by Amy Sohn
I loved that he had said “you.” I felt it indicated that I was a real, legitimate romantic interest. He was counseling me which games not to play, which at least meant he was sitting at the table.
“Do you do the Rules?”
“No, and maybe that’s my downfall. “I’m always the left, never the leaver. This is because I have the open and ready heart of a virgin.”
“Somehow I don’t believe you,” I said.
“I’m not kidding,” he said. He yawned loudly. “I gotta get back to work. So dinner. There’s a place I like called Saul. It’s on—”
“I know where it is,” I said. “I’m from the hood.”
THAT night Roxy was so slow that I kept checking the total on the cash register the way some people check their answering machines. I wished it had been busier, partly for the money but mainly so I would have had something to distract me from thoughts of Powell. My hands were shaking so much I kept screwing up the Guinness pour, which wouldn’t have bothered me so much if it hadn’t taken me my first two weeks to master.
By eight o’clock I only had a few customers besides Jasper—a Cosmo complaining about her hot-and-cold boyfriend to a Stoli Tonic; a Jack and Coke laughing loudly with his buddy, Red Bull–and–Absolut; a Turkey Rocks with a chaser, who always came in alone; and a Merlot on a date with a Jack Daniel’s. Jasper, who was sporting two huge muttonchops and pulling on a Harp, had been whining to me about some woman who had given him his number. When he called it turned out to be the Rejection Line, this voice mail that had a recorded female voice saying, “The person who gave you this number does not wish to go out with you or see you ever again.”
“Why would she do that?” he said. “I mean how could she be so cruel?”
“Some people have really evil senses of humor,” I said, shrugging.
“I don’t know what my problem is,” he said. “I’m a loyal, up-standing guy with a huge heart and I haven’t had a girlfriend in three years.” On the one hand I felt sorry for him. He was loyal, and funny, and really smart. But he spent every night of the week in a bar and he had a twenty-pound beer gut. It’s very hard to broach the subject of alcoholism when you’re talking to the person in a bar.
“Maybe you gotta get out more,” I said.
“I am out!” he said. “It’s not like I’m sitting at home. I’m right here, in primo territory for meeting bee-yotches. You see me with the women. I’m nice, aren’t I? I mean, I’m a good guy, right?”
“Sure you are,” I said.
“I used to think it was my weight but do you have any idea how many women I’ve been with who say they love my belly?” He leaned in conspiratorially. “They say it’s great for clit stim.”
I was in an episode of The Twilight Pussy. Everyone knew about clit stim but me. “Is that so?” I said.
“I don’t understand it,” he said. “They like me, they’ll fuck me, but they won’t stay. They can’t conceive of me as boyfriend material. I’m the one they talk to when they’re bumming about some jerk, and then when they’re finished crying on my shoulder they go home. I’m the shoulder man. I want to be the asshole.”
“You definitely don’t want to be the asshole,” I said.
“You’ve only been working here a month and already you’re swearing?” a voice said by the door.
A panic shot through me and I spun around to look. “What are you doing here?” I said.
“Mom and I had a fight and I had to get out of the house!”
“You can’t just walk in here and buy a drink, Dad,” I said, lowering my voice so Jasper wouldn’t hear.
“I’m sorry, miss,” he said, looking around at the décor, fake-confused. “Am I mistaken? Is this a bar? I was certain this was a bar.”
“I’m trying to cultivate a tough attitude here,” I hissed. “I can’t have these people knowing I have a father.”
“How can I stay away from the night spots when the neighborhood’s in such a glorious state of transition?”
“All right, all right,” I said. “Just sit down.”
“And I am not just any geezer. I happen to be a very happening fifty-four-year-old.”
“Fifty-five,” I said.
“You got me,” he said. “But am I not happening?”
His hair was matted and standing straight up, like he’d been touching it all day. Evidently he hadn’t dyed it in some time because the roots were whitish-gray and the rest was orangey brown. I always told him he should get it done professionally but he was hooked on his Just for Men. His beard, which he didn’t dye, was grayish and overgrown and contrasted with his dyed hair. He was wearing a pair of Birkenstocks with bulky white athletic socks that bulged out from under the straps. One had a yellow stripe at the top and the other had no stripe at all.
His T-shirt displayed a series of silhouettes—a monkey, a Neanderthal man, modern man, a modern man with a slouch, and a modern man sitting at a computer with horrible posture. The caption below read, “Somehow, somewhere, something went terribly wrong.” The shirt was tucked into khaki shorts that were hiked up to the middle of his belly, and he must have been in a rush when he dressed, because the tail of his shirt was protruding straight out of his partially unzipped fly.
I pointed to the shirt peenie. “Whoops,” he said, pulling the zipper down a little and sticking it back in. I spotted Cosmopolitan staring at us and I shot her a death glance. It was one thing for me to mock my father, it was another thing for anyone else to.
He sat down at the bar next to Jasper. I felt very conscious of how I was dressed. I was in a tight white tank, dark blue jeans, and high black platforms. I had blown my hair out straight and put on dark red lipstick and thick mascara. I hated dressing like a whore but the business was better.
“Jasper,” I sighed. “This is my dad, Richard Block. Dad, this is Jasper. My personal bodyguard.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Block,” said Jasper, extending his hand.
“I’m very grateful to you,” said my dad, a somber look on his face. He was such a moron I felt ashamed we shared blood.
“I’d defend Rachel’s life any day,” said Jasper. Evidently my dad wasn’t the only moron in the establishment.
“What can I getcha, Dad? Dewar’s and soda?”
“No. ‘When in Rome.’ What are you drinking, Jasper?” He peered over like a child at a lunch table.
“Harp. It’s pretty good.”
“All right, then. Pour me wannadose, barkeep.”
“What accent was that, Dad?”
“Italian.”
“It sounded more Belgian.”
I poured the drink and slid it over. He took a big swig and looked down into it morosely. My father can be so bipolar.
“What’s the matter?” I said.
“Your mother’s impossible to be around these days. She dropped a plate on the floor when she was loading the dishwasher and started to cry. I told her it was just a plate and she said, ‘Corelle’s not supposed to break!’, ran into the bedroom, and slammed the door.”
“Are you sure you’re talking about Mom?” My mom had her moments but for the most part she was very even-keeled.
“No, your other mother,” he said. “Your real mother, the one who lives in a trailer park in Tallahassee. Of course I’m talking about Mom. It’s been like this since she started—”
“I know. She told me.” Jasper raised an eyebrow. This was all I needed—to have my customers know the intimate details of my mother’s menopause.
“It’s a very difficult change! I don’t know why the medical establishment hasn’t looked into mood stabilizers as a solution.”
“They have. They’re telling women to take Effex—”
“Not for the women, for the men! It’s like a war zone in there! Yesterday in the middle of Frasier she ripped open her shirt like Tarzan. I asked if she had a thing for Kelsey Grammer and she said it was a hot flash.”
“A lot of guys would be grateful to have their wives rip off
their shirts spontaneously,” Jasper said.
“Are you kidding? It was terrifying!” he whimpered. “She’s moody all the time. She never used to yell and now she yells. I’m used to being the yeller. She’ll snap at me for no reason, like if I leave my jacket on the sofa or don’t hang up the bath mat. And she leaves the thermostat so low I’m freezing my ass off all the time.”
Though I was glad my dad was reaching out I wasn’t used to the notion of playing his confidante. I could handle it with the guy patrons, but with him it was too much information. “Why are you telling me this?” I said.
“You’re my daughter!” he said, like that explained it. “And it’s just not something I feel comfortable talking to Mom about. I told her to go on hormone replacement, but since that study she’s convinced it leads to breast cancer. I don’t know how bad it can be if Lauren Hutton’s on it.”
“Yeah, I saw that commercial. ‘Knowledge is power. Information is how you get it.’ ”
“That’s what I tell Mom, but every time I suggest HRT she calls me ‘menophobic.’ She’s on this soy kick now, but as far as I can smell all it’s doing is improving her bowels.”
“OK! Stop right there!” I made the “beep-beep-beep” noise of a truck backing up.
“Ever since her ‘change’ she’s never home. She’s either away folk dancing or at a book group meeting or—”
“So? She can’t leave the house?”
“She should be taking care of Number One! Do I look like the kind of guy who can take care of myself? My fly was unzipped when I came in!”
Red Bull–and–Absolut was waving at me from down the bar. I jerked to attention and shimmied over. I had to be more on the ball. I’m awful at multitasking and it’s pretty much the only skill a bartender has to have.
“Could we get another round?” he said.
I fixed their drinks and lay down the change. Caitlin had taught me to give singles because otherwise they’d never tip, but half the time they didn’t tip anyway.
Someone had put “Just Like a Woman” on and my dad started singing along. “ ‘Nobody has to guess that baby can’t be blessed/Till she finds out that she’s like all the rest—’ ”
“Nice voice, Mr. B.,” said Jasper.
“How kind of you, Jasper,” he said. “My daughter thinks I have a terrible voice.”
“You do have a terrible voice,” I said.
“I think it’s melodic,” said Jasper. The gay prom was killing me.
There was some motion by the door and then my mom walked in. She was wearing a royal blue polo shirt and mom jeans, and her cheeks were flushed, I wasn’t sure why. She waved at me cheerily and came all the way over to the bar before she spotted my dad and scowled.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I came to talk to Rach.”
“But that’s what I’m doing!”
“So?” she said. “Who’s stopping you?”
“You see what I mean?” he said, throwing his hands up. “She’s lippy all the time.”
Stoli Tonic was beckoning me for another round. I made the drinks and when I came back my dad was saying, “I can’t be around you when you’re acting like a crazy person!” Though they bickered occasionally, like when she threw something important out or he put the dishes in the refrigerator, they usually didn’t do it in public. Usually they fought in their bedroom, with the door closed.
“The only reason I ever act like a crazy person is because you don’t have any sympathy for what I’m going through!”
“Mom,” I said, leaning over and touching her arm.
“This doesn’t involve you, Rachel,” she said.
“You’re in my bar,” I said. “I think it does.”
“This isn’t something I can control!” my mom spat. “It’s a normal part of a woman’s life but I can’t get through it unless you show a little compassion. Joan Ibbotson says Peter’s been very nurturing!”
“But she’s on HRT!” he yelled.
“I’m not going to give myself cancer just because the patriarchal medical establishment tells me to.” It’s a dangerous day when your own mother starts using the word “patriarchal.”
“OK,” he said, “but there have got to be other solutions besides Rice Dream!”
“What—like testosterone? Fine! I’ll try testosterone! I can’t wait to see the look on your face when I sprout a penis! You can have DruPaul as your wife!”
“Mom,” I said. “It’s Ru Paul.”
“Whoever!” My dad snickered as though he had half a clue who RuPaul was. “Do you see how he patronizes me?” she said.
“You’re not around enough to patronize,” he said. “You’re gallivanting about town all the time.”
“Am I not allowed to have a life? Am I not allowed to have interests outside of you?” I noticed some motion at the end of the bar. Cosmopolitan and Stoli Tonic were getting up from their seats. My parents were driving out my clientele.
“Did you see what you just did?” I said. “You guys are affecting my income! Would you please take this outside?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” said my dad. “I want to finish my Harp.”
“You’re turning into a lush,” my mom sighed, taking the seat next to him.
“There are no Jewish alcoholics!” he said.
“What about Sammy Davis Jr.?”
“He doesn’t count!”
“Dad thinks I’m crazy because of my change but he’s the one taking to the bottle.”
“That’s it!” he said, lumbering to his feet. “If you’re going to stay, I’m outta here.” He strode out, muttering something under his breath. I didn’t know which was worse: that he’d driven out my customers or forgotten to leave a tip.
My mom leaned forward and said, “Why don’t you pour me a glass of your best white wine?”
I felt a little manipulative but Mike had been encouraging me to push the new Pinot. “We got a good Pinot Blanc in. You want that?”
“Gimme a taste.” I poured and she took a big sip. “Oh, that’s good. Fill it up.” My upper-middle-class Jewish parents were morphing into the cast of Barfly.
She drank it like she’d been stranded in the desert without water. “Are you all right?” I said. “Dad says you’re having mood swings—”
She waved her hand. “He’s projecting his own anxieties onto me. Did he tell you he’s decided to be cremated? We’re supposed to put in our reservations for the plots in Flatbush”—my mom grew up in Flatbush and her whole side of the family was buried in a Jewish cemetery there—“but he thinks coffins are too expensive. Only your father could be thrifty in death.”
She let out a short but audible fart as though to punctuate her point. “Pardon me,” she said to no one in particular. “It’s the soy.” She reached into her handbag and took out a Lactaid pill.
“Isn’t that for milk?” I said.
“It’s all I have,” she shrugged, unwrapping the pill and swallowing it with wine. “I almost forgot,” she said. “My book group’s reading Gail Sheehy’s The Silent Passage Thursday night and I was thinking you might want to come.”
The thought of my mom sitting around with a bunch of her girlfriends discussing menopause was less appealing than the thought of smashing a martini glass into my own face.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“It would mean a lot to me, Rach. I’m leading. I want you to know what’s going on with me so you’re not afraid when it happens to you. Sheehy says it’s very important to bring the big M into public conversation so people aren’t afraid of it.”
“Do you think calling it ‘the big M’ is going to help achieve that goal?”
“I’m just trying to have fun with it,” she said. “Please come.” I didn’t want to but I felt guilty for being such a lousy daughter. Sometimes when I was lying awake at night going over my credit card charges I thought about how seldom we talked, and felt guilty for not being more interested in her life.
&nb
sp; “All right,” I said.
“I’m so happy!” she said. “I brought you a copy so you can prepare.” She whipped it out of her purse. It was paperback with some sort of green leaflike figure on the front and looked vaguely like feminist erotica. “There’s something else,” she said. She rummaged around in her purse and produced a clear Ziploc bag filled with tampons and maxi pads.
“Mom!” I said, shoving it under the bar so Jasper couldn’t see, though by the smirk on his face I could tell it was too late.
“It’s everything I had left,” she said, like it was inheritance money and not a bag of blood rags. “I figured some one might as well get some use out of them if not me.”
“Was there any other time you could have given these to me?” I said.
“What’s the big deal?” she said. “Having a period is nothing to be ashamed of.” Jasper suppressed a giggle.
As I watched my mom sip from her glass I felt like I was watching a Lifetime movie: A Mother in Crisis. I didn’t understand why she and my dad felt the need to get so Oprah about everything all of a sudden. When you pass your problems on to your parents they’re supposed to know how to cope. It comes with the job description. But when they pass theirs on to you the problems double in weight. The kids aren’t man enough to handle it.
I wished they’d never set foot in my bar and the fact that they were cracked enough to do it made me worried. My mom was tossing down Lactaid with wine, my dad was going to get cremated, and I was wearing slutty tank tops while enabling. The Blocks were going to pieces.
The Bourgeois Ideal
FOR my date with Powell I decided to wear a pink and orange Marimekko dress. It was outrageous but had a high waist that made my breasts look even bigger than they were and big bell sleeves that gave the overall effect of a pink confection. There didn’t seem to be much point in going on a date with an older man if you didn’t dress like arm candy.
Saul had a warm, wintry feeling and was the kind of place that was so expensive you could imagine being proposed to there. When I walked in I saw some other couples, mostly middle-aged, but no Powell. I looked at my watch. It was exactly eight. I considered the option of leaving, walking around the block, and coming back to insure that I would keep him waiting, but he had told me to throw all that shit out the window.
