Bad Boy

by Olivia Goldsmith

  “I can’t,” he told her.

  Tracie sighed and handed him the bag. “That’s why we rented these James Dean tapes. Giant, East of Eden, Rebel Without a Cause. Watch the Ferris wheel scene in Eden carefully. Watch his hands. And the way he looks at Natalie Wood in Rebel.”

  “Tracie, these movies are forty years old!” Jon opened the bag and examined the tapes as if there might be mold on them.

  “Yeah, but sex never goes out of style. He was the first great bad boy,” she explained. “Meanwhile, just try to hit me with your best shot.”

  Jon sighed deeply, turned his upper body toward her, and put his brows together. He looked a lot like Superman trying to melt rock with his X-ray vision. She laughed and, immediately offended, he got up. “Come on, Tracie. I can’t look at you like that.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she apologized. “But I want you to be able to look at hairy bus drivers like that.”

  Jon tried again and failed again, though this time, they both laughed. “Well, that looked like it might lead to a bodily function,” she said. “Though not one I’d want to witness,” she added.

  “You’re disgusting,” he said. Then he set his shoulders and tried again. This time, his eyes cleared and the uncertainty was gone. They were dark pools, and the color deepened to the shade of melted chocolate.

  “Not bad. But more focus. Project that heat. Look at me as if you’ve really wanted me for years.”

  Jon figured that wouldn’t be hard. He shot her a look that could melt steel from twenty yards. Tracie opened her own eyes wide and felt suddenly uncomfortable. “Uh,” she said. “Uh-huh. That’s . . . that’s pretty good. Uh, maybe that’s enough for one night.”

  Slightly dazed, Tracie stood up. Jon mussed her hair. “Come on, Professor. I’ll walk you to your car. But what’s my next step?”

  “It’s time to test the waters,” she said. “You couldn’t do it at Pike Place Market, so I’ll have to find you a date.”

  Chapter 16

  Jon hit the eject button on the VCR and the cassette jumped out of its slot like a Pop-Tart from the toaster. He’d watched East of Eden four times. The images of the sensitive, lonely Cal‌—played by James Dean‌—didn’t strike him as sexy. The guy seemed like a typical bruised loser, not the kind of man women went for. The girl, Abra , going with Cal’s brother, played by Julie Harris, didn’t seem to go for Cal, either. Why should she? He was neurotic and moody. It seemed to Jon that it was pity that kept drawing her to him. The way he kept going to his father for approval‌—that whole frozen lettuce episode. Yikes. Why couldn’t he accept that his dad was a useless, demented waste? No biggie. Jon’s own father was a waste in most ways. And he wasn’t even Raymond Massey.

  Jon pulled the sweater over his head, shrugged himself into the weird used jacket Tracie had made him buy, and then stood in front of the mirror. It was easy to see himself, because all the clothes that used to hang in the closet, obscuring the mirror, were just about gone.

  He had to admit it was a very different Jon who looked out at him. Maybe that’s why he was no good at hunting down women. It was hard for him to think about them as scores or one-night stands. Yet, inevitably, some of them would be if he didn’t like them enough to be with them permanently. That’s where it all got so confusing. He hated rejection. But he’d hate rejecting a woman more. He thought of his mother, and all the women Chuck had rejected. God knew how many, since all Jon knew were the ones he’d actually married.

  But Tracie was going to change all that. He was going to out-Phil the Phils and finally use his head to figure out a way to do it. He had followed Tracie’s directions‌—the really tough ones. He hadn’t shaved, and his feet, slipped into boots, were killing him now. He was sure he would get blisters the size of kiwis, and probably just as green. Actually, he’d once read about a guy who died from infected blisters. If it happened to him, he hoped it would be after he got to make love with a woman or at least sleep with her. Tracie would feel very, very bad at his funeral. He had to admit that he looked good, but he sure didn’t look like himself. He looked like some guy sneering at him. He sneered back, but that just made his reflection worse. Jesus, what am I doing? Next I’ll pull a Travis Bickle and ask if I’m talking to myself, he thought.

  Jon shook his head. He definitely didn’t look like a chocolate Lab anymore. Maybe a weasel or some kind of dark fox. Well, he guessed that was the point. He took out his Samsonite with the broken handle and the wheelies. He was about to open it, when Tracie’s tutelage paid off. He could see her perfectly adorable, slightly crooked nose crinkling in disdain. He could almost hear her say, “Wheelies are definitely a pucker.”

  For a moment, Jon wondered what kind of suitcase James Dean would have. But he couldn’t remember the guy carrying anything but Sal Mineo in any of the movies. Maybe cool guys didn’t take luggage. They traveled light. He sighed. All of this was so complicated.

  But now, for his plan to work, he had to have some luggage. After scouring his place for a quarter of an hour, he settled for an old black duffel bag he’d used for laundry back in college. He threw a few pairs of running shoes into it for heft, filling out most of the rest with crumpled Seattle Times sheets‌—being careful to save all the pages with Tracie’s features. As he zipped the bag, he hoped this was worth all the trouble. Not that he had much hope.

  But despite his usual pessimism, Jon had to acknowledge something was undeniably happening. Maybe it was the new clothes. Maybe it was something in his attitude that Tracie’s not-so-tender ministrations had changed. Whatever, it was clear that women were definitely behaving differently around him. At work, secretaries, analysts, and even a few of the female executives had started to greet him whenever he walked past them. Even Samantha had volunteered a hello. He was sure that never used to happen, except for a few he was actually friends with. And it wasn’t just that. There was something about the way they said hello‌—something in their voices. It wasn’t a come-on, exactly. But Jon was amazed that two simple letters combined, like h and i, were so musical.

  The weirdest thing wasn’t that women were noticing him. He guessed that was the point of this whole exercise. The weirdest thing was how he felt about it. Like in the grieving process, there seemed to be multiple phases, three of which he’d already gone through: denial, delight, and pain. Because while at first it had just surprised him, then tickled him, it now hurt his feelings. It had taken him a little while to figure that out. Of course, he knew he should be grateful for even the slightest notice. And he had been. But then some kind of shift had taken place and he had moved from delight at the attention to hurt feelings when even Cindy Biraling, the adorable blond secretary to the CFO, began to greet him (she was notorious for ignoring people, even when they stood with the front of their thighs touching her desk). Over the years, whenever he’d had to drop by or call Cindy, she’d asked not only for his extension but how to spell his name‌—a sure indication that she hadn’t had a clue to what it was. Now she sang out, “Hi, Jonathan.” It had started to make him mad. Why hadn’t she said hello before? And how come she knew his name now?

  But whatever new magic‌—and the mood that accompanied it‌—existed, it didn’t extend far enough to grant him a date with Cindy‌—or anyone else at work. He still seemed to be as tongue-tied and moronic as ever with all of the women. Tracie had said that he needed to try himself out in another environment, where no one knew him, but he just couldn’t face going into a bar. He’d tried for two nights and couldn’t get himself to walk through the doors. All the humiliations of past look-sees and sitting on bar stools, all the past women’s put-downs seemed to stand like the angel at the entrance to Eden, barring the way.

  And it wasn’t just walking into the bar. Somehow, the new attention from women at work had made him feel all his past social-life traumas more acutely. Facing a strange woman that, in Molly’s terminology, he was going to try to “chat up” stopped him cold. It wasn’t just that the prospect
was daunting. He could have done it if it weren’t for the Phils, always sitting easily at the bars, seeming to watch his fumbling technique, disdaining his pathetic openers and his feeble attempts at humor. It was as if the Phils of the world could see past his new black sweater and the 501s and the boots he was wearing.

  And so he was left with figurative and literal cold feet. Jon had decided that he was going to have to find somewhere to meet women where he wasn’t known and he wasn’t up against the competition of a bunch of Phils.

  Hence the duffel bag.

  Jon picked it up. The newspapers partially filled it out, but it was still so light, he’d look strong being able to lift it effortlessly. He shrugged, wished himself good luck, and put on the Tracie-selected lambskin leather jacket. He sighed and tried not to feel guilty. The lambs had already been led off to their slaughter, and now he would probably follow them to his own. It’s what he deserved for letting Tracie talk him into the jacket in the first place. His feet were freezing! And it would be drafty at the airport. He wished he could put on a pair of thick gray wool socks, but if God was in the details, his toes would have to freeze.

  The buzzer sounded, indicating the taxi was waiting. He grabbed a Huey, Louie, and Dewey Pez dispenser for good luck, picked up the duffel bag, locked the apartment behind him, and rapped down the stairs to the dark street below.

  The airport wasn’t too crowded, which Jon figured was a good thing. And no one accosted him; plus, today there were no chanting Krishnas. He took those as good signs and immediately rode the escalator down to the baggage claim. He checked out the arriving flights, though he’d already targeted his. Of course, instead of the gambit, he could get an actual ticket and just choose to stand in line behind a pretty woman and chat her up. But he figured people were often nervous before flights. He really would be better off trying to get someone who was getting off a flight. But this was not without risks.

  To be less conspicuous, he’d asked the driver to drop him off at the arrivals area, but the driver had said, “No can do. You got to check in and go through security upstairs.” Jon considered explaining his mission, then changed his mind. From what he could see from the back of the haircut and the part of the driver’s face reflected in the rearview mirror, the guy wasn’t quite a Phil, but he could have been a Phil at an earlier time, before he lost a few of those teeth. Jon wasn’t telling him anything.

  So, walking across the wide baggage claim area, he surreptitiously eyed the group of passengers who’d just arrived on Flight 611 from Tacoma. Tacoma was nice. His uncle and aunt lived there. If a woman had been to Tacoma for business or even to visit her family, he figured she might be very pleasant. Of course, if she lived in Tacoma with her husband and was here to visit her mother, this was not a good thing. He began to scan the crowd. How could you tell? The DC 10 held about 280 people. He told himself that at least one had to be female, attractive, and single. But how to tell she was available was another problem. He noticed a blonde, but she was a little too thin, too tall, and too pretty. There was something about the way she swung her head that made her hair move like ten thousand silky strings, and it gave him the feeling she was doing it to be looked at. She was probably considering a move to L.A. Way upmarket for him.

  Next, he spotted a redhead with curly hair that seemed so alive, it looked professionally snarled. For all he knew, maybe it was. People probably paid to have that done. Anyway, the woman was cute, and that was enough. Okay. Here I go, he told himself. Instead of throwing his hat into the ring, he threw his bag on the carousel, walked around it as casually as he could, and tried to think of something to say to a total stranger.

  It was only when he got right up to her side and saw her in three-quarter view that he realized she was very, very pregnant. Clearly, someone else had thought she was adorable, too. Well, there goes that plan.

  With the blonde as too much of a stretch and the redhead about to drop a baby . . . Well, there wasn’t a lot left. He eyed the crowd. The usual grandmothers with a toy under their arms didn’t excite him, and the harried mothers with children in tow‌—children wild from the confines of the flight‌—were also a real stretch. It looked like everyone else was male, except for the person who was far taller than he, wearing silk pajama trousers and a Brooks Brothers-type oxford cloth shirt. It might have been a man or it might have been a woman. Or perhaps someone in the process of changing from one to the other. But since Jon had never had the faintest desire to reenact the famous Crying Game scene, he figured he had enough issues of his own to deal with and began to despair.

  It was then, as his eyes moved away from the baggage carousel, that he began to fold, the state that for him preceded a complete rout. Then he noticed the young woman standing at the next carousel. He caught his breath. Maybe he wouldn’t leave in defeat. A shaft of sunlight‌—rare in gray Seattle‌—illuminated her as if she were part of a medieval manuscript. She was perfect. In fact, she reminded him of someone. It wasn’t the fine light brown hair cut just below the ears or her profile, which he could see was deserving of the very best cameo maker. It was something in the set of her shoulders and the way she stood that immediately attracted him. Tracie would stand just like that if she was waiting for her luggage. His heart leapt but then fell.

  Because the woman‌—she might have been a year or two older than he, but not more than that‌—was obviously arriving on the flight from San Francisco. That was a whole different kettle of passenger. If she was from San Francisco and just here for a visit, she was probably going to be way too cool for him. If, on the other hand, she was from Seattle and had only visited San Francisco for a vacation, there might be a chance. However, if she lived in Seattle now but had originally been raised in San Francisco and had been visiting her family, she would . . .

  Jon forced himself to stop the madness. It only proved there was bound to be some way or other that he could think himself out of doing what he feared most. He looked at the woman again. She was lovely. A Lovely Girl. “This is it,” he murmured aloud. “Go for it.”

  He tried to slouch the way James Dean might and, unemcumbered by any packages and without a fanny pack, he stealthily moved toward The Lovely Girl. Completely unaware of him, she was standing with her weight all on her left hip. With her right foot, she was tapping a small tattoo. It wasn’t an impatient tap exactly. It was more of a stretching exercise that she was executing with her adorable foot. In fact, as he looked more closely, he realized that all of her was adorable, from the peripatetic toes to the top of her head. Jon simultaneously felt a lustful pull in his loins and a lurch of fear in his stomach. This is dangerous physical work, he told himself, and, before he broke a sweat and ruined the Armani T-shirt Tracie had made him buy, he placed himself directly behind The Lovely Girl. Using all his willpower, he forced himself not to look at her but to stare blankly at the empty conveyor belt, just the way everyone else was.

  He tried to count slowly to one hundred, but he only got to sixty-seven. After all, what if her bag came now? He cleared his throat. “Is it just my misperception, or does it take longer to get your luggage than to fly from San Francisco to Seattle?” he asked aloud. Okay, it wasn’t a great opening, but at least he hadn’t asked for the time. The Lovely Girl turned her head and he had a look at her profile. Her nose was long and slightly irregular, which, in his opinion, made her cuter. Her skin was luminously pale. This close, Jon could see very fine freckles strewn just across her cheekbones and over the bridge of her aquiline nose. There was something very tender about the tiny constellation. Meanwhile, she looked in his direction for a moment. Then she smiled.

  “It does seem to take a long time,” she said.

  Her voice was water splashing over stones, champagne flutes clinking. Jon allowed himself another brief look at her and then tore his eyes away, remembering not to smile. He shifted his body, pulling in his stomach, thrusting out his pelvis, and crossing his arms over his chest. But then he didn’t have a clue what to do or say next.
The James Dean pose was a start, but The Lovely Girl had looked at him, was looking at him, with an expectant‌—or perhaps tolerant‌—half smile and was clearly becoming restive with the wait.

  What came next? He could offer her a ride into town. If only he had a motorcycle. He sighed. Tracie had been right, as always. Oh well. He racked his brain. What could he say?

  Just then, a bell rang, and in another moment, the conveyor belt began to move. A young boy, three or four, by the looks of him, began to move, too. He’d been crawling about on the dirty floor and then he’d crawled onto the carousel. For a moment after it began and the horns went off, the little kid was transported‌—not in a literal sense‌—but then as the belt lurched him forward and away from his mother, his mood quickly changed. He opened his mouth and a roar of anguish, much louder than a mouth that small seemed to be able to utter, streamed out. Poor kid.

  “That’s the one from the plane,” The Lovely Girl said. Just before the toddler rolled by, Jon swung into action. He bent over and picked the little boy up, swinging him back to his mom’s feet. Unfortunately, getting off the wagon train didn’t stop the scout from screaming. The little kid’s yell got even louder and his face was turning red. The Lovely Girl, as well as Jon’s other neighbors, actually backed off. Jon didn’t know what to do. He supposed picking the tyke up again was a good idea, but the boy was filthy, and‌—“Cut the crap, Josh,” the boy’s mother said, and took the poor kid by the left hand, gave him a yank, and‌—without thanks to Jon‌—led the boy away.

  The Lovely Girl and the other passengers returned like the tide and she looked up at him. She had gray eyes, Jon’s favorite color, and although they were a tiny bit more deep-set than might be considered absolutely perfect, they were more than good enough. But Tracie had told him not to compliment eyes, so he was out of luck there.