"It was really good," she said, nodding. "Thank you."
"I wish you weren't going away."
Long pause. "Yeah."
She left the table and headed upstairs into the study.
Joe wanted to get mad, but wasn't really sure what to get mad about. She had been there physically, even said that she had enjoyed dinner, but that was it. There was nothing else.
The next morning, he got up extra early to see her off before she headed for the airport. She said goodbye, gave him a kiss at the door. He told her to be careful, and when he did, it looked like she was about to cry.
"Are you okay?" he said, taking her hand.
And then just as quickly, she was totally composed. "Yep. See ya." Then she was gone.
That evening after work, he texted Malcolm, Chick, and Todd to see if anyone wanted to meet at the bar.
* * *
Joe had forgotten all about Chin Tiki night at the Midlands. Until he walked in and saw garishly flowered Hawaiian shirts and muumuus all over the place, along with Gilligan hats, vintage sarongs, fezzes, clamdiggers, tapa-cloth cabana sets, grass skirts, and even a coconut-shell brassiere or two. There was something shocking about all that flesh that hadn't been exposed to the sun in months, suddenly out in the open. It was the kind of pale flesh that reminded him of a baby opossum he had once uncovered under the shed in his backyard when he was a child. He remembered it squirming and squinting at Joe and the horrible brightness he had brought into its world. Joe saw the same pinched expressions on some of the partygoers: pasty, doughy white people who had finally shed their parkas after an interminable winter, and were now exposing things that may have been better left covered.
There were occasional younger people sprinkled throughout the crowd, but mostly, it was Chick's broken hipsters: graying goatees, shaved heads (make male-pattern baldness a statement!), flowered bandeaus holding in thickish waists (though not uncomely), pinup-style jet-black hair with bangs, and slyly arcane cultural references growing fainter with each passing generation. And Joe was one of them. This wasn't a problem, but it was interesting to see his peer group aging. Again, he had to wonder, was this healthy? Were people supposed to be doing this in their late thirties and forties and fifties?
Exotica music was blasting over the speakers. DJ Dave Detroit was spinning Martin Denny or Robert Drasnin or Arthur Lyman, he couldn't tell which. People were milling around in brightly colored clusters, holding tiki mugs or plastic cups filled with rum-potent zombies, daiquiris, and mai tais. Over in the corner, a man in a Gauguin shirt was carving a small tiki with a hatchet. Wood chips were flying as people stood by observing. It was fascinating, but Joe wondered if hatchets and alcoholic beverages in the same room was a good idea. Only time would tell.
It was actually a fun scene, the kind that usually made Joe happy, but tonight he felt disoriented. He had been hoping for just a quiet drink with his friends and now he was thrust into the middle of a Polynesian shindig. He wasn't even wearing anything vaguely tropical. (It was a vintage Pendleton shirt, for he had not made the switch to lighter clothing yet, though winter was long over.) Still, there was something about this music, about the crowd, that was lifting his disposition. He gave himself over to that, headed up to the bar, elbowed his way through, and ordered a zombie. Someone tapped him on the shoulder and he saw that Malcolm and Chick were right behind him.
"Hey. You guys want drinks?"
"Whatever you're getting."
Joe ordered two more, paid, and headed back through the crowd, carrying the drinks, carefully triangled in two hands, hoping no one would jostle him. For a moment, he couldn't see the guys. Then Malcolm rushed over to grab two of the drinks and together they walked to the giant papier-mâché Moai where Chick, in a bright yellow shirt emblazoned with thick-tongued orange flowers, had stationed himself.
"Ouch," said Chick. "Check out Bettie Page over there. Hot!"
Malcolm and Joe both said it at the same time: "Which one?"
"I don't even care," said Chick. "Damn it. I need to be more tiki. Or indie. Or alternative. Or retro. Or DIY. Or something. These girls won't give me the time of day."
"Why wouldn't they?" said Malcolm. "They're interesting women at an interesting event. You have things in common. You're both here."
"You're right," said Chick. "Fuck it, I'm going in." He walked off toward the Bettie Pages.
Joe watched him approach. It appeared as if Chick was complimenting the left Bettie on her tiki mug, which was a cross between an Easter Island head and Jack Lord from Hawaii Five-O.
"Look at that," said Joe. "Our little Chick, going off to pick up women."
"They grow up so fast," said Malcolm.
Todd walked up to join the two of them, carrying a very dark, strong-looking drink in a plastic skull mug. "Gentlemen."
"What are you drinking?" said Malcolm. "It looks heinous."
"A black mamba. I think it's dark rum, vodka, and black sambuca. And, for the record, it is heinous."
Chick rejoined the group.
"That was fast," said Joe, dryly. "You get the digits, dude?"
Chick shot him a look. "I'm going to ignore that."
Joe smiled.
"I see how it is. I'm out there, trying to make things happen, and you mock me."
"I'm sorry, Chick," said Joe, sighing dramatically. "So, how did it go with the young woman over there?"
"For your information, she found me quite entertaining. But she's not ready yet. I'm going to do a pop-in later, after she's had more mai tais. I'm extra amusing after numerous strong tropical drinks. Then I'll make my move." Just then, a middle-aged couple walked by, each holding one hand of a small Asian boy, about six years old. They were all wearing matching gardenia-print aloha shirts. Mom and Dad, who were not Asian, were each holding a zombie in their free hand.
"Pretty darned cute," said Malcolm.
Joe nodded. "Yep, even to evil childless people like us."
"Really? Why are we evil?" asked Todd.
"Oh, I was just kidding," said Joe, caught off guard by the comment. "I was just having this conversation with Ana the other day about how we're so bad that we don't have kids." He had tried not to make air quotes around the words "so bad," but did it anyway. There were too many concepts and actions and phrases whose old meanings had been commandeered and bullied into newer, ironic, or cynical meanings.
"I think I've had that same conversation with Gina," Malcolm said. "Our decision to not breed has not been a popular one."
A moment passed. Todd held up his hands. "Well, don't look at me. Ain't gonna happen here."
"Nice," said Chick. "You're all barren. Shooting blanks. Wonderful."
"It is odd," said Malcolm. "Four men, all in our thirties—"
"Don't forget Grandpap here," said Chick, pointing a thumb at Joe.
Joe shot him a stiff smile.
Malcolm continued: "And none of us have children? That's a fairly rare occurrence. Go to a bar most anywhere and I bet you'd be hard pressed to find four men in our demographic who aren't dads many times over."
"Well, what's wrong with us?" said Joe.
Todd looked vaguely annoyed. "What's wrong with us? There's nothing wrong with us. I just don't want kids. No thank you. It's been done. Ultimately, what's the difference if I have children? We're all dying from the moment we're born, so why pull more people into this mess?"
Chick reeled as if the breath had been punched out of him. "Jesus. That's harsh. What a fucking nihilist."
"I'm not saying my opinion doesn't have consequences," said Todd pointedly. "It's why I broke up with Dorinda. She suddenly decided that she wanted children. I didn't. Hard to find a compromise there."
"You could've gotten one of those hairless dogs," said Chick. "Looks like a baby, but you don't have to send it to college."
Everyone ignored Chick, except Joe. "Trotting out the B material, are we?" Zing.
"How about you?" asked Malcolm.
Joe shrugged. "I don't know. Just n
ever felt the calling. It just seems like something that you should really want." He paused to take a sip of his drink. "It's totally life-changing. I guess for me, I figured it would keep me from doing the things I wanted to do—"
Chick interrupted: "Like what, Keen? Being a poor beatnik writer?"
Joe didn't let on that Chick had zinged him back.
"Let him finish," said Todd.
"I don't know. Almost everyone I know who has children has let go of their dreams. They end up transferring them all onto the kid."
Malcolm, happy to serve as moderator, chimed in: "Maybe that's okay. We're not all going to achieve our dreams. Sometimes our dreams are ridiculous things that we don't even deserve to achieve. We just want them."
Joe kept talking: "You're right. But is it that bad to consider yourself when it comes to your life? I used to get so mad at people when they said childless people are selfish, but now I'm starting to think that they're right. I am selfish."
"It's true," said Chick. "You are obsessed with yourself. As evidenced by the self-pleasuring incident of a few months ago."
"I think we're all forgetting the genetic imperative," said Malcolm. "We're supposed to procreate. Animals don't think about it. They keep the species going. So we, who don't procreate but could, are considered freaks."
Joe tried hard not to look shocked that Malcolm used the very same word that he and Ana had used. One of us. One of us.
"I'll give you that," said Todd, obviously anxious to jump in. Joe had never seen him so passionate about one of their conversations. "But we're also the only animals that know we're going to die. That's a reason why having kids is actually selfish. You have kids, so in your head you get to live on after you die." He snorted disdainfully. "Deal with mortality, people. It's here. You're still going to die. Oh yeah, and so are your children."
"Listen to this fucking guy!" bellowed Chick. "It's like I'm in a Bergman flick. I'm at a luau with Death."
"Sorry if you can't handle reality," said Todd.
Joe continued, "I just think a lot of people do it because they think they're supposed to. The world makes you feel that way. When are you two going to have kids?" he said in a high-pitched voice. "We've heard that from my folks forever."
Malcolm, who had been married for nine years, rolled his eyes. "Same with Gina and me."
Joe went on, trying not to get too worked up, "After a while, they didn't even care if we got married. We had complete permission to pop out a little grandbastard. I'm sorry, but that's no reason to reproduce—to shut your parents up. But I think a lot of people do it because of the pressure. Ana finally told her mother that it wasn't going to happen, so she better get used to the idea."
"What if Ana suddenly wanted one?" said Malcolm.
Joe exhaled loudly. "Jeez. It would be a surprise. What about Gina?"
"She says no, but I guess it could change. Who knows?"
Joe thought for a moment. "Honestly? If I was absolutely truthful with myself, I'd have to say that if Ana suddenly wanted a child, I'd probably cave."
Chick threw his hands up. "So everything you just said is total bullshit? You hypocrite. You have no sack. Why wouldn't you stick to your guns?"
"Because I love Ana and because I'd like to stay with her?" said Joe, a little meekly.
This infuriated Chick. "So you'd have a kid just so your woman wouldn't leave you? Great. Not very fair to the child either. A father who hates his guts."
Malcolm cut in: "Joe would be fine. Lots of guys wind up being fathers even when they think they don't want to and they're good dads who love their kids. You just rise to the occasion."
Todd shook his head adamantly. "Wrong. Not everyone rises to the occasion. Lots of awful parents out there fucking up their children with repressed resentment over their own bad choices."
Incredulous, Chick wagged his head. "Man, you're a cookie full of arsenic. I'd hate to take a bite out of you."
Joe smiled at Chick, recognizing the quote from The Sweet Smell of Success, one of their shared favorite films.
Chick waved his hands at them, disgusted. "Fuck all you guys. I can't wait to be a dad. I love my nephews and nieces. They're so fun. I get along with them great."
"Do you all sit at the kids table?" said Joe.
Chick shook his head again. "You're all dead inside. I pity you. Just wait, you'll be sorry. Unlike you monsters, I'll have someone to take care of me in my old age."
"Ha!" said Todd. "Are you kidding? By that time, you will have long since alienated all your children."
"Yes," said Malcolm, laughing. "They'll have spent everything they have on therapists."
"They'll be fighting over your Hollywood fortune as you lie gasping in a nursing home," said Joe, enjoying it as they all piled on Chick.
"Oh really? Whereas you guys will die in some independent-living senior apartment." Chick chuckled spitefully. "Yeah. You'll be so independent, no one will even know when you're dead. Oh, that's right—your neighbors will know, when the smell gets bad enough."
"Just a reminder," said Todd, "I won't care. I'll be dead."
Chick shook his head as if they were making the mistake to end all mistakes. "Suit yourselves. You guys are putting the last nails in the coffin of intelligent America. Not enough smart people are reproducing. And if they are, it's just one little prodigy with a quirky name, that's it. Next stop, art school and homosexual experimentation."
Joe had to laugh. "Damn it. Chick may be right. All the people we complain about? Stupid America? They're the ones doing all the reproducing. Creating smaller, dumber, ruder versions of themselves."
Chick drained his zombie and belched. "Yes. Thank you. I hope all you godless child-haters are pleased with yourselves."
They all stopped talking as an obese, sweating, red-faced man in a pink aloha shirt walked past, wearing a tall furry blue hat with horns sticking out of the sides.
"Was that a Loyal Order of Water Buffaloes cap?" said Chick. "From The Flintstones?"
"I think so," said Todd. "That's really . . . something."
Suddenly distressed, Joe addressed the group: "Do you guys ever wonder why we like all this stuff?"
"What stuff?" said Malcolm.
"I don't know. All of it. This."
Chick seemed confused. "What's this?"
Joe shrugged, held his hands out in front of him. "I don't know. This. This party. The idea of this party. What is it? Is this how we define ourselves? We're here at this tiki party, listening to goofy music that someone's playing from weird old record albums. I'm seeing people dressed like they're from a sixties cartoon show, or wearing Mexican wrestling masks. I've already seen tattoos of Sid Haig, R2D2, a unicorn puking a rainbow, a cross-dressing Bugs Bunny, Pee-wee Herman, a gay Batman and Robin, and then there's the sixteen Bettie Pages walking around—"
"Amen to that," said Chick.
"You mean ironic appreciation of junk culture?" said Todd, nodding. "What's bad is good, what's wrong is right? Enjoying crap and mediocrity? Blithely snickering at everything from a safe and superior distance?"
"Yes. Exactly," said Joe. "Just what makes us like these things? What the hell happened to us?"
"We're victims of our generation."
"I think low culture is interesting," said Malcolm. "Especially when it's mixed with good stuff. Pastiche and such."
"Ugh, don't you start getting all postmodern on me," said Todd, holding up a fist. "So help me, I'll slug the first person who mentions Michel Foucault."
"Who?" said Malcolm and Chick, at the same time.
Joe continued: "I mean, I'm the first to admit that I love this stuff, but when is it going to end? This worshipping of ephemera? How long will our generation be obsessed with the past, with stuff that barely meant anything when it happened? That's remembered only because it's old or bad or weird or kooky. I mean, come on, I'm making fun of so-called stupid America? I'm at a fucking luau in Detroit."
"Christ, what is with everyone tonight? I'm out," m
uttered Chick, as he headed off back to the Bettie Pages.
Just then, across the bar, Joe noticed a group of twentysomethings. A reedy, tattooed urchin girl in a knitted cap and a seventies-glasses-wearing boy with a giant beard and a multicolored hoodie and a few others. The whole group was hoodied and skullied and kaffiyeh'd, conspicuous by their age and lack of Polynesian apparel, looking around and laughing with what seemed to Joe like amused indulgence. He pointed them out to the others. "Look at that bunch. You think they're into this? They're laughing at us. At this."
"Or they're laughing at something equally trivial," said Malcolm. "Have you ever listened to a group of people in their early twenties? It's painful."
Joe cupped a hand to his mouth and yelled toward the group, "Better not smirk too much, kids! It won't be long before your version of irony will be hilarious to the next generation!"
"Your tattoos will represent everything they don't want to be!" added Malcolm, laughing.
As far as Joe could tell, the twentysomethings didn't hear a word that he said. He was glad, because saying it all made him feel like a bitter old man.
24
The Irish Car Bomb
Ana had never been part of a television shoot like this before. Tension buzzed through the air on the soundstage like a cloud of angry blowflies. There was always stress and anxiety—shoots were inherently tense situations—but never like this. Since Karin Masters had complained to Edward Cherkovski about the way WomanLyfe was being treated by the agency, everyone was trying very hard to make her happy, while swallowing back the bile welling in their throats. The result was an angry obsequiousness that resulted in many tight-lipped smiles and kind words spoken with unkind inflection.
Certainly the complaint was a black eye for the newly formed W2W division. The whole account should have been completely overseen by Ana and Adrienne by this time. Instead, simply to make Karin happy, Bruce was forced to attend a low-budget TV shoot in Chicago that could probably be handled by a couple of juniors and a midlevel producer. Along with Bruce, Ana, and Adrienne, the agency had also sent a senior producer, an account executive (the recently unpromoted Tara), and the new account supervisor, Tara's boss, Trish Roncelli, whom Ana loathed, after once overhearing the woman tell a traffic person that "creatives are like fifth graders, and should be treated accordingly."
The Narcissism of Small Differences Page 20