderful girl to head off for a fine dinner—for instance, I hope that sex is more wonderful—but since I don’t know about sex, then all I can tell you is how wonderful I felt that evening. I stretched out in my stretch limo, played with buttons that opened the sunroof, turned on the radio, CD and television, and one that popped open a little bar.
Right there, in a little ice bucket, was a bottle of champagne.
Ahmed’s voice came crackling through the speaker. “The champagne is a gift, sir, from Mr. Jeremy. He wishes you a very fine time, sir.”
What a friend! I said to myself. What a truly blessed life I lead—thank you, St. Agnes. The patron saint of virgins was surely smiling on one of her own.
13
One Large Slobbery Dog
WHEN WE REACHED TAYLOR’S house, Ahmed came racing around the limo to open the door for me. I got out and could imagine myself every bit a child of wealth and privilege. For a moment, I felt quite at home in front of the massive Greek columns, the sprawling front porch and the large green door. It was almost as if I did this kind of thing every day.
I walked onto the porch, raised the bronze ring of the doorknocker and tapped it three times. I tried to make it an authoritative tap. For my whole life, I told myself, I’ve been too tentative. From now on, I’m going to be authoritative. I will hold out my single, perfect rose and be authoritative, if not suave and debonair.
“Oh, hi,” Taylor said when she opened the door. Then she saw the limo behind me, with Ahmed standing like a British soldier ready to salute the Queen. “What’s that?”
“Our chariot,” I said.
I thought that was quite poetic. Perhaps it was all going to my head even before the champagne. I held up the rose, but Taylor’s eyes were fixed on the limo.
“Okay,” she replied, her voice a bit wary. “So where are we going? I thought…maybe the Beef and Barrel?”
I tried not to laugh, really I did. Perhaps a little chuckle came out, but not a real laugh. Obviously the girl would soon be swept off her feet. “No, Rayburn’s.”
“Rayburn’s!” she cried. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve got to go change.” She turned and looked into the house. “Mother!” she screamed, and then disappeared up the stairs.
For a few seconds, I was left standing alone in the front hall, still holding the rose. It was a very large hall, with a big central staircase, a crystal chandelier and several oil paintings of men who might be Dr. Hoskin or perhaps Dr. Hoskin’s father.
I would have been quite comfortable waiting by myself, but I was soon joined by a huge dog—perhaps a cross between a German shepherd and a pit bull. Have I mentioned this problem I have with large dogs?
“Oh, hello,” I said to the dog. I was trying desperately not to seem afraid. Large dogs always sense when you’re afraid.
The dog snarled at me and bared his or her teeth.
“Ah, yes,” I said, my voice climbing just a little higher. I tried to remember the best approach to dealing with a large, angry dog—did I stand still, hold out a hand, try to find a weapon? I remembered a unit on life in the Arctic—if attacked by a grizzly, hit it and run…or was that a black bear? And what did that have to do with a dog?
“Nice doggy,” I said, pathetically. I wondered what would happen if I walloped the dog with the rose. Probably nothing.
The dog continued to growl and came closer. Soon it was within sniffing distance and I was petrified. The dog sniffed my foot, then my leg, and then stuck its nose right in my crotch.
I exhaled quickly. “Now, now, please don’t bite,” I told the dog. I spoke in the voice of a nursery school teacher trying to calm a class of out-of-control two-year-olds.
Fortunately, the dog did not bite; unfortunately, it licked. I su
ppose this was a friendly gesture, the dog licking my crotch, but I was still terrified. What’s worse, my pants were getting soaked in dog saliva. In a minute it would look like…well, you know.
“Ginger, stop that,” came a firm voice.
I looked up and saw a tall, blonde woman who must have been Taylor’s mother.
“He’s very friendly,” the woman said.
“Ah, yes, I can see that,” I replied. The dog was continuing to lick in the most embarrassing way.
“Ginger!” shouted the woman.
“Tie him up!” Taylor shouted from up the stairs. “Remember what happened…” She didn’t complete the sentence.
The woman grabbed the dog by his collar and pulled him away from me. This gave me a chance to breathe a bit, and to look down at the damage. Khakis tend to darken when moistened with dog slobber, and the crotch of my pants was now soaking wet.
“I’m Taylor’s mother,” the woman announced, dragging the massive dog away, “and you must be Albert.”
“Uh, Alan,” I said.
“So nice to meet you,” she said with a smile that revealed, like her daughter’s smile, the same tiny gap between her two front teeth.
I think, at this point, we should have shaken hands, but Mrs. Hoskin was using both of hers to restrain the snarling Ginger. I thought of extending my hand, but I was afraid of what the dog might do if his mistress let go.
“Failed training school,” she said, presumable referring to Ginger.
“So did my little brother,” I replied. I tried to adjust the blazer so it covered the stain on my pants.
“Would I know your parents?” asked Mrs. Hoskin.
“Oh, I don’t suppose so,” I said. And then I got on a roll. “My father’s at the university, sociology, I think. Or is it psychology? He keeps changing departments.” I don’t know what made me keep going. Perhaps I was terrified by the dog; perhaps I was driven by fear.
“And your mother?”
“She’s a…” I looked around at the portraits and a word jumped out at me. “A judge. Not a high court or anything, I mean, not a Supreme Court judge but more like a middle-of-the-road judge. She, uh, judges things.”