My Old Man

by Amy Sohn

  Before someone else could accost Florence Nightingale, I went over. “Who was that?”

  “A friend.”

  “What was she talking to you about?”

  “That’s not really any of your business.”

  “Is it really your responsibility to be helping some random girl out with her personal problems?”

  “When someone needs me, sure.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, sulking. “Sometimes it seems like you’ve forgotten you have a family.”

  “You’re the one who seems to have forgotten she has a family,” she spat. “I’ve never seen you act as ugly as you did on Rosh Hashanah. And you’re always in a bad mood when I call. Every time I ask you a question you make me feel like I’m prying even though you tell Dad things all the time. You make me feel like you wish I’d just crawl into a hole and leave you alone.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “What don’t I understand?”

  This was my opportunity, to spell it all out so she’d see why I’d been a bitch on Rosh Hashanah, why it was driving me crazy that she was never home. But the last time I had offered honesty someone had wound up dead. As much as I wanted to be exonerated I wasn’t ready to spill my father’s beans. I loved my mom and wanted her to know the truth, but it wasn’t my choice to make.

  “Forget it,” I said.

  She glared at me for a second like I had once again proven I was an awful daughter, and then she went to the CD player to start the next song. It was slow and moving, “Erev Ba,” the easy one they always leave till the end. The dancers formed in a circle, chatting, hands around each other’s shoulders, glad to have a break in the calisthenics. She went over and broke apart two hands to join.

  She had a new life, one that didn’t involve him, and it wasn’t fair of me to try to yank her out of it when he was the real betrayer. I watched them go around in circles for a while and every time my mom’s face came around she was smiling.

  THE next night at work I was off balance and short with all my customers. I knew things had gotten off to a bad start when Jasper informed me that Tony had stopped in the other night when I wasn’t there. Thinking he was looking for me, Jasper told him I was off, and Tony said, “No, man, I came in because I knew she wasn’t working. That was a big mistake the other night. The girl has some major issues with men.” By twelve-thirty, I had a decent crowd, a dozen local middle-aged Italian guys shooting pool, a few scattered white hipster girls flirting eagerly with the PJ boys to show how liberated they were, and a couple single guys in their forties with moist lips and sad eyes.

  I played a steady stream of Bob followed by some Costello and Bacharach and had just gotten enough of a break to wash some glasses when a bunch of preppy post-tennis assholes walked in with perfectly tousled hair and collared shirts, already buzzed. They all ordered Guinnesses except one—a hotshot black Irish guy with a good build. “I’ll have a Cape Cod,” he said.

  I fixed it for him and when I plopped it down I couldn’t help myself. “Just FYI,” I said, as all his friends turned to listen. “In the future you might want to refer to it as a vodka cranberry. Nobody really calls them Cape Cods.”

  His friends burst out laughing, covering their mouths in the way men do when they know a woman’s crossed a line. “Thanks,” he said tightly. “How much for the round?”

  “Twenty-one,” I said. He gave me a twenty and a five. I laid down four singles. He took three.

  Just as I was about to complain, Powell and my father dashed in the door and barreled up to the other side of the bar. “Rachel, Rachel!” my dad cried. “Your boyfriend is the toughest guy in the entire world!”

  “Oh stop it,” said Powell, swatting him on the arm. “It was nothing.”

  “It wasn’t nothing!” my dad cried. Neither one seemed to feel the slightest need to explain what they were doing together. I wasn’t sure which upset me more: that they were hanging out without my permission, or that they had just upped the median age of my clientele from twenty-three to forty-five.

  “We were getting out of the taxi on Court,” my dad said, “and it was dark because it was raining. Hank said he had to go to the bathroom really badly and I said he should wait because we were only a few blocks from the bar but he said he couldn’t because—”

  “Where were you coming from?”

  “The theater! So Hank says to me, ‘I gotta go. I’m gonna lose it if I don’t go,’ and I say, ‘To tell you the truth I gotta go too,’ so Hank turns against the Barnes & Noble. I said, ‘You’re comfortable whizzing on the wall of a superstore?’ and he says, ‘Last time I checked they didn’t carry my books.’ ” Powell let out a low, satisfied chuckle.

  “We’re standing there letting it go when outta nowhere this black guy comes up behind us and says, ‘I got a gun. Give me all your money.’ Well, in two seconds flat my wallet’s outta my pocket and in his hand, but instead of giving in, this Irish Schwarzenegger here, this Westie, grabs the guy by the collar, lifts him ten feet off the ground, and throws him into the gutter. No. Hurls him.”

  “It wasn’t a hurl,” Powell said. “It was more of a toss.”

  “So the guy’s moaning and groaning,” my dad continued, “and he didn’t really have a gun, he was just using his finger, because he lies there looking like the sorriest piece of garbage you ever saw. As though Hank hasn’t humiliated the poor guy enough, he kicks him in the stomach and says, ‘Never jump a guy when he’s urinating. It lacks class.’”

  He turned to Powell with a huge worshipful grin. Powell shrugged and said, “I used to be in gangs.”

  “You’re lucky he didn’t have a weapon,” I said. “You could have been killed.”

  “I have good instincts,” Powell said.

  “You think he’s OK?” I asked.

  “He was moaning when we left,” Powell said. “I’m sure he’ll be mugging again in no time.”

  “So what show did you see?” I asked, trying to sound more casual than I felt.

  “Take Me Out.”

  “You guys went to a gay play?”

  “Don’t pigeonhole,” Powell said. “It’s more about baseball and the American dream.”

  “It’s about a gay baseball player!”

  “It’s the best new drama of the year!” my dad cried.

  “Why didn’t you ask me?”

  “Because you were working, obv.”

  “ ‘Obv?’ ” I cried. “Since when have you been saying ‘obv’? Did you pick that up from Liz?”

  “Obv,” he said. “Rach, you have got to see this play. It is the most stunning work of new American theater I’ve seen since K3.” Powell cleared his throat. “Except for The History of the Pencil, but that goes without saying. Hank didn’t like it as much as I did. He thought it was a little talky but I said, ‘What does that matter when it’s got all that frontal nudity?’ ” I’d never seen my father act like such a queen. Maybe his late-life anima problem was about something else entirely. “I’ll tell you one thing. It definitely gave credence to the stereotype about black male anatomy.”

  “They should have renamed it Shvartzer Shvantzes,” Powell said. “They woulda sold a lot more tickets!”

  “Shvartzer Shvantzes!” my dad roared. “I love it!”

  I didn’t understand how Powell could be such a jerk to me and so sweet to my dad. It seemed like he was doing this to hurt me. What if he’d realized he had more in common with my father than me, and decided to trade me in?

  “Hey, what kind of a bar is this?” my dad called out. “Aren’t you gonna ask what we want to drink?”

  “Extra-dry Grey Goose martini and a Chivas and water,” I said.

  My dad turned to Powell, nodding slowly, like the man had once again proven he was the king of cool. “On second thought,” my dad said. “I’ll have a Chivas too.” It was pathetic. He was stealing everything about Powell, even his drink.

  I made them both, skimping on my dad’s. “So did you have dinner too, or ju
st the theater?” I asked as I set them down.

  “We went to Joe Allen,” Powell said. “That was our hangout joint when we were rehearsing Pencil. I know all the waiters.”

  “Al Pacino was at the next table,” my dad said. “His hair is blond now and he looks much younger than his years.”

  “So what did you guys talk about at dinner?” I said, slitting my eyes at Powell.

  “A lot of things,” my dad said.

  “Oh my God,” I said to Powell. “Did you tell him to leave my mom?”

  “Hey,” my dad said. “Abandonment’s a two-lane highway.”

  “You did!” I shouted. “You’re trying your aphorisms out on him!”

  “Rachel knows about the aphorisms?” my dad asked jealously, like he felt possessive over Powell’s friendship when they’d only just met.

  “Everybody knows about them! He spews them to whoever will listen!” Powell glared and took a long pull of his Chivas but I was so bent on keeping my father away I didn’t care about offending him. “You know what? I don’t want the two of you spending any more time together. My dad needs good influences right now, not bad.”

  “Don’t tell ya fatha what to do.”

  “He’s right, Rach,” my dad said. “I have to figure it out myself.”

  “What is there to figure out? I thought it was just a matter of time before you ended it.”

  “I never said that.” I felt like he’d totally duped me at Studio Tavern, made me think he was struggling when all he was really doing was having his cake. Powell was only going to drive him further from my mom. He was like a reverse conflict mediator; instead of bringing people together he drove them apart.

  “We didn’t only talk about Mom,” my dad said. “Hank told me about his life as the swordsman of independent film. Did you know he almost got together with Julia Roberts?”

  “What?” I said.

  “Julia and I were very close once,” Powell said.

  “I thought you’d told her,” my dad said. “I’m sorry. Maybe this is inapprop—”

  “No, I’d really like to know,” I said. “Please. Tell me about the time you almost got together with Julia Roberts.”

  He hesitated and shook his head like he knew he was playing with fire but the chance to be the center of attention was too much for him. “Well,” he said, laying his hands on the bar, “when we were shooting Leon and Ruth she was living in Hell’s Kitchen with an un-dependable malingerer named Fritz, a performance artist who lived off her acting work and supported them both by shoplifting groceries. One morning she shows up to set with a duffel bag on her back, her hair matted, her eye makeup running down her face. She had a revelation about the guy, walked out on him, and spent the night sleeping on a park bench. I was living in a basement apartment in the East Village at the time and told her she could stay with me.”

  “Of course you did,” I said.

  “It was a truly innocent gesture. I saw nothing in her. She was an untouchable, sterile beauty, well constructed but sexless, like a neutered Persian. There was no heat in my place and every night because it was so cold we would sleep naked, hugging each other for warmth. One night during the last week of shooting she came to bed in a pair a my pajamas. Right then I knew there would be trouble. I said, ‘What’s going on here?’ and she says, ‘I can’t help it, Hank. I’m falling in love. It’s always been you. When I kiss Don I close my eyes and pretend he’s you.’ ”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “How could she pretend Don Cheadle was you?”

  “She was very Method. I said, ‘Julia, you do nothing for me.’ She said, ‘How can you say that?’ and ripped open her pajamas. Her nipples were brown and small and greeted me like two buttons sewed on the head of a sock monkey. But I’m the kind a guy that just can’t do it if my heart’s not in it. And I knew it would be good for the movie if I rejected her. The three days of shooting we had left were the ones after she finds out Leon’s died in Vietnam and I needed her raw as a freshly fucked cooze. So I said ‘Get outta here,’ and made her sleep on the living room couch.”

  “The willpower!” my dad said.

  “It worked like a charm. Every night after that she came in my room begging but I refused. On set she was magic. When she’s about to jump out of her window, and says to God, ‘Just answer me one question. When your man’s away at war, what’s the point of getting up in the morning?’ the tears were so real they froze on her face.”

  My dad was smiling openly with such unbridled awe I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d leaned over to kiss him on the mouth. “Julia Roberts,” he said. “Can you believe it, Rach? He’s the only man in the world that passed up a night with Julia Roberts.”

  “I severely doubt that,” I said.

  My dad gave me one of those paternal, knowing looks that always made me seethe. “You see this, Hank?” he said. “She can’t even bear the thought of you almost sleeping with Julia Roberts. This girl is crazy about you.” Powell looked like he had just made diarrhea in his pants. I didn’t know which upset me more—that he looked so uncomfortable at the idea of me being crazy about him or that he was making no attempt to hide it in front of my father.

  They wound up staying another half hour and then my dad begged off, saying he had to get home to my mom or she’d ask questions. As soon as he stood up Powell did too, saying he had to work on The Brother-in-Law. I gave him a pleading look as he left but his face was hard and devoid of emotion. He’d said I had changed but it was beginning to seem like he hadn’t.

  A COUPLE nights later Powell invited me to dinner at Sam’s. I was supposed to work but because he was asking me out, and on street level—a plane that was elevated from the one we’d met on before, I felt it was a mark of progress. I called up Caitlin and asked if she’d switch and since it was a Saturday, a good night, she said OK.

  Despite my good mood at dinner Powell spent most of the meal complaining—about how insane Annie was, how much trouble he was having with The Brother-in-Law, how anxious he was about money. I sat there nodding and agreeing, backing him up, figuring that was what he needed right now—to vent. At the end of the meal he leaned in close and said, “You’re a good friend to me, Rachel.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Don’t get up in arms,” he said. “You’re a good lay too. I just mean you do me a lotta favors. I don’t know many people in this neighborhood and it’s good to have someone I can talk to.” It was the closest he had ever come to saying he cared and I was flattered he’d opened up, even a little.

  After dinner I walked him to Kane and to my surprise instead of turning to his street he said, “I was thinking maybe I could come over.”

  “Do you mean walk me home or do you mean come over?”

  “I mean come over,” he said.

  “I thought you didn’t like to see a woman’s place.”

  “I figure you wouldn’t have asked me so many times if I had something to worry about.” I giggled and threw my arms around him. “Watch it,” he said, “or I’ll change my mind.”

  WHEN we got up to my place I made him wait in the hallway while I cleaned. As fast as I could I set about getting rid of every single element in my apartment that I deemed to be in the slightest way adolescent. This meant removing the Crosby, Stills and Nash album cover above my computer, and the still of Bob Dylan in Don’t Look Back, and the New York Times Magazine photo of Sean Penn next to my bed. The last thing a middle-aged guy needed to see when he was fucking me was a picture of a 1980s teen idol.

  I went to the door and threw it open, following Powell as he made his way in. “I dig your digs,” he said. “They’re minimalist but well utilized.” He spotted something on the bookshelf across the room. “You have The Stoop Sitter?”

  “You could tell from here?” I said.

  “I know the binding,” he said. He took it out and flipped open to the title page, which had a price of $1.00 scrawled in the upper right-hand corner. “Where’d you g
et this?”

  “The Strand,” I said.

  “You bought me used?”

  “No other bookstore even had it in stock.”

  His face hardened like he was going to lash out but instead he ran his hand over the cover, which was a really bad painting of a guy, from the waist down, in tight jeans, sitting on the steps of a decrepit brownstone. “I’ll sign it,” he said.

  I grabbed a pen from my desk but he’d already whipped one out of his shirt pocket. He scrawled something down and handed me the book. I flipped to the title page.

  Love is romance without makeup.

  —Hank Powell

  He was trying to communicate something deep and important. Maybe this was his way of saying he really cared—that he wasn’t putting a pretty spin on his affection because it was so real. “What does it mean that you wrote that in my book?” I asked huskily.

  “I write that in everyone’s,” he said.

  He was hopeless beyond belief. But he was here. I went to the stereo and inspected my vinyl before finally settling on Bread’s Baby I’m-A Want You. “You like David Gates?” he said as the music came on.

  “I think he’s highly underrated as a lyricist,” I said. I sat on the couch and he sat by me. He leaned in very slowly and put his mouth against mine. We made out a little and then I took his hand and led him into the bedroom.

  I pushed him down onto the bed, threw my shirt off, dropped my bra onto the floor, and ground myself against him over our clothes. There was nothing like an apartment visit to make a girl horny. He pulled my jeans and undies down and slipped his hand up between my legs.

  “Just a second,” I said. I scampered into the bathroom and got the LifeStyles.