Fickle
Page 13
roadrage @ January 31 02:02 am
holy shizzle, beautiful mind, man! That is logical, now that you lay it on us. Something tells me that it’s Harvard Law School you went to.
i.went.to.harvard @ January 31 02:03 am
Harvard Law dropout, actually. Jumped over to the Div School and finished that, instead.
webmaggot @ January 31 02:06 am
You’re a minister? And me with my beautiful mouth.
i.went.to.harvard @ January 31 02:07 am
If you start censoring your comments I’ll regret having revealed any of that.
webmaggot @ January 31 02:08 am
Far fuckin out, mon. The preacher rocks!
fickel @ January 31 02:14 am
Thank you for coming to my defense, i.went.to.harvard. It wouldn’t suck to hear from hitman that he’s taken my little lambast in stride?
fickel @ January 31 02:25 am
Ooooo-kay. And with that, I’m off to bed. Something called “work” keeps happening and I’m getting into a rut of staying up all night and being a Coke junkie all day (that’s the diet soda, not the powder). First, of course, I have a bit of a bone to pick with li’l bro.
proudblacktrannie @ January 31 02:26 am
something tells me you’ll need handcuffs and a strap-on to have an impact on dear dickel.
fickel @ January 31 02:27 am
Actually, I find that I catch more flies with honey, and you can sleep on that one, perverts.
18
January 31 @ 11:24 pm
>MYSTERIOUS HOTTIE ALERT<
“And you actually get the feeling that if you stepped out of line he’d kick your teeth down your throat.”
“My, ain’t that wonderful!”
—trampy chick and old lush discussing Lawrence Tierney in Born to Kill
My life in three words: weird, weird, f-f-f-freaky weird.
Was sitting around the office today, crossing my legs a lot so that the new girl, Holly (whose manner of tromping about has got Noah calling her Holly-Go-Heavily) could admire my Taryn Rose Terry flats, when the Colonel’s lawyer called—I suppose I should call him “my” lawyer—our own Mr. Groin. Apparently he’d been power-chatting with the Colonel and my name popped up. The Groin, btw, has this ballzy voice—deep, smooth, and oh-so-elegant—that I hadn’t noticed at the Colonel’s. I suppose I’d been too busy counting the many ways in which he came off as a supreme dick. Likewise, it didn’t take too, too many seconds on the phone for his attudinal handicap to overwhelm his tonal virtuosity.
Mr. Groin: (brisk, clearly ticked) So are we sticking to game plan?
Me: Seems that way. I’m staying out of jail, and you’re keeping your cell phone charged in case that circumstance changes.
Mr. Groin: And playing footsie with this cop who’s been harassing you—is that part of staying out of jail, in your mind?
Me: Umm, no one’s harassed me that I’ve noticed.
Mr. Groin: Thanks for helping me make my point. Heard you made a case for this mystery diary pointing a finger at you as the dead man’s lover, after both the cop with the hots for you and our mutual writer friend agreed that the lover was some as-yet unidentified gay male.
Me: I’m not sure I’d agree that I did anything like that.
Mr. Groin: Don’t care what you agree with. Someone’s beginning to wonder if you’re into the attention this situation is getting you. So, as my client, could I ask you to try seeing things in a manner favorable to yourself?
Me: What do you mean?
Mr. Groin: What I mean is that if some diary the cops have come up with indicates that this pathetic creature who killed himself was into pimple-assed boys, let them think that. Got it?
Me: (doubtfully) Is that all?
Mr. Groin: Unfortunately it isn’t. I also mean that if the investigating cop’s coming on to you, that’s called harassment and you tell him that to his face, or at least straight-arm him and let me use the H-word—got it?
Me: Umm?
Mr. Groin: The strategy, in case you’re not picking it up, is to get you uninvolved in this thing, and right now the horndog cop is the only logical reason I can see for them to be maintaining any level of interest in you. So blow him off and the bad dream blows away with him. Look, do I have to draw you a map?
Me: I’m getting it.
Mr. Groin: Good girl. Now try to remember it and we’re golden. Capisce?
Me: So now that you’ve finished scolding me, can you tell me one thing? I want to know the dead man’s name. (rushing ahead when he doesn’t respond) Look, I know that you want me uninvolved and that this request seems to go against that, but it’s really eating at me that the cops won’t tell me his name, and I think that if I know it next time I talk to one of them and then reveal that it came from my lawyer, they’ll stop seeing me as so vulnerable. That sounds like a good strategy, doesn’t it?
I wait for his answer, and it takes me a moment to figure out that he’s already hung up. What a total gland this guy is.
So I, too, hang up, and then I busy myself sending telepathic death rays (just tiny ones) at the Colonel for tattling to Mr. Groin that I’d had the temerity to be honest in conversing with Burly-Bear about the possibility of the “mystery lover” being female. Next, I bang onto the web and google around heedlessly for some clue as to the identity of “Mistah Pale.”
What a little honest rage will do to focus a girl! Less than 15 minutes later I’m jotting down the directions to The Blue Pearl—a fine Boston jewelry establishment owned by one Mr. Stephen Pearle. Fortunately, most of the office is clearing out early for some little mixer we’ve set up at the top of the Parker for our newest author (we’re publishing her first novel—about eight people who come out of one or another closet, from, like, a writer who publishes under a pseudonym to a pair of incestuous siblings—weirdly enough, it’s utterly delightful. Unfortunately, the author has become more and more of a prima donna through the editing process until I swear I lip-read my boss mouthing the C-word as she got off the phone with her the other day—god, how I live for these little moments in life!). Anyway, my plan is to rush in late and claim that I’d gotten so engrossed in proofing the prima donna’s fifty-third rewrite of her about-the-author blurb that the time had simply gotten away from me. Weak tea, true, but it gives me time to race over to the Jewelers Building before retail hours are over.
If you’ve spent any time in Boston, you’ve seen the Jewelers Building even if you don’t know it. It’s one of those old-style office buildings that sits incognito in the hurly-burly of Downtown Crossing—so dated that you practically expect to see the ghosts of men in fedoras and women in fox stoles and white gloves emerging from the place. Street people gaggle around out front with no real awareness of the mineral goodies stacked eight stories up inside (and at what discounts!). So I make my way over there, hop into the old-fashioned elevator, and emerge on the fifth floor with all sorts of anticipation about the kind of establishment our friend Mr. Suicide had run.
The Blue Pearl—picture art-deco-style scripted lettering on a semiopaque glass door, way-hay-hay down the end of a long marble hallway. The Blue Pearl favors its headline color—the blueness inside the place is so pervasive and powerful that it actually bursts forth through the shop’s very seams to shimmer off the hallway walls and floor tiles. When you enter, it’s like you’ve grown gills and can breathe underwater. Swimmy shimmers of blue light bathe the walls. Blue-white rays radiate like Ice Age sunlight from light sources hidden inside ceiling fans, which rotate lazily, catching glimmers against their deep platinum blades to create a subtle wave effect. The display cases are halogen white, cold and pure, and the diamonds and pearls, which greatly outnumber the other pieces on display, glitter and wink like Christmas.
I hesitate, just inside, intimidated by all the watery bling. Down at the other end of the shop, a man stands at the counter with his back to me, writing something. He’s slender to a fault, with those lovely slim buns that only black me
n have, and when he turns I see that he’s so black as to be almost midnight blue in the lighting. He touches at his beautiful silver tie, checking the elegant dimple just under the knot. He doesn’t smile but doesn’t look hostile, as if he’s one of those people who greet newcomers by simply drinking them in. I can tell, from some combination of his looks and manner, that when he does speak it will be with a Latin accent and, undoubtedly, a lisp.
I walk forward, wondering exactly what I’ll say when I reach him. I’m not too, too worried about the small talk; any woman who can’t dream up some reason to be poking around a jewelry shop needs to get her priorities in line. I take my time, glancing here and there (anyone interested in seeing me in a pair of chocolate-and-white diamond teardrop earrings with turquoise trim who has half a grand burning a hole in his pocket should get his tush over to The Blue Pearl, pronto), but when I look up at Mr. Slenderbuns all thoughts of making a purchase leave my head.
This is because, over his shoulder, I see a large photo on the back wall of the shop. It shows a necklace arranged on some swirls of velvet: an array of white-blue stones, six or seven of them quite sizable, strung together by an intricate netted arrangement of white gold chain. I stare at it, walking forward.
Slenderbuns notices my interest and half turns to view the photo with me. When he speaks it’s with the liquid femininity that his every movement exudes.
Slenderbuns: One of Mr. Pearle’s fabulous creations. Sixteen blue diamonds, some pear-shaped, some cushion cut, with the larger stones all a dark greyish blue with violet components. (He slides his onyx eyes from the photo to me.) Makes me feel like Nefertiti just imagining what that would be like to have around one’s neck.
Me: (still not quite making the obvious connections) Mr. Pearle made that?
Slenderbuns: (touching my arm) He didn’t make it, honey. He designed it. He had craftsmen who worked on commission. One of them did the assembly. But it’s an original Stephen Pearle.
Me: And it’s one of a kind?
Slenderbuns: (with a small gasp) No woman is going to tolerate there being two of something like that in the world. (He gestures, drawing a little dollar sign in the air with a pinky.) It’s one of a kind with this sort of piece.
Me: Do you know who owns that particular piece? (Then, realizing that that’s going to get me exactly nowhere, I hasten to go on.) I ask only because it reminds me very much of one I’ve seen lately, and I’m just wondering whether it was made at some point more than, say, eight months ago, for someone local.
Slenderbuns: (straightening the picture of the necklace) I couldn’t say. Privacy and all that. (He makes a motion like he’s turning a key in his mouth, then shrugs.) But what can I do for you? (He lets his eyes jump from my ears to my neckline to my hands, assessing, then tickles his fingers down his own long throat.) What I would do if I had a neck like yours. Nothing like this. (He shrugs a shoulder dismissively at the photo of the necklace behind him.) You need something sweet, but maybe elegant, too, just to give you something to grow into? (He taps a glossy nail on the glass and I glance down at a platinum bezel-set diamond scalloped necklace with floral detail. Damn if he ain’t dead fugging on. Now I need a platinum bezel-set diamond scalloped necklace with floral detail. Retailing at $2,450.95. Thanx, homey.)
Me: (deciding to go with an honest approach) I’m not here to shop. I just found out…(The news that I’ve just discovered that Mr. Pearle is the guy who took himself out in front of me sticks in my throat.)
Slenderbuns: (smiling foggily, but only for a moment before his eyes widen, at which he draws his head back and whispers) Oh my Lord, of course—you’re the girl! (He raises his fingers quickly to his lips—I can’t tell if it’s because he wishes he could take his words back or because he wants me to keep quiet. When he speaks it’s in a louder voice, as if to drown out his prior words.) You knew Mr. Pearle? So sorry, honey, I didn’t realize. (He comes around the counter again, graceful as a cat burglar, and takes my hands in his.) We all miss him so much. I haven’t stopped crying for a minute. (His eyes, full of curiosity, are quite dry.) Today’s the first day we’re back, and it’s really more in his honor than to sell anything. You know what I mean, hon?
Me: Umm, I can imagine.
Just as Slenderbuns turns me and starts easing me toward the door, this weird thing happens. I get this glimpse of a mirror, one of those big oval countertop jobbies that they have in jewelry stores, and something about the angle and tilt gives me a momentary shot of the space beyond the blue satin curtain that blocks the customers’ view of the back rooms. In that moment I see a woman reflected. She’s African American, or American Indian, or Asian, or, hell, maybe a concoction of all three—with hooded eyes, a flat-bridged nose, and that perfect brown skin with dark freckles that you sometimes get with people of mixed race. She’s maybe fifty-something with a sagging, tired mouth and her hair oiled into a white lady hairdo. Her clothes are the type that big-shouldered women wear—there’s some sort of scarf contraption around the neck of her paisley dress that’s pinned in place with a glittering flower or something. She’s sitting at a desk, a pair of cat-eye glasses in her hand like she’s just taken them off as she goes through a stack of accounts. Next to her arm is a wet-looking sandwich, untouched, and her thick fingernails are painted a dark purple. I see all this, sure, but the main thing that catches my eye is that she’s grieving—her face has that unmistakable air of ravage. She stares at nothing, which I realize in that flash of seeing her is because she’s been listening. I also realize in that flash that she is the reason that Slenderbuns is leading me toward the front of the shop.
Me: (looking intimately into Slenderbuns’ shiny black eyes as we walk) Maybe I shouldn’t have come by. It’s so hard to know how to react.
Slenderbuns: Of course it is. I’m so sorry, but we have to close now. You know how it is, honey, right?
I let him lead me into the corridor, then smile weakly as he kisses the air in my direction before ducking behind the door. I hear the lock turn before I have a chance to turn away.
Okay, pulp fans, in case you’re thinking that that whole scene was a tad wack, THIS is when the poop starts snowing down really weird…
I’m wandering toward the Parker House, planning on doing some heavy-duty mulling with my chin firmly planted in a glass of pinot noir whilst drifting among the cognoscenti, when I spot HIM. Yes, HIM! The Mysterious Hottie, sitting in the Starbucks on Tremont, his back against the window. He looks a little different—his jacket is more of a blazer than I remember it, and more fawn than brown, although it’s still corduroy and scrumptiously beat, and his hair looks longer than it could have grown in a couple of days—but somehow I know that it is, in fact, the Mysterious Hottie, and my recognition is confirmed when he lifts the coffee and I see his ridged knuckles and that grimy thumb.
I stop quite suddenly, much to the annoyance of the commuter crowd that stomps around me. This all happens while I’m in one of those pedestrian walkways under some construction scaffolding, and I have to backtrack to find a place where I can slip through the supports and get into the Starbucks. By the time I do, I’ve had my feet stepped on too many times to remain cool, and I nudge my way clumsily through the tables to where the Mysterious Hottie sits with his knee up. A pad rests against his raised leg and he’s sketching. His face is certainly handsome enough with its blond-brown downy chin-scruff and broad, broken nose, but it’s only when he raises his eyes that you get that weak-kneed feeling.
I have no idea what I’m going to say to him—should I accuse him of following me, which I can no longer doubt he’s been doing? Should I play it dumb, tell him I can’t place him and see if he fesses up? Fortunately, I don’t have to pick a tactic. I get to where I’m standing by the chair where his boot rests and I see in the window behind him a reflection of what he’s sketching. It’s a woman. Dark hair in an art-house bob. Prominent bones, judgmental eyebrows. Let’s get to the point, sports fans: it’s me.
He looks up. I feel
my lips tighten and my nostrils flare as we meet eyes. He does not look surprised to see me. But then why the hell should he, having anticipated that I’d be walking down that street at that moment? Because there’s no doubt in my mind that the man was waiting for me.
Then we talk:
Mysterious Hottie: Sit? (He raises himself a notch higher on his spine and lowers his foot from the chair. His voice is scruffy and very spare. You can tell that he never shouts, but, still, there’s a power in his tone. This guy could whisper “fire” in a crowded theater and cause the proverbial stampede.)
Me: (not sitting, and doing a fair-to-middling job at meeting his gaze steadily) Would it be easier to sketch me at eye level?
Mysterious Hottie: (glances from me to his sketch pad. The tiniest smile slowly traces his lips. He turns the pad so that I can see. It is me, all right, or maybe I should say it is and it isn’t. It’s a penciled portrait of a woman’s head, straight on like a mug shot. She has all my features, but now that I see the actual sketch the execution strikes me as primitive, like he’s been sketching a mannequin version of me. Still, there’s something about his use of line—he’s either an artist or an art student, and probably talented.)
Me: Am I supposed to be flattered that some stranger is drawing me?
Mysterious Hottie: Wasn’t counting on it.
Me: (dryly) Like hell. Come up with a new pickup routine. And stop following me. (I turn and knee my way through the chairs, hoping I can get out of there with the last word. I reach the door and pause, holding it open as a knot of students comes in. They are gaggling about and I’m forced to stand there, doorman style, while they bump and giggle-snort their way into the place. Not wanting to come across as frightened by the Mysterious Hottie and his otherworldly prescience, I turn my head and give him a look that I hope goes over as hard. Since I’ve discovered that I have a tendency to look pretty bloody hard when not attempting it, I figure I can pull off a glare.)