“Yes,” said Cook. “Cool in here, and warm outside.”
The elevator came and they got in.
“The top button,” she said. “For Topper’s.”
Humor! A nice surprise. That raised lots of possibilities. Cook laughed lightly as he punched the top button.
The maître d’ greeted them with such warmth that Cook assumed he and his date must have been acquainted. Cook wondered if she had some personal connection with the restaurant—relatives who owned it, perhaps? Was that why she had responded so flatly to his suggestion that they go there? Given her remarkable gift of humor, had she hidden this connection in order to surprise him later? Now, or soon, would she reveal all, and would they laugh and have a helluva good time?
He turned to her, his hope for their relationship on the rise. But her face was as empty as a galvanized pail fresh off the assembly line. Cook sighed and followed the maître d’ to their table. The man did an unusual thing—he walked backward all the way from the door to their table, negotiating a right-angle turn without even looking over his shoulder. Cook burst out laughing and automatically looked at his woman for a like response. He got none, of course.
These back-to-back disappointments made him see her in a new way. He saw her as MADE FOR FUCKING! That was all she was good for. She wasn’t a hooker, but she was still MADE FOR FUCKING!
When they were seated, she said, “Tell me all about yourself.”
Cook pressed his lips together. He rallied against his new view of her. What if she was sincere? What if she really did want to learn all about him?
“I’m a linguist.” He searched her face for a sign of recognition. It was as expressionless as the huge round curve of her breasts. “I’m a specialist in language.”
“Oh, I’ll bet you are.”
Cook pressed on. “I do linguistics.”
“Oh, I’ll bet you do.”
Cook frowned. “Linguistics is the scientific study of Ianguage,” he droned. He looked around at the nearby tables, fully expecting to see red-faced patrons who had overheard this stifling laughter behind their hands.
“Tell me about your magazine,” she said.
“My magazine?” Cook frowned. “I’ve published some stuff in linguistics journals, if that’s what you mean.”
A wave of irritation crossed her face. “You keep saying that word. I mean your new fashion magazine.”
Disaster lay ahead. What idiotic cover story had Pillow concocted? “Tell me what you know,” Cook said.
“Well,” she said with a little smile, making nice, “I know that you’re from New York. I would have known it anyway just from the way you’re dressed. The wonderful way you mix these old styles—you must be two years ahead of us out there. Anyway, I know you’re gathering Material for a new fashion magazine. I know your first issue is going to feature models from different parts of the country. I know I’m lucky enough to be a candidate for the St. Louis slot.” She breathed deeply.
MADE FOR FUCKING!
“It’s amazing what you know,” Cook said.
“Yes. Isn’t it?”
MADE FOR FUCKING!
If that was what she was made for, shouldn’t he help her fulfill her destiny? Even under false pretenses?
MADE FOR FUCKING!
He sighed. “You are about to be outraged,” he said—quickly, before he could change his mind.
“Roy. One question: what the hell?”
“Ah. Jeremy. Tell me about your date. I’m just dying to hear all about it.” Pillow sounded like a nightgowned sorority sister hopping on the bed.
“What the hell, Roy? What was your thinking?”
“‘Opposites attract.’ What else? I wanted to put it to the test. I assumed you knew that.”
“Yeah, but how is she my opposite? Am I ugly? Is that it?”
“Oh, Jeremy.” Pillow used a tone Cook hadn’t heard from him before—one of jocular affection. It was quite frightening.
“I’m serious. How is she my opposite?”
“Well, since you brought up her looks, there is a difference there. She knows she’s good-looking.”
“Yes?”
“And you don’t. It’s that simple.”
“I don’t know she’s good-looking? Of course I do. My pecker was straining in my pants like a dog on a tight leash.”
“No no no,” Pillow said quickly. “You don’t know that you’re good-looking.”
Cook fell silent. “Oh,” he said stupidly. And, still more stupidly, “You think I’m good-looking?”
“Yes,” Pillow said in a quick mumble. “But there are more important differences. She’s very dumb.”
“Yeah. Eventually I figured that out.”
“Eventually? It should have been obvious immediately. I’m not talking about cultural literacy in any ambitious sense, Jeremy. I’m talking about two plus two.” Pillow cleared his throat. “So,” he said in a bright way—a new beginning—“how was it?”
Cook laughed. “It was awful.”
“What?”
“The worst time of my life.”
“Oh come now.”
“Outrageously bad.”
“Well, how was sex?”
“Sex?”
“Yes. Surely there was sex.”
“Nope.”
“Oh come now.”
“Nope.”
“Doggone it, Jeremy,” Pillow said, resorting to strong language. “This throws everything into a cocked hat. You led me to believe there was always sex, regardless of your feelings.”
Cook groaned. “Roy, get in the picture, will you?”
Pillow said nothing for a while. Then: “Go ahead.”
“What?”
“Give me your report.”
Cook laughed. “I just did. It was awful. End of report.”
“Go ahead.”
Cook felt his jaw tighten painfully. He made it relax. “You want to know what happened, sort of step by step?”
“Go ahead.”
An idea suddenly struck Cook that explained everything: Roy Pillow was not a free man; he was following the dictates of another manual—a Super Pillow Manual—which ordered him to do odd things to Pillow agents, like say “Go ahead” over and over. Or “Oh come now.”
“We went to dinner. She told me who she thought I was. I told her the truth.” Cook waited a moment for Pillow’s response. Hearing none, he went ahead. “She didn’t believe me. Then she did. Then she cried, and she and her tits got up and left. End of date. End of report.”
“Did you go after her?”
“No. After a suitable interval, I left the restaurant and walked home.”
“What did you learn?”
“Learn? Well, I guess opposites don’t attract, eh? At least I didn’t attract her—despite my renowned good looks. Once she learned I wasn’t this big-shot fashion guy, she dumped me.”
“But didn’t she attract you, Jeremy? You mentioned … something.”
“Yes.” Cook sighed. “I’m hopeless.”
“No you’re not.”
“She was gorgeous. I couldn’t help it.”
“Don’t be so tough on yourself.”
“For a while I even made her into something she wasn’t. I saw this witty, observant person inside her dress, just because … because of her dress.”
“You wanted to connect. That’s all. You wanted to make a human connection.”
“Did I?” Cook asked—with hope.
“You imagined her into someone you could truly be with.”
“You think so?”
“You wanted a relationship. I say hurrah to that. Hurrah for Jeremy. Now, what else can you tell me?”
Cook thought. “This ‘opposites attract’ thing. Surely it doesn’t mean people with opposite values. It can’t mean that.”
“Did you learn that from your date?” Pillow asked sharply.
“No,” said Cook, a little puzzled. “Not really.”
“Then I don’t want to hear it
. What did you learn from your date?”
“Well, she tolerated me less than I tolerated her. I was willing to hang in there and see what happened, but once she found out who I was she left. So she was less flexible than me. I guess you could say she had less range.”
“Yes, yes,” Pillow said impatiently. “But there’s nothing new there.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s something I’ve known for years. People like her are doomed.”
“why?”
“I’ve told you that you can’t save a marriage with a prick in it, Jeremy. Or a bitch. Or a dumbbell. Add that to your list.” Pillow sighed. “Your report is wandering far afield and telling me nothing new.” He paused. “Your report is over. Do me a favor in the future, Jeremy. Try to have sex.”
“Geez, Roy. I’m always trying.”
“I suppose you’re going to want a hint again,” Pillow said petulantly. “Let me think.”
“A hint? What do you mean?”
“I’ve got it. Birds of a feather, Jeremy.”
“They flock together. So what? This isn’t a hint about another date, is it?”
Pillow laughed.
“Is it?”
“You’re way ahead of me, Jeremy. Way ahead of me.”
“No I’m not, Roy, you sonofabitch. I’m still behind you, with my face—”
But Pillow had hung up.
Fourteen
After his date and his phone call to Pillow, Cook had a deep hunger for human contact. He wandered downstairs in search of Dan, Beth, and Robbie. But the house was empty, just as it had been on his return from Topper’s.
He found a note on the table in the sun-room.
To the cunning linguist—
If there is life left in you after your outing, come watch the Mound City Printers kick the Loop Merchants Assn.’s butts all over Hadley Field. Go left at Delmar, then right on Kingsland. The field’s on your right—a 20-min. walk.
—Dan
A map accompanied the note, done in the decorative style of the maps in the living room. In this case the motif was baseball. Street names were written on oversized pennants that appeared to be stuck on street corners, baseballs could be seen flying dramatically across the sky, and the entire map was bordered by a filled grandstand, as if the Loop were one big ballpark.
Cook reread the note. The Mound City Printers. Finally he knew the name of Dan’s business. The map and note reminded him to do something he had been meaning to do since his talk with Dan on this subject. He took THE HORROR! from his shirt pocket and unfolded it before him.
She’s a bitch.
He’s a prick.
Money.
Cook had been asking himself some questions. What kind of man avoids talking about what he does for a living? What kind of man fails to finish a dissertation, burns out at his first job, and hates his next one? He crossed out the third entry and wrote down a new one:
He’s a failure.
Cook stared at this. He felt brutal for writing it—something he hadn’t felt, oddly enough, with “She’s a bitch” or “He’s a prick.” But he would let it stand. He folded the sheet and put it back in his pocket.
“Hum baby hum baby hum baby.”
“Pick me up, Bob, pick me up.”
“Pull hitter pull hitter.”
“Pick me up.”
“Hum baby hum baby hum baby.”
As Cook approached the softball diamond he felt a linguistic panic attack: speech was occurring that meant nothing to him. He rallied and fought it. He reminded himself of all that he did know, and he dismissed the men and women on the field as a bunch of yahoos. This made him feel better.
Across the diamond he saw Dan, orange-shirted like the rest of his team. He was standing in front of the team bench, demonstrating a batting stance and wiggling his rear end rapidly. Some of his teammates laughed, Beth among them.
Robbie sat at one end of the bench, wielding a pencil and calling out something, though to whom he was speaking wasn’t clear. Dan sat down on the crowded bench. He began to scoot energetically toward Robbie, making everyone between them scoot, and the domino effect bumped Robbie off the bench onto the ground. He got up grinning and protesting. From the look of things, the Mound City Printers were a fairly irreverent bunch. The Loop Merchants Assn., out in the field, seemed distinctly more serious.
Robbie looked around, apparently to see if anyone had witnessed his embarrassment. He spied Cook and waved. Beth noticed this and turned and waved, too. Cook began to approach, but he imagined a flurry of introductions and questions about who he was. He stopped at the small aluminum bleachers behind home plate and sat down there—the only spectator at the game. Robbie hustled over to him.
“Seven to four, our favor, one out in the bottom of the third,” Robbie declared, “in the second game of a twi-night doubleheader.”
“I’m not much of a fan,” Cook said, wanting to put a quick end to this talk. He added, “But I do know who Elvis is.”
Robbie gave Cook a funny smile and sat down beside him. “I’m the official scorekeeper,” he said, “so don’t mess with me.” He showed Cook a sheet filled with diagrams and scrawls. It looked like a lost astronaut’s daily log. “I helped us win the first game. Caught one of their players trying to bat out of order.”
They watched a Mound City Printer get a hit. The next one made an out, and Beth came to bat. Cook thought she looked sexy in the batter’s box and wished he could tell her so. He noticed, though, that she swung stiffly, like a gate.
“Doesn’t break her wrists,” Robbie said, as if he knew what Cook was thinking. On her next swing she blooped the ball over third base for a hit, and Robbie hollered and cheered and marked his scorecard with a flourish. Cook clapped politely.
“Watch Dad,” Robbie said, for his father had stepped into the batter’s box. “He likes to go the other way.”
To Cook’s ears this sounded like a statement of sexual inclination, and he watched with interest. But all Dan did was smash the ball over first base, where Beth was standing. She jumped back from it as it flew by, then headed for second base and on to third. Dan pulled into second.
Robbie hollered some more. When he settled back down, he said, “The women hate to bat right before Dad, because he always hits it that way. If they get on first, they have to be on their toes. They take turns batting before him. It was Mom’s turn this game.”
“Don’t men ever bat before him?”
“Can’t. The batting order has to be man, woman, man, woman, man, woman, man, woman, man—”
“Ah. I didn’t notice.”
“Stick with me, big guy. Oh, rats.” The next Mound City Printer had hit a pop fly to left field.
The teams switched places. Dan swung by the stands when he came in to get his glove, but he didn’t stop. He just waved to Cook and trotted out to play shortstop. On his way he said something to the ump that made him laugh. Dan seemed full of life out there, almost ridiculously happy. Cook watched Beth walk out to right field. She chatted on the way with the second baseman. She seemed to be enjoying herself, though not at Dan’s manic level.
They watched the Loop Merchants Assn. fail to score, and Dan’s team came in to bat again. Dan and Beth came over to where Cook was sitting, which pleased him until he realized a specific curiosity drew them.
“What happened to, uh …” Dan began, shaping his hands roundly in the air before him. He seemed about to elaborate on this gesture when Beth interrupted.
“Your date,” she said.
Cook sighed. “She wasn’t a date. She’s … a linguist.”
Beth laughed. “A linguist?”
“I was interviewing her for a position.”
“Yeah, but what position?” said Dan. This made Robbie laugh, which made Dan look at him with surprise.
Beth said she sure didn’t look like a linguist, and this launched some silly talk about what a linguist looked like. Cook began to fear they were going to talk about his cl
othes again. But another member of the team approached—a soft-faced man with large eyeglasses and a sad, full-lipped smile.
“This your old college pal, Dan?” he said.
“Right. Jeremy, this is Bruce—Beth’s brother.”
Cook perked up and shook hands with him. Bruce gave Cook a complicated scrutiny. It felt aggressive to Cook, and yet Bruce seemed to pull back shyly at the same time.
Bruce said, “Dan must have missed you all these years, the way he’s taking time off to be with you.” Bruce looked at Dan quickly, as if he expected protest. “I know, I know. You haven’t had any time off in a year and a half. I know.” He looked back at Cook. “And then they’re off to Europe, leaving me all alone in the shop for two weeks!” He grinned. “That’s okay, though. Old Danny boy never takes Beth anywhere.” Bruce laughed at this, though in a strained way that made it hard for Cook to respond genuinely. Bruce seemed to want to be a regular guy, a joker, but it didn’t work, exactly. Beth got called away by one of her teammates on the bench, and Dan said he had to go coach and trotted over to the first-base coach’s box.
This left Bruce with Cook and Robbie. Cook didn’t feel like entertaining questions about his and Dan’s mythical college years together, so he made a point of beating Bruce to the next sentence. “Quite a team you’ve got,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Bruce. “Thanks to Dan. We’re going after our third trophy. It’s good for morale. We have a good time.”
“Is everyone on the team connected with the business?”
Bruce took this idle question as a request for a breakdown of the team’s roster by job description, which he gave to Cook, starting with the batter in the box and working his way down the bench—there were printers among them, salesmen, secretaries, a custodian, and two or three spouses, like Beth. It was a tedious recital. By the time Bruce finished, two batters had made outs and two had reached base, and it was his turn to bat. He assured Cook it had been good talking to him and went to bat and popped up for the third out.
As the Mound City Printers took the field, Robbie marked his scorecard and said, “You knew my dad in college?”
Cook put himself on alert. “Sure. Didn’t he tell you?”
The Full Catastrophe Page 17