“How long have you been in the States?”
“About two months.”
“Vacation?”
“Half and half.”
“What’s the other half?”
“I’m a photographer. I’m putting together a book.”
“Oh yeah? That’s very interesting.”
“Thank you. It is.”
“How come you don’t have an accent?”
“Perhaps because my father is American.”
“Can I buy you a drink?” I asked, surprising myself more than her. “I was about to leave but if you wouldn’t mind…until your friend shows?”
“That would be nice. Thank you.”
She had a hundred-watt smile, which, combined with her frosty blue eyes, white teeth and snowy hair, blinded me like a blizzard. I waved the waitress over, sat down, and ordered another beer.
“Perrier,” said my new companion. “Five olives, please.”
“What’s with the olives today?” the waitress said, taking the words right out of my mouth.
“Pardon me?” the Swede said.
“Nothing,” the waitress grumbled. She shook her head and walked back to the bar.
“Watch,” I said, “they’ll all turn to look at you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, but people are so predictable.”
She glanced towards the bar. “You’re right.”
I smiled smugly.
The Swede shrugged, unconcerned. “I like olives.”
Recalling Melody’s earlier response I asked playfully, “Are you an Epicurean?”
“I’m fond of Epicurus,” she answered without batting an eyelash, “but I’d have to say I’m closer to an Aristotelian. And you?”
“Me? I think I have more in common with the reptilians, actually.”
She laughed and I could feel the abundance of life in her. I thought: Hey, I’m off to a pretty good start here!
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Johanna. And yours?”
“Guy.”
“Nice to meet you, Guy.”
She extended her hand across the table and I shook it. It was warm and soft and I didn’t want to let go. I wanted to run my fingertips over her red nails. I wanted to trace the lines on her palm with my pinkie. I wanted to crack her knuckles for her.
Johanna was friendly and unaffected, and I felt quickly at ease with her. Like Melody before her, she too had obviously been around. It showed in her demeanor, which was frank, easygoing, and confident.
“What kind of pictures do you take?” I asked.
“Are you interested in photography?”
“I don’t know much about it, but I saw an exhibition on Ansel Adams once and thought that pretty cool.”
“He was excellent, but that’s not the kind of stuff I do. I’m more interested in people than in landscapes. How about you, Guy?”
“I’m interested in people too,” I said. Especially gorgeous, female Swedish people. Good God! Am I having the best or the worst night of my life?
She smiled. “I mean, what do you do?”
Uh-oh…
“I’m a student.”
“And you’re majoring in—?”
“Molecular biology,” I lied.
“No kidding.”
“I am. How about you? Do you go to college?”
“I dropped out.”
“Really?” I said, relieved. “Were your parents angry?”
“No. My father never finished himself. In fact, he was thrown out.” She chuckled, as if to know her father was to know why he was thrown out.
I remembered Melody saying that she didn’t finish college either. I was encouraged. They both seemed okay to me. They were intelligent and knowledgeable, and they both were certainly living more interesting and exciting lives than me or anyone else I knew.
“I might not finish either,” I said boldly.
“Oh, why?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been thinking that maybe it’s not for me.” I didn’t want to tell her I was flunking out. It lacked conviction.
“What would you like to do, Guy?”
“Write, maybe.”
She perked up. “Write?”
“Yeah, I’m thinking about it.”
“Are you good?”
“Huh?”
“Are you good?”
I shrugged. “My sister, Doreen, thinks so, but she’s my sister so that probably doesn’t count…”
I didn’t like where our conversation was going so I began to tell Johanna all about my sisters. I told everybody about my sisters; partly because I was proud of them, but mostly because I had no résumé of my own to crow about. Perhaps I thought it made me sound humble, as if I held big plans and secrets. The big secret, of course, was that I had no plans.
“Are you writing anything now?” Johanna asked, returning to the topic of Guy, the subject I knew least about.
“What, you mean like a book?”
“Yes.”
“No,” I giggled, hoping that she was kidding.
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because.”
“You said that already.”
Damn, I knew this girl fifteen minutes and I was supposed to sabotage myself by admitting that I had no discipline, no fortitude, no ambition, and absolutely nothing to say?
I said, “How vain it is to sit down and write if you have not stood up to live.”
“Who said that?”
Crap, how did she know it wasn’t me?
“Henry David Thoreau—America’s foremost nineteenth century ne’er-do-well, anarchist, Druid, wise guy, and loafer par excellence. One of the greats.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “You know when I was a little girl my father used to read me to sleep with Walden. He called Thoreau, Saint Henry.” The recollection brought a warm smile to her face, again as if to know her father was to understand all his quirks, and to know her too.
“You really like your dad, don’t you?”
“I’m very lucky.”
“What does he do?”
She laughed. “Anything he wants, I’d say.”
“I mean, how does he earn a living?”
“Oh, he’s been retired for quite some time.”
“Really? I’m not very good at math but he can’t be much older than my dad. If you’re say—”
“I was taught gentlemen don’t ask a lady her age.”
“Right, sorry.” I guessed and started doing the math in my head.
“Don’t bother,” she chuckled.
“I’m way off?”
She nodded. “You really ought to meet him someday.”
I thought, Oh man, what’s that supposed to mean? She knew I’d never see her again. Just like Melody. What did I care about her old man?
“When?” I challenged.
“Sorry?”
“Your dad, when can I meet him?”
“I’m afraid that’s not poss—”
“Then why tell me I ought to meet him? You shouldn’t say things you don’t mean, Johanna.”
She cocked her head and sized me up with the corner of her eye, the tip of her tongue between her lips. Her look was coy, but intelligent, as if she were contemplating me. A rope of hair fell around to the front of her sweater. My eyes followed. I hadn’t noticed until then, amazingly, but Johanna had terrific Swedish breasts.
“Are you always so blunt, Guy?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t apologize. How often do you say what you believe?”
“Twice so far tonight,” I said. “But if you count my entire life I’d have to say, oh…twice.”
“You should do it more often. It looks good on you.” She finished her drink and slid the last olive into her mouth. “Goodbye, Guy. It was nice to meet you.”
“What? What about your friend?” What about me!
“I don’t think
she’s coming.”
“Aren’t you worried?”
“No. She warned me that she might not be able to make it.”
“Have another drink. What’s the hurry?”
“Thanks, but I have a big day tomorrow.”
“If you’re going picture snapping I’d like to tag along. I’ll lug your equipment. I’m really very interested—”
“Thanks but I already have a helper. Besides, didn’t you mention something about having to spend the day greeting relatives at the airport?”
I did mention it somewhere along the line, but damn, I’d have wiggled out of it. I’d have done anything to see her again.
Then, as if reading my mind, she added, “Always keep a promise, Guy.”
“Well, how long are you in town for? Maybe—”
“We’ll run into each other again?”
“It’s a big city,” I grumbled, unable to hide my disappointment.
“In a small world,” she reminded me.
“So this is it, huh?”
“This is what?”
“Exactly. Good luck, Johanna.”
Johanna stood and put on her short-waisted, black leather jacket. She was tall and stunningly attractive. She smiled sweetly and broke my heart.
“You too, Guy. I hope you start writing soon.”
“Why?”
“Because I believe a person needs a vehicle.”
“I have a truck and a mountain bike,” I rejoined petulantly.
“Don’t be juvenile. If cars or bicycling were your loves then it would be okay, but they’re not. Your vehicle is what you do passionately. It takes you places you couldn’t go otherwise. It fuels meaning and generates fate. Anything can be a vehicle. Mine is my camera. For another it might be horses, or cooking, or bird watching. Painting, computers, or the martial arts. For you it might be writing a book.”
“In other words, get a hobby, Guy.”
She frowned crossly at me. “No, I don’t mean a hobby.”
But I was angry too, so I fixed her with a cross look of my own. “What did you study that year in college, child psychology? Is this your idea of therapy? All I need to do is start collecting Kachina dolls or something and my whole life will change, is that it?”
“You’re a big boy, Guy. I’m not going to tell you what to do. I’m not your mother. I’m your…friend. I want you to see the bigger picture, that’s all.”
“Excuse me, Johanna, but you barely know me and have no intention of seeing me again, so I resent you calling me your friend. I take my friends a little more seriously than that.” I discreetly left out the fact that I had no friends—but if I did, I’d have been a loyal one I liked to think. “And that crap about the big picture—”
“All right, Guy, have it your way. Maybe I was being a little presumptuous.”
“Hey, what makes you say that? Not at all. Maybe while you’re at it you can tell me what I should get my sisters for Christmas.”
I was overreacting but I couldn’t help it. I liked her. She was intelligent, interesting, and beautiful. My heart felt like it had been dropped into a Cuisinart. I knew I had no real reason to be upset. She didn’t owe me anything. But damn, she didn’t even give me a chance. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Wilkinson and Fielding watching us with interest. That didn’t help either.
Johanna didn’t reply to my outburst right away. Instead she studied me with her high-voltage eyes, searching me with her two blue lamps, looking for I didn’t know what. Finally, she said, “Don’t confuse indignation and sentimentality with being honest.”
I thought of myself as a lot of things, but sentimental was not one of them. Self-pitying, okay. Simpering, sure. Annoying, absolutely. But sentimental? Nah.
“You think I’m sentimental?”
“Do you care what I think?”
“Should I?”
Johanna shrugged in surrender and stuffed her handbag under her arm. “Maybe not,” she said. “But I do think you ought to care about something in this life, that’s all.”
I wanted to care about you, you Swedish meatball! “So not only am I sentimental, I’m selfish too, huh?”
“They often go together.”
“I don’t get why—”
“That’s right, Guy. You don’t get it.”
She left the words hovering in the air as she turned and walked away. Dumbfounded, I watched Johanna weave her way through the crowd and disappear out the door.
Crap.
I glanced over at Wilkinson and Fielding. They were smiling and holding up their hands, clapping demurely.
Double crap.
I got up and went to the restroom. A guy, especially this Guy, could only handle so much rejection in one night. It was time to call it quits. And if there was another beautiful babe waiting at my table when I returned, I swore I’d just drop my head, grab my jacket, and bolt for the door.
I was a fool to think for even a moment that I had a chance with either Melody or Johanna. I was out of my league, out of my lane, out of my mind! I splashed some water on my face, dried off with a paper towel, and returned to my table.
The Flake
The sight of my vacant table made me feel lonely. I snatched my jacket from the back of my chair, left some more money, and headed for the door. I saw Fielding waving me over. A glutton for punishment, I crossed the bar to see what was on his mind.
Fielding put out his hand. “No hard feelings, Guy?”
I shook his hand. “No feelings at all,” I lied.
I felt a lot of things as I stood there. I felt Fielding and Wilkinson’s dates scouring the length of my person looking for defects, for one. I also felt sad, depressed, and absurd.
Fielding said, “Who was the girl?”
“Johanna.”
“Pretty.”
“Beautiful,” his date said, a bogus-blond, cherry-lipped, powder-faced Vogue wanna-be. I supposed that many guys thought her attractive, but not this Guy. She looked starched and pasty, as if she had been squeezed out of a tube.
Fielding said, “Where did she go?”
“Home.”
“She pick you up too?” Wilkinson snickered.
I didn’t answer.
“Come to my party tomorrow night,” Fielding said.
“Thanks, but I got relatives coming into town. A bunch of cousins.”
“Bring ‘em. It’s gonna be big.”
“Maybe. Thanks.”
“Your sisters too.”
“Of course. I gotta go. Take it easy guys. Nice to meet you girls.”
I heard them giggling as I walked away. People make me puke, I thought.
At the door I found a jam-up caused by an attractive Asian-looking woman with a helmet of shiny black hair, big dark eyes, and a small, thin-lipped but expressive mouth. She had stopped just inside the bar and was searching the place as if deciding to stay or leave. She wore a gray wool jacket over a short black dress with long, black woolen stockings that ran up to the middle of a pair of shapely thighs. The tattered pieces of my heart flew back together like a swarm of bees returning to their hive. I thought, Don’t look, just drop your head and bolt!
Thighs…
“Move it, honey,” said the bouncer who was seated on a stool at the door checking IDs. He had the physique of a weight lifter and a little blond mustache that looked like a strip of badly matted shag carpet.
She turned to him. “Excuse me,” she said, “did you see a pretty blond woman here?”
The bouncer snorted and looked at her as if she were nuts. “About every thirty seconds, darling. Are you coming or going? You’re in the way.”
“Just a moment, please,” she said, and scanned the bar on tiptoe.
I tapped her on the shoulder. She spun around with surprising speed, knocking my hand away. A spark seemed to fly from her eye. I put up my hands and took a cautious step back.
“Are you looking for Johanna?” I hazarded.
“Yes! Is she here?”
“No.”
“Oh…”
“She left about ten minutes ago. She waited for you for about an hour but…”
“Yes, I know,” she said regretfully, “I got stuck at an appointment.”
“Hey, you two,” the bouncer snarled, rising from his stool. “Sit or split, will ya.”
She grabbed my hand and led me out the door. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Wilkinson and Fielding staring at us in amazement. Once in the clear she let go of my hand and asked, “Did Johanna say where she was going?”
“She said she was going home.”
I started to feel the evening chill and began to put on my jacket, but one of the sleeves had turned inside out somehow. She saw me fumbling with it, and without a thought, deftly untucked the sleeve and opened the jacket so that I could slip my arm through. In the process she stepped into the light of a nearby decorative street lamp, and I was able to get a better look at her. I groaned. She was exquisite.
“Are you a friend of hers?” she asked.
“Yeah…sort of.”
I recalled Johanna having called me her friend, and me making it into a moral issue. What was my problem?
“Hmm,” she said. “I didn’t know she had any men friends in this town.”
My heart lurched. An accent. Oh my God, another one!
“Where are you from?” I asked, almost demanded.
“Japan.”
“Japan!”
She smiled at my astonishment. Her nose crinkled and her eyes opened wide, swallowing me whole.
“You’ve never met anyone from Japan before, I’m guessing.”
“Until tonight I had never met anyone from Sweden before, either.” Or Australia, I thought.
“Oh, so you only just met Johanna. That explains it. Still, it is odd…”
“Odd?”
“She doesn’t normally talk to strangers. Especially in a bar.”
“That wasn’t my impression.”
“Oh? What was your impression?”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “She wasn’t exactly shy.”
She chuckled. “Hardly that. What I meant was that she is kind of a loner and serious-minded. Most men you meet in a bar are rather, well, flaky.”
“I thought she was interesting,” I said, determined not to be a flake. “She, uh, she likes to look at the big picture.”
“Yes, she’s a photographer you know.”
“She told me,” I nodded. “But she was talking about life, I think. Life, fate, vehicles… Whatever the heck that means.” I said in the way of levity.
Say Uncle Page 4