Boy Minus Girl

by Richard Uhlig

  She grins a little self-consciously.

  “Shelleby, is it?” Uncle Ray says, referring to the name tag resting on her right boob. “Now, I bet there’s a fascinating story behind that name.”

  Her smile widens as she gathers the menus from the counter. I see she’s wearing a wedding ring. “My mom wanted to name me Shelby, but Daddy wanted Shelley. So, they just combined ’em.”

  “Shel-le-by. A girl so nice they named her twice.”

  She blushes. “Just you two?”

  “Yes, Shelleby, Eckhardt party of two,” Uncle Ray says in a pompous voice. “My secretary made reservations for four o’clock.”

  “Secretary?” she asks.

  “Wait,” Uncle Ray says, “isn’t this Spago?”

  “Yeah, and I’m Christie Brinkley.” She rolls her eyes good-naturedly and shows us to a corner table. “What can I get you two to drink?”

  “I’m just having coffee. Les, what would you like?”

  “Dr Pepper, please.”

  Shelleby collects our menus and heads toward the counter. Uncle Ray’s eyes linger on her butt and he shakes his head. “Mmm-mm sweet.”

  “God, Uncle Ray. Wish I could talk to women like you do.”

  “Now why can’t you?”

  I shrug. “I always get nervous.”

  “Nervous about what?”

  I laugh in an “isn’t it obvious?” way. “Being turned down.”

  “Kid, I’ve been turned down more times than a sheet at the Motel 6.”

  “You have?”

  He nods. “But I can live with rejection ’cause I know it’s just one less ‘no’ I have to hear before I get a ‘yes.’ Law of averages, law of the jungle.

  “If you let the fear of being turned down stop you from pursuing chicks, you might as well throw in the towel right now.” Uncle Ray leans in close, his elbows on the table, as if he was about to share a deep secret. “Most guys sit around with their thumbs up their asses waiting to hear back from one woman—or worse, they wait around for a woman to hit on them! Big mistake. You have to be constantly pursuing. Like a shark. For every five women I hit on, I get maybe one phone number.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not outgoing like you.” I’m disgusted by how self-pitying I sound.

  “Then ya just gotta force yourself to be.”

  Shelleby returns with the coffee and Dr Pepper.

  “Why, Shelleby, honey,” Uncle Ray says, “what’re you doing working in this fry bin? You belong on film with those peepers of yours.”

  She blushes again, clearly trying to keep her composure. “Will that be all?”

  “For now,” Uncle Ray says, very suggestively.

  Shelleby sashays off, and I glance out the window as the Trailways bus hisses to a stop (a wooden bench under the Frosty’s awning composes the Harker City bus depot).

  “You have to be willing to walk up to a perfect stranger and strike up a conversation,” Uncle Ray says, “like I did with that Shelleby.”

  “But what do I say?”

  “It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it—with your eyes, your posture, your verve.”

  “What’s ‘verve’?”

  Scanning the room, Uncle Ray reaches into his jacket pocket and removes a small silver flask. He unscrews the top, pours a brownish liquid into his coffee, and stirs. Up till now I have never seen a flask except in old movies on TV.

  “Most morons see a woman they’re attracted to and instantly pull back ’cause they don’t want to make a mistake,” he says between sips of coffee. “Chicks smell fear in a guy like a hound smells coon. Makes the guy look weak and unmanly. Window of opportunity closed. So it’s crucial that the moment you see a babe, within seconds, you say hello. Make it a knee-jerk reaction. Women like fearless guys. Fearless guys get laid.”

  “Did you know all this when you lived in Harker City? Or is it something you picked up on the road?”

  He settles back and tastes more coffee. “I once had a friend, Joey. He was the master. Bald, kinda pudgy. But he got laid left and right. I watched him operate. Taught me it’s not what you have but how you present it. The rest I learned from the school of hard knockers.” He laughs at his own joke.

  I sip my Dr Pepper. Cool and fizzy and sweet. Dad always warns me that soda pop is nothing but pure sugar that’ll rot your teeth and turn to fat.

  “Y’see how I made a little joke? Humor’s vital—puts the lady at ease. And notice how I asked her about her name. Try to find something unique or personal—usually it’s a piece of jewelry or clothing—and ask her the story behind it. Questions are the best way to get chicks to open up and tell you intimate details about themselves.”

  “Sounds complicated.”

  “Not really.”

  “You have a steady girlfriend, Uncle Ray?” I casually inquire, hoping he’ll divulge something about the naked woman.

  “Hell, no. I never tie myself down. My life’s too damn short.” He takes a big slug of coffee, sets the cup on the saucer, and wipes his lips with a napkin. “Now—you got all that? Remember, fearless guys get laid.”

  I affirm it and nod vigorously, already planning my next move with Charity.

  “I’ll be damned,” a baritone voice booms from across the room.

  A tall bearded man in blue coveralls and a cap saying leo’s concrete lumbers to our table and sticks out his boxing glove of a hand. “It’s been a real long time, Ray.”

  Uncle Ray stands and shakes the man’s hand. “Why, Big Leo, how you been?”

  “I’m good, I’m good.” The man turns his head, calling over his shoulder, “Shelleby, come over here! Want you to meet an old buddy of mine!”

  She shuffles over, coffeepot in hand, and Big Leo wraps his massive arm around her shoulders. “Honey, this here’s Ray Eckhardt. We used to stir up trouble together in high school. Ray, this is my wife, Shelleby.”

  Uncle Ray smiles and says, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Shelleby.”

  Guess this means Shelleby’s one less conquest for Uncle Ray.

  Seduction Tip Number 4:

  Pelvis Power

  Grip the back of a straight-back chair, keeping your feet about twenty inches apart. Steadily thrust your pelvis forward and back twenty times. Now, in the forward-thrust position, rotate your hips slightly. Forward—rotate—back! Forward—rotate—back! Do this for ten minutes a day. Not only will this strengthen your lower back muscles, it will enable you to penetrate deep within her.

  The next morning I get up extra early. Wash, mousse, blow-dry, and sculpt my hair using Uncle Ray’s utensils and technique.

  When I debut my creation in the kitchen, Mom sets down her spatula. “What happened to you?”

  “It’s my new look,” I announce.

  “According to experts at the Centers for Disease Control,” Dad says from the table, his face buried in the newspaper, “a new strain of chicken flu could wipe out a quarter of the U.S. population by the year 2000.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Mom says, staring at my hair. “It looks wet. Makes me want to take a towel to you.”

  “I’m running late, Mom,” I say, snatching a piece of toast from the toaster. “See you tonight.”

  “A boy needs a good breakfast!”

  At school, striding toward my locker, I instantly sense that girls are checking me out.

  “Ah, the new hairdo,” Howard says as he approaches my locker. “The signal to the females, a beacon that announces, ‘I am a contender. Date bait. One juicy piece of man meat.’ ”

  “I’m not speaking to you,” I say to my books.

  “Can’t say that I blame you,” he admits. “I know I shouldn’t have run off when Brett showed up yesterday. It’s just—ever since he broke my nose, the guy scares the shit out of me.”

  “How do you think I feel?”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, and sounds like he means it.

  Whack! I feel a hand slap the top of my head. Brett walks past, making pouting lips. “No one’t
h gonna thave you nekth time, Leth-bian.”

  In the cafeteria I maneuver my way right in front of Charity Conners in the lunch line. As I stand there waiting to be served, molded-plastic pastel tray in hand, I swallow hard and take a deep breath.

  Dear Jesus . . . don’t let me screw this up! I won’t jerk off for a year or ever look at that naked woman’s pictures ever again. Amen.

  Sweating a little, I turn and face her. She looks at me with those swimming-pool-blue eyes. Hold it together, Les. Just say something. I manage a smile and an almost knee-jerk “hi.”

  She raises a curious eyebrow.

  “Hi,” I say again, still smiling at her, still maintaining eye contact.

  “Hi.” She doesn’t sound pissed off or annoyed.

  “I . . . like your earrings,” I say, my voice very shaky.

  “Thanks.”

  “Are they Chinese?”

  Chinese? Where the hell did I get Chinese? Gotta stick to the script, Les.

  I am feeling light-headed.

  “I don’t know what they are,” she says, and touches her right earring. “I bought ’em at a flea market.”

  “That’s so cool.”

  What to say next? What to say next? Questions!

  “Uh, which flea market?”

  “It was in downtown St. Louis.”

  “That’s so cool.” Stop saying “so cool.”

  I’m out of questions. Time for my much-rehearsed joke. I look around, as if lost. “Wait, my secretary was supposed to Spago for make our reservations this dump.”

  Goddamn it!

  She gives me a confused look.

  “ ‘Wait, my secretary was supposed to make our reservation for Spago, not this dump’ is what I meant to say before I had that little stroke.”

  She cracks up! A full guffaw. But is she laughing at me?

  I offer my hand. “I’m Les.”

  “Oh, I remember you, Booger.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re Booger. That’s what all us girls called you behind your back in fifth grade.”

  I clear my throat. “You, uh, did?”

  “You were always picking your nose and wiping it on the bottom of your desk.”

  “That wasn’t me.” God, she does remember me.

  “Yes it was. You sat right beside me. And before I moved, you once called me Turkey Tits.”

  “Well . . . I’m real sorry about that.”

  “I hold no grudges. Besides, it was kind of funny.” She glances at my extended hand, to make sure there are no boogers?

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ve graduated from Nose Picker Rehab. Have a diploma and everything.”

  She grins and accepts my clammy paw. “Charity.”

  “Charity. Now, that’s a wholly original name. I bet there’s a story behind that.”

  “Not really. Mom just liked the sound of it.”

  “Well, I like it, too,” I declare, but can’t bring myself to say “a beautiful name for a beautiful woman.” So I say, “Must be tough coming back to little ol’ Harker City after St. Louis.”

  She shrugs. “It’s an adjustment, but I’m surviving.” I’m hypnotized by the movement of her sumptuous lips. Oh God, I feel a boner forming. Quick, think of Great-aunt Irma.

  “Look, you’re up,” she says.

  “Huh?” I say, petrified.

  With a tilt of her head she motions behind me. The hairnetted lunch ladies stand waiting for me, their plastic-gloved hands clutching their big spoons.

  “Well, nice to see you again, Charity.”

  “That’s Turkey Tits to you, Booger.”

  So . . . she’s funny, a funny girl. And I have completed step one. I turn around as peas and carrots and funky-looking meat are deposited onto my tray.

  “Eckhardt?!” Coach Turkle stands in the doorway, hands on his hips. “Meet me in the gym in ten minutes.”

  ***

  Coach is standing on the mat next to the rope when I step into the gym. He rubs his hands together. “All right, climber, let’s go.”

  I grab hold of the rope, weave it between my legs, and start to inchworm my way up. It is a lot harder than yesterday, and my arms begin to burn. I drop to the floor.

  “What the heck happened?” he asks.

  “Look, Coach, I appreciate what you’re trying to do—”

  “You just get back on up there.”

  “But I’m just not the athletic type. . . .”

  I suddenly remember what Uncle Ray said about my being perfectly capable, and how I need to develop my upper-body strength. I grip the rope again. It is a painful, awful climb, and I only make it about halfway to the Monkey Club line.

  “This is as far as I can go,” I say, breathless, swinging and looking down at Coach.

  He crosses his arms at his chest. “To the line, Eckhardt.”

  “I can’t, Coach.”

  “To the line!”

  “But I’m on lunch break!”

  “To the line!”

  I heave myself up three times. Sa-dis-tic ass-hole. Sa-dis-tic ass-hole. Sa-dis-tic ass-hole. My nose hits the mark. “There! Happy?!” I yell.

  “See ya tomorrow,” he says on his way out of the gym. “Same time.”

  After school I pedal home fast. Can’t wait to tell Uncle Ray about my Charity encounter. I also can’t wait to get advice on what my next move should be. But when I arrive home, his Corvette isn’t in the drive. I ride downtown but there’s no sign of him there, either. I cruise past the Frosty Queen and, sure enough, his Corvette is parked right by the door. I rest my bike against the side of the rusty building and go in. The place is empty except for Carla Smith, the yellow-haired waitress, who leans against the counter watching Phil Donahue on the TV above the pie case.

  “Lookin’ for your uncle, Les?” Carla asks.

  “He come in here?”

  She laughs a sarcastic laugh and says to the TV, “Yeah, he came in here all right.”

  I look around again to make sure he isn’t in a booth or something. “He in the bathroom?”

  She motions me over with her pudgy index finger and says quietly, “He and Mrs. Hotpants decided to check themselves into a room out back.”

  I know it’s wrong. Really wrong. And kinda disgusting. And yet part of me is in awe—my very own uncle is a real man of action. A fearless guy.

  At home I wait for Uncle Ray in Dad’s La-Z-Boy while watching The Addams Family. Hmm . . . maybe Howard does have a point: Lurch and Thing don’t seem to ever appear in the same room together.

  It’s not until almost an hour later, during Hogan’s Heroes, that Uncle Ray moseys through the back door, his Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned practically to his belly button.

  “Hey,” he says as he walks past me. The breeze that follows him reeks of sweat and flowery perfume. He flops on the sofa. “That bully bother you again?”

  “Kinda.”

  He sits up. “Come over here and let’s work on that punch.”

  For the next few minutes Uncle Ray coaches me on how to throw a right hook. “Plant your feet and throw all your weight into the punch. Use your whole body. Be fast. In and out. Like lightning. Remember to punch past your target.” He punches the air, demonstrating. “Hit just above the tip of the nose for maximum impact. All right, let’s see you do it.”

  He holds up his hand and I punch it. My arms are sore from the rope climbing.

  “Wait a minute.” Uncle Ray drops his hand and squeezes my upper right arm. “You been lifting weights?”

  “You can tell?”

  He nods. “Your arm’s tighter. Stick with it and you’ll have that jerk begging your forgiveness.”

  I resume pounding his open hand and say, “Got up the guts to talk to Charity today. What do you think my next move should be?”

  “Know where she lives?”

  “Yeah, over by the water tower.”

  “Got a leash?”

  Taking Uncle Ray’s advice (“Chicks can’t resist a guy with a dog
. She’ll think you’re a good guy, a guy she’d like to be with”), I leash up my overweight, arthritic, blind-in-one-eye beagle, Rusty, and we light out. Rusty, who hasn’t been out of the backyard in years, makes several stops to catch his breath and empty his bladder. Lately I’ve overhead Mom and Dad whispering about putting ol’ Rusty “to sleep,” but I’ll never let that happen and they know it. I will take care of Rusty until his last stale dog breath is exhaled. He’d do the same for me.

  About twenty years later we make it to Charity’s. She lives in a sky-blue two-story clapboard with a white wraparound front porch and a gigantic yellow wooden butterfly affixed to the garage. As Rusty and I nonchalantly stroll past, I notice the front door is open behind the screen door, and I hear some kind of organ music from inside. Rusty stops right in front of her house. And squats.

  Aw, Rus, do you have to do this here? Right now?

  “Dropping off some fertilizer?”

  Charity is walking down the sidewalk toward us, that huge magazine curled in her hand. My pulse accelerates.

  “Oh, hi,” I say, hurriedly stepping in front of Rusty.

  “Hey, Booger.”

  I really wish she’d stop calling me that.

  “Name’s Les.”

  She looks down and grins at Rusty as he performs the slowest bowel movement in history.

  “What’s your dog’s name?”

  “Rusty.”

  “Hiya, Rusty.”

  He looks up at her, howls a little, and continues his pained efforts.

  God, Rus, how long does it take you?

  “How old is he?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “My friend in St. Louis had a cat who lived to be twenty.”

  “I like cats, too,” I say. “But my mom’s allergic. You, uh, live around here?”

  She points at the blue house, where the organ music crescendos.

  “With the phantom of the opera?”

  She smiles. “That’s my grandmother. She’s organist at the Our Redeemer Lutheran Church.”

  “Tell your grandma I’m sorry about Rusty’s contribution to her lawn.” I motion to the big magazine in her hand. “Got cataracts or something?”

  She laughs. “No, it’s just big. Andy Warhol, the pop artist, puts it out, so it’s kinda out there.”