by Allen Wyler
Now out of earshot of Breeze, Arnold lowers his voice. “When I pay for this I don’t want her to see the credit card and I don’t want you to say the name on it. Understand?”
The clerk gives him a knowing nod: the brotherhood at work. “As you wish, sir.”
Breeze inspects him again now that he’s wearing the full suit. “Have shoes to go with this?” She stares at his sneakers.
Fifteen minutes later, as Arnold signs the credit card charge, Breeze instructs the clerk, “Please have them ready for a five o’clock pickup.”
Flashing an ingratiating smile, “Yes, ma’am, very well.”
10.
A few doors from the men’s clothing store—yet still within the Bellagio shopping arcade—Breeze pauses at a display window. Standing next to her, Arnold—still in shock from shelling out two and a half grand plus change for a wool suit and dress shoes—realizes the display contains nothing but purses, all of which appear to be exact replicas of each other except for size. He follows her eyes to one particular handbag prominently displayed atop a sleek pedestal. The smaller mates are scattered at haphazard angles, filling the wide interior window sill. The purse of interest is black leather with an oversized square silver clasp in the shape of a stylized letter. He and Breeze stand side by side, engulfed in shopping-mall white-noise from myriad voices of various amplitudes echoing off of marble and plate glass, the clicking of heels, the squeals of children, and the flow of money.
The intensity in her eyes as she admires the pedestal display grabs him. “You like it?” he asks impulsively.
She nods, mesmerized. “It’s gorgeous.”
He cranes his neck for a better angle, searching for a price tag. No luck. What the hell, can’t be more than fifty bucks, right? For some reason—perhaps an idea gleaned from casual conversation—he believes women love purses. He’s never understood that particular fascination, but hey, whatever. He says, “Let me buy it for you.”
Breeze turns slowly toward him, the earlier pleasure gone from her face. “No, you won’t.”
The words sting more than a slap on the cheek. His face burns in sympathetic response. Momentarily stunned, he stares at her until the words, “Why not?” stumble out. The feeling of being chastised like a naughty little boy hovers over him, inciting shame. He has no idea what he just did to deserve such a reprimand.
She studies his face closely, as if searching for something she doesn’t find, because a second later her eyes melt into unmistakable sympathy.
Oy! So humiliating, her ability to so easily recognize his pain and awkwardness. Why am I so fucking transparent? It’s so… belittling.
She motions for him to follow her to a red velvet settee in the center of the promenade. “Come here.” She sits. To him the settee seems so garish, so over the top, so Las Vegas. Yeah, the piece of furniture is so damn inappropriate it suddenly seems perfectly logical to belong here.
He follows like an obedient grade-school pupil about to be lectured by a playground monitor. In a moment of strange detachment, he studies the piece of furniture on which he’s about to sit. Well, you asked for this, didn’t you? How else are you going to learn these things?
She pats the seat next to her. “Sit down, Toby. We need to talk.”
A crate of butterflies are released into his stomach. This discussion—or whatever it’ll be—can’t be good. He settles in next to her, leans forward, elbows on knees, eyes straight ahead.
For almost a minute they sit in silence, leg to leg, as shoppers—all supremely gleeful to be gorging themselves on Las Vegas’ air-conditioned palm-tree excesses—swarm past.
Breeze gently takes hold of his hand, the move compelling him to face her. There she is, studying him again, but this time with an expression too complex to gauge. Gone is the disappointment.
“Oh, Toby.” She sighs. “You asked me to teach you things, so for what it’s worth, here’s your next lesson. Please listen carefully, because this one is really really important.” She licks her lips and inhales.
The weight of the moment forces him to look away again.
“I know you like me. I can see it in the way you look at me, talk to me, and try to please me.”
He waits for the “but.”
Silence.
He opens his mouth to say something but she squeezes his hand again, silencing him. “No, listen. Don’t say a word.”
The shopper cacophony seems to reverberate louder now, to the point of becoming noxious. Again, he wonders what he did wrong.
Doesn’t matter. Just listen to what she’s going to tell you, because it’s better to learn these things here while you’re an invisible person rather than back home as bumbling Arnold Gold. This is, after all, the purpose of this trip. Pay attention to your tutor.
He’s thankful for one thing, at least: Howie isn’t here to witness this.
“Here’s the deal. These feelings toward me are natural. For no other reason than I’m the first girl you’ve slept with. It’s great that it means something to you, but—and here’s the thing—you cannot let it cloud your emotions. Know why? Because we—you and I—aren’t childhood sweethearts who finally got enough nerve to do it. Meaning, we don’t have to kid ourselves into believing we’re in love as a way to handle our guilt. You following any of this?”
He shrugs. She’s right and he knows it.
“In truth, we didn’t know each other existed until I knocked on your hotel room door yesterday and stripped you of your virginity. You experienced something you’ve wanted to experience for a long time, and you’re grateful, but on the other hand, you’re having problems with guilt. And now you feel new emotions that are hard for you to categorize and, perhaps, deal with.”
He starts to open his mouth, but she stops him again. “No, don’t try to deny it. I know it’s true. I’ve seen it all morning in your eyes. Don’t worry, you’re like most normal men in this regard. Hey,” another hand squeeze, “take it as a compliment, not a criticism.” She shoulder-bumps him as a way to dilute the humiliation her words cause. In spite of the wisdom of her words, they simply underscore the magnitude of his naïveté with male-female relationships.
Then again, he appreciates her sensitivity to care about this portion of his education. And now, viewing it in this light, he feels a stronger attachment to her more intimate than sex. In light of what she just said, it is stupid and counterproductive, he realizes.
“Thing you need to understand is that most men place more emotional attachment to sex than women. Seriously.” She shoulder-bumps again. “And, like I just said, because I’m your first, and because I’m trying to please you as a customer, it’s natural for you to feel attachment to me. I’m sorry if hearing this is hurtful. I really am, because I like you, too. But, here’s the take-home message: never, and I mean never, let sex cloud your thinking. Got it?”
He nods. Not because he buys it, but because he knows she’s probably right.
“Some day you’ll find a woman to love and have sex with, but until then, enjoy sex with women for the simple reason that it’s an important part of life, right up there with eating, sleeping, and breathing. I’ll teach you how to please a woman. When I finish with you, girls will be shoving each other aside to be next to you. After all, sex is a primitive urge. We all need it or we start going a little crazy. Same goes for both men and women. Understand what I’m telling you?”
He nods. “Yeah, okay, but I gotta ask something. Okay?”
“Anything.”
He hesitates, debating the wisdom of what he’s about to ask. What he wants to ask is, “do you feel anything—anything at all—for me?” but decides that would be totally uncool, especially coming directly on the heels of her little lecture. So, instead, he says, “That purse… do me a favor and let me buy it for you.”
She cuts herself off from a knee-jerk answer, seems to reconsider. “You have any idea what that is?”
He feels another blush ascend his face and hates this kind of questio
n. Makes him feel so totally stupid because the unstated implication is: no, of course you don’t.
“Since you put it that way, obviously not. Least not in the same sense as you.”
She shakes her head a bit woefully. “It’s a Fendi, Toby. They’re expensive. They’re nothing but trophy items. In reality they’re no better or worse than any other well-made bag from some no-name designer working for some non-name leather factory in Bangladesh or wherever the labor costs are cheapest. See that little clasp, the little chrome rectangle holds the purse shut?”
A rhetorical question, he knows, so doesn’t bother with even a sarcastic retort.
“That puppy is what you’d be spending two and a half thousand dollars for the honor of owning. Same price as your suit. Think about that a moment. And the woman who buys it? She wants it for show, knowing when she’s out with other women, they’ll immediately recognize it as a badge of feminine success. Believe me, the women who own the real deal are able to spot a knock-off at ten-thousand yards. And when you flash the real merchandise you send a message to the competition that you’re successful at doing what most of those woman are oriented to do: land The Big One. Get it? Besides, look at you, you’re what, early twenties? How can you afford to throw around that kind of money on a woman you’ll never see again once you blow this town?”
There it is again, another—although a bit more oblique—probe into his finances. Is he supposed to counter by saying he can afford it? He ignores answering the question with, “Let’s make this easy. I want to buy it.”
She recoils slightly, releasing his hand. “After all I just said?”
“Hey, look, consider it a gift, a special thanks for your gentleness last night. You could’ve made things harder.” Aw, Jesus, did I actually say that?”
She laughs and shoulder-pokes him again. “Seriously doubt that.”
Now they’re both laughing.
She shakes her head, giving a casual shrug. “Hey, your money, you can do with it what you want.”
“Good. That’s settled.”
She did raise a question he’s never before had the chance to ask and suspects isn’t something a guy—certainly not Howie—could answer. “Long as we’re on the subject of how women act, answer me this: do women dress for other women or do they dress for men?”
She laughs again. “Think about what I just told you. Most women—unless they’re out trolling for sex—want other women see who they are. Stop and look around on any downtown city street and you’ll be able to know right away who are the executives, secretaries, students, or whatever. Same thing with guys. How we dress shows our personal identification, tells you a lot. Who has money, who has style, who has nerve. Artists, professionals, on and on.”
“Let’s go in and get your purse. What’s the name again? Fender? Like a car?”
11.
Breeze’s right hand rests lightly on Arnold’s left arm as they glide into the restaurant, a fashionable five minutes past their reservation time, Arnold decked out in his new suit, crisp white shirt, and black Ferragamo loafers, Breeze in a black, form-fitting, clingy, silky material with spaghetti straps, a single elegant strand of reasonably sized black pearls paired with black pearl earrings, a small sequined clutch in hand. Her gait is strikingly elegant, chin up, shoulders back, yet with a distinct air of casual confidence. In essence, classy. The black fabric sets off her flawless naturally tan skin and white teeth.
Arnold is amped on million-buck exhilaration, a totally foreign feeling infused in him the moment he slipped into his butter-soft Zegna, the fabric flowing over his body in ways he’s never imagined possible. He finally gets what a custom-tailored suit is all about. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s going to run out and repeat the exercise anytime soon. One of these numbers will do for the foreseeable future. That’s for damned sure. Still…
They approach the reception podium, where a slender African-American hostess is conversing in hushed tones into a cordless phone, her left finger up in a just-a-minute signal. Classical music plays softly from recessed hidden speakers, competing with the irregular clink of silver against china, the pop of a cork, and the low white noise of dinner conversations. He catches a whiff of garlic, yeast, and grilling meat all mixed together and an appetizingly pleasant bouquet.
Breeze squeezes his arm: go ahead.
The hostess is off the phone now, he realizes, waiting for one of them to speak.
He stares back, at a loss for words.
She smiles. “Reservation?”
Jesus, Arnold…. “Yes.”
He can’t remember which name he gave and wonders if he was stupid enough to unwittingly use Gold? Panic time. “For two,” he says, stalling.
The hostess glances down at the reservation book next to the phone. “Name?”
Breeze eyes him with a bemused smile, surmising he’s caught in a trap of his own devising.
“Taylor?” he mutters, making a question out of what should be a straightforward answer.
The hostess smiles, extends a thin, aerobics-toned arm toward the restaurant interior. “This way, please.”
They weave single-file through tables, mostly groups of two to four diners, the restaurant almost to capacity with the early-bird seating. The majority are couples, some strangely underdressed—it seems to Arnold, now that he’s decked out in a new suit—for this restaurant. Open shirts and Levis. Is there no dress code here? All of which makes him feel slightly superior. Not just the new clothes generate this ebullience. It’s also from having such a whiplash-producing beauty clinging to his arm. Are people actually watching them out of the corners of their eyes? Is that a hint of envy from the middle-aged man leaning against the bar? For the first time in his life he feels not so ugly and undesirable. Perhaps even a tad cool. All topped off by a stunning woman, even if she is a rental.
Hey, might even do this again in a couple months. Perhaps a different escort? Hell, there’re a couple web pages to pick from. This thought sparks another hint of guilt for being mentally unfaithful to her. Then again, why feel guilty? No reason. Especially in view of her warning to not harbor emotional ties to her. Perhaps she’s right, he’s forced to admit. Still, he can’t help but feel an ever-growing bond to her. She’s been so good to him. Is it a crime to appreciate kindness? He thinks not.
“Here we are,” the hostess says.
Arnold steps to the far side of the table and pulls out his chair to sit a second after he realizes he just cut a waiter off from doing that. Fucked up already. By now he’s beyond blushing. After all, he reminds himself, since he won’t see anyone here again after this trip, what difference does it make? And as far as the staff go, he seriously doubts they could care less. Probably they don’t even notice. Nonetheless, he feels bad about hitting another social road bump at high speed. But hey, this is supposed to be a learning experience, right? So, he’s learning.
He drops into the chair, pops his fine-linen napkin, drops it on his lap, and is mortified to see the waiter—who just did the same for Breeze—stop in mid reach and retract his hand. Thankfully the waiter is tactful enough to cover the move.
Mom and Dad’s fault, dammit. They should’ve taught him these finer social skills.
That’s not really fair. They tried. Sort of. Maybe they didn’t know better? Strange, not knowing the limits of one’s parents’ social skills.
He steals a glance at neighboring tables and wonders if other customers realize Breeze is a paid escort? If so, what do they think of him? That here’s a guy too nerdy and inadequate to be with a looker any other way? That he’s a married man bored with his wife? Or a horny Silicon Valley guru passing through Las Vegas? A player? Does it matter?
To his right, two tables over, a man in his mid-fifties entertains a woman close to, if not spot on, Breeze’s age. She’s clinging to his every word. Yeah, definitely hired. What other explanation could there be for a woman that age to be with such an old geezer? Well, she could be a gold digger or a daughter,
but he doubts either. Then again, he reminds himself, he’ll be that age one day, so don’t be so judgmental.
“May I bring you folks a drink?” the hostess asks.
Arnold raises his eyebrows at Breeze. She nods for him to answer. What? He has no idea what she prefers to drink, so he says to the hostess, “Yes.”
The hostess smiles, like, you’re kidding, right?
After a few beats Breeze bails him out with, “A margarita please, over crushed ice.”
“And you, sir?”
Huh! Mostly a beer drinker. How weird would that seem in a fancy place like this? Probably totally out of place.
“They do a great martini here,” Breeze suggests encouragingly.
He’s heard of the drink but doesn’t know the ingredients other than some sort of alcohol. What the hell. He nods approval to the hostess.
“Twist instead of an olive,” Breeze adds.
“I’ll let your waiter know.” The hostess vanishes into plush surroundings.
Breeze waits until they’re alone again. “That’s another thing: women like take-charge-type guys. Tomorrow night ask me what I’d like to drink and then order for me. Hey, look, relax. You look very sharp in your new suit.”
This compliment buoys him. Slightly. Until he realizes he can’t begin to initiate conversation. What do you talk about when sitting around a fancy restaurant? Everything that flashes through his mind seems trite and senseless or way too geeky. He wishes he had a menu as an excuse to do something. Anything to serve as a distraction from sitting here with such a moronic, vacuous smile. This, he tells himself, is exactly the reason you’re here: to learn. He decides to throw himself on the mercy of the court with, “You’re seeing the problem first hand. I don’t know how to act when I’m with you. With any woman, for that matter. I can’t come up anything to discuss that you might find interesting.”
Smiling sympathetically, she reaches across to pat his hand, a move that seems more motherly than girlfriendly. “No problem. Look at it this way: people love to talk about themselves. Ask questions, get them to make the conversation, listen to what they say and ask more questions. It’s easy once you get the hang of it.”