Isn't It Bro-Mantic?
Page 25
“Actually…”
I’m about to tell him that I have been painting some interesting rooms lately. In Connecticut, there are more Hollywood stars than anywhere outside of California and sometimes those stars call me as happened just this past week. It can be more challenging than usual, working those jobs, because it’s tougher talking people with film-sized egos out of picking the wrong colors than it is your average doctor or lawyer. Plus, it can be fun dancing with their Oscars when they’re not around.
But I don’t get to say any of this because just then, Helen comes practically flying into the foyer, wearing an outfit I’ve never seen before: peach-colored skinny jeans, tight; a sleeveless maroon smock shirt; high-heeled strappy sandals, all sparkly with rhinestones and stuff. It must be tough to fly in those sandals.
“Daniel!” she cries as she throws her arms around him, like she didn’t see him at work just yesterday. “I’m so glad you finally made it.”
Finally? What, this guy was supposed to come here sometime before?
“Me too,” he says, hugging back, a hug in which his e-cigarette hand floats a little too far down toward her jeans-encased butt for my taste. But it stops just shy of being totally offensive and I tell myself that they work together every day. Maybe this is how colleagues greet one another? I can’t say Sam and I have ever done this, but it’s not like Sam and I are big huggers, generally speaking.
“Johnny,” Helen says after they finally break apart, “did you offer Daniel a drink?”
“Oh, right.” Where are my manners? “What can I get you? A beer—”
“A glass of wine?” Helen interjects. “I picked up a nice Pouilly-Fuisse earlier today.”
She did? When did that happen?
“That sounds heavenly,” Daniel tells her. “But you know what?” He turns to me, practically poking me in the chest with that e-cigarette. “I think I’d rather have that beer.”
“Great,” I say, forcing an enthusiasm I don’t feel into my voice, “I’ll get us all some drinks. Helen?”
“Oh?” She seems distracted. Then: “Oh, right. I’ll take a beer too. Daniel, would you like to come into the living room?”
While they do that, I grab three Sierra Nevada Pale Ales from the fridge—two in one hand, one in the other—and go to join them.
Daniel’s already seated on the sofa, close to one side, with Helen perched on the armrest right beside him. I’m not quite sure of the etiquette here: Helen’s the only woman in the room but he’s the guest, so do I give her a beer first or him? All I know is, I’m not supposed to serve myself first, so I simply offer out the two I’m holding in the same hand. Then, I immediately twist the cap off of mine and toss it on the table.
Perhaps it makes me a small-minded petty person, but at least I’m honest enough with myself to admit that it gives me great pleasure to see that Daniel, having tucked his e-cigarette into the corner of his mouth, is struggling to open his.
Yeah, Sierra Nevada can be a little tricky to open. Some people just use an opener.
“Here,” I offer, “do you need me to—”
“Thanks,” Daniel says, through gritted teeth as he finally succeeds in opening his own beer, “but I think I’ve got it.”
“Would you like a glass?” Helen offers.
“No, thanks.” Daniel holds the bottle up and peers at it like he’s trying to study the contents inside, like he would a fine wine. “This is perfect the way it is. It’s so…proletarian.” Then, with a look toward me to indicate that what follows is for my benefit, he adds, “Proletarian, as in a member of the proletariat, as in a member of the working class, as in the class of industrial workers who lack their own means of production and hence sell their labor to live.”
Geez. Merriam-Webster much?
Helen looks at me, expectantly; expectant of what, I’m not sure.
All I know is that I, who have never hit first, am tempted to deck this guy. Who does he think he is? But I can’t do that…can I? I mean, he’s a guest in our home, he’s Helen’s guest, she works with him…
So, instead:
“Thank you,” I say, feigning sincerity so well, I almost believe myself. “I appreciate you taking the time to define that term for me.”
Now Helen looks, I don’t know, disappointed? But in what? Was I not polite enough to this total asshat? Geez. I’d better cover my dislike for him harder.
Daniel takes a sip of his beer, then: “Ah. That’s not half bad. You know, I don’t think I’ve had one of these since college.” He studies the label. “Huh, though. I was half-expecting Budweiser.”
Budweiser? Who does he think I am, Drew?
“Oh, look,” Daniel says, as if just noticing, when really, it’s the first thing new visitors always comment on when seeing our living room. “Two televisions! You know,” he confides, “Karl Marx said religion was the opiate of the masses but these days, I think it’s TV. And look at you with two of them!”
Actually, what Marx said was that ‘Religion is the opium of the people,’ but who am I to quibble with my scholar-guest Dan? And besides, what do I know? After all, I’m just a member of the proletariat.
“Yes,” I say, “I am fortunate to have double the usual prescription for keeping my mind occupied with silly fluff so I don’t attempt to rise above my station.”
Daniel’s eyes narrow a bit, then he points his e-cigarette at me. “You know, that’s very astute, Johnny. You surprise me.”
I wonder what surprises him. And I wonder where Helen is in all of this. At the very least, couldn’t she point out the fact that she likes a little celluloid opium too?
“Why don’t I put on some music?” Helen claps her hands against her thighs, rising. This is not exactly the kind of spousal support I was hoping for—Helen putting on some of her music before I can head her off by putting on something decent—but I take the opportunity to check on my hors d’oeuvres.
For tonight’s dinner, I recreated the meal I made the first time we had dinner guests—the amuse bouches, the homemade pizza and salad—so I toss four stuffed mushrooms and the other little things onto a tray, toss some napkins on, and head back out, only to be greeted by the opening notes of the soundtrack from Saturday Night Fever.
“I love this music!” Daniel says. “You know, it’s been so long since I’ve heard it, but whenever I do, I think: What man wouldn’t want to be a woman’s man with no time to talk?”
Actually, I’m more of a man’s man, and I always have time to talk, at least with people I like, but I neglect to point this out.
“Ah!” Daniel eyes my tray. “Amuse bouche—how amusing!” He grabs a stuffed mushroom, pops it into his mouth and before he’s swallowed says, “Helen, these are absolutely divine.”
“Actually,” she says, “Johnny made them.”
“Johnny?” He eyes me, then: “Well, I suppose when a person doesn’t have a real job, there’s time in the day to do all sorts of things.”
Oh, how I would love to use some of that extra time in my day to do something to this guy.
But I swallow my feelings and extend the tray again. “Perhaps you’d like to try one of my mini quiches?”
It would be nice to say that once we get to the table and sit down to dinner proper, that things improve, but I’m just an honest member of the proletariat and I can’t say that they do.
After bringing out the pizza, I grab us all another round of beers.
“All this beer,” Daniel says, accepting his, “it really does remind me of college days. I keep half-expecting you to trot out a keg.”
“Yeah.” I slug back about half my bottle. “I guess we did all drink a lot of beer back then.”
“Oh?” Daniel cocks one single eyebrow. “You went to college? Norwalk Community, I suppose?”
Actually, I went to a good four-year university and graduated Magna Cum Laude.
“Actually—” Helen starts, but I cut her off.
“Yeah,” I say, giving the guest what he wan
ts, “it was something like that.”
We begin to eat and it’s like Old Home Week between the other two. They discuss cases they’ve worked on together and everything is all “Remember the case when…” and “Remember the time we…”
I just listen, soaking it all in, particularly the moment when, in the middle of an anecdote about a tort, Daniel reaches out and covers Helen’s hand with one of his. I grind my teeth and force a smile as I tell myself this is just the sort of things colleagues might do, even when Helen squeezes back.
“I must apologize, Johnny,” Daniel says, withdrawing his hand.
Yes, I think, you really must.
“All this talk about legal cases Helen and I have worked on together—it must be frightfully boring for you.”
Once again, I’m about to give the guest what he wants—feigning my own ignorance—but this time it’s Helen who cuts me off.
“Actually,” she says, “Johnny’s always been very interested in the law.”
“Really.” Daniel regards me with critical interest but then a smile breaks across his face. “Of course! I understand people like you enjoy all those legal-eagle TV shows, Law and Order and all that.”
I could say that, actually, I was a Poli-Sci major and, Magna Cum Laude from a good university in pocket, once flirted with the idea of law school, but I do not say that, nor do I give Helen the chance to.
Pointing the neck of my bottle toward him, I make a gun-cocking click sound as I wink and say, “Got it in one.”
I notice Helen’s starting to look a bit disgusted. Finally. And who can blame her? This guy is such a dick.
When I bring out the dessert and the coffee, Daniel pulls out his e-cigarette.
“You really like that thing, don’t you,” I observe.
“This?” He waves the e-cigarette. “Why? Does it bother you?”
“No, not at all,” I say, and it’s true. Oh, sure, Daniel Rathbone gets on my nerves waving that thing around constantly, but everything Daniel Rathbone does gets on my nerves. But e-cigarettes in general? Nah, give me something real to get exercised about.
“You could say I like to push the envelope with these.” He examines the tip. “I take them out everywhere. Recently, I pulled it out on a plane and got thrown off for it. I’m trying to put together a lawsuit, but so far, it’s a bit slow-going. New ground and all that, so the law’s a bit murky.”
“Maybe Johnny can help with that,” Helen suggests.
“Johnny?” Daniel says.
I wouldn’t go so far as to say the guy snorts but it’s definitely implied.
“Sure,” Helen says. “Johnny’s great with legal loopholes.”
“Really,” Daniel says.
In truth, I love finding loopholes in things. And, oh, there’s so much to play with here. First, of course it would be helpful if he could establish that e-cigarettes pose no threat whatsoever to those in the vicinity of the e-smoker. But after that? He could argue that the device is ill-named, creating a built-in prejudice against it, when in reality it’s not a cigarette at all, since it doesn’t behave like one; rather, it’s a nicotine inhaler, no different or more harmful than a nicotine patch. Does the law want to outlaw those? Hardly. They’re good at reducing the effects of smoking and smoking in general. He could argue that to ban something that is harmless to others simply because it visually resembles something that’s harmful is akin to outlawing water pistols. Or what if someone could locate those candy cigarettes that used to be popular—would they be told they can’t eat chocolate on the plane because it’s a certain sinister shape and wrapped in paper? Not to mention, from what I’ve read, there is no consistency in terms of enforcement, like with real cigarettes; no rule that covers all airlines or even consistency within a single airline.
Frankly, I’m a bit shocked. Why hasn’t Dan the brilliant lawyer thought of all this, when it seems so obvious to me that he’s got a strong case for damages against the airline for kicking him off the plane without just cause.
Yeah, I could say all that on the subject, and more, but I don’t feel like it. Instead, I say:
“Let’s see.” I run the items off on my fingers. “Ice holes, sinkholes, peepholes, blowholes—I know a little bit about each of those. But loopholes?” I shrug. “I got nothing.”
Daniel gives me a smug look as if to say, Just as I expected.
“Yeah,” I respond to his unvoiced thoughts, “you could say I’m a real asshole like that.”
“Yes. Well.” He looks at his watch: a Rolex. “Oh, look at the time! Can you believe I’ve been here three hours already?”
No, because it feels like thirty.
“Must run,” he says. “But let’s do this again real soon, shall we?” He regards me. “It was interesting getting to spend some time with Helen’s Boy Toy.” Then he gives my wife one of those uncomfortable-for-me, nearly-touching-her-butt extended hugs, and he’s gone.
Helen and me work side by side in the kitchen, in silence, tidying things up and putting things away.
“Some night,” I finally say, trying to force a hearty tone into my voice. “I hope you had a good time with your friend.”
Helen turns to me sharply and there’s something in her eyes. It mirrors something that’s been growing in me for a long time now, something I haven’t permitted myself to voice, not even to myself.
“I don’t believe you, Johnny,” she says. “What is wrong with you?”
And now, at long last, I am neither miffed, nor peeved, nor annoyed, nor perturbed.
I’m mad.
Tock
“What’s wrong with me?” I don’t even try to modulate my voice.
The cat’s been hanging out in the kitchen, no doubt hoping to scrounge some leftovers from dinner, but at the sound of rising voices he runs for cover. A part of me wishes I could go with him, but whatever’s about to happen here, I know I can’t run or hide from it.
“Daniel insulted you all evening,” Helen says.
“Yes, I’m well aware of that fact. So? He was your guest.”
“You let him get away with it. You just sat there smiling, accepting everything he said.”
“He was your guest.”
“Why didn’t you stand up for yourself? Why didn’t you fight back?”
“Perhaps you didn’t hear me the first two times? He. Was. Your. Guest.” I hit those last four words so hard, the dog starts whimpering. “And what did you expect me to say?”
“I don’t know. How about pointing out that you graduated with honors? Or telling him you were on track to be a lawyer but then changed direction to please your father?”
“I’m not going to get into a pissing contest with that guy. I’m not going to defend what I do for a living. So, what? Am I supposed to become a lawyer now? Would the world be a better place if everyone who possibly could become lawyers did become lawyers? And what would we have then—basically everyone just suing one another? Oh, right. That’s what we have now.”
“So now you’re saying my profession’s stupid?”
“No, of course not. But why’d you invite that guy over anyway? I can’t stand that guy.”
“Since when?”
“Since forever.”
“Oh, so now you hate all my friends?”
“No.” I can’t keep the mocking tone out of my voice. “I don’t ‘hate’ all your friends.” Well, there is Carla too, but maybe I should hold that one in reserve. “Just that guy.”
“Hey, it was your idea to have him over.”
Now, hold on here. I’m pretty sure that if it was my idea, I would remember that insane fact.
“No,” I say scornfully.
“Uh-huh,” Helen says, sounding like she’s about six years old and we’re in the middle of a playground fight. “Back on the cruise ship—”
“That was four months ago!”
“I don’t care how long ago it was. There is no statue of limitations on what you say to me. You said we should have him over sometime
for dinner when we got back.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, if we’re going all the way back to the cruise ship…how could you leave me alone when I was so sick?”
“What? You told me to go.”
“I was being magnanimous!”
“How was I supposed to know that?”
“I gave you the only magic make-this-stomach-hell-stop pill that we had.”
“Who asked you to?”
“Are you saying I shouldn’t have? Are you saying you wouldn’t have done the same for me?”
“No and no, but—”
“And if it had been the other way around, if you’d saved me instead of yourself, I damn well would have stayed by your side until you were better instead of traipsing off with a dozen German volleyball players.”
“There were only nine.”
“Whatever.”
“So if it bothered you so much, why didn’t you just come out and say so at the time?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I was too busy puking my guts up to have the energy left over to give you etiquette lessons?”
Bowser starts to whimper more loudly.
“And that,” I say, pointing toward the living room.
“What that are we talking about now?”
“That giant dog you brought home.”
“You don’t like him?”
“I’m starting to, but that’s not the point. Who brings home a massive dog like that without notice? Do you not see what a hostile act that was?”
“He was a present for you!”
“No.” I wave my finger back and forth. “Whatever that was all about, whatever you were trying to do, it was not about giving me a present. I had a cat already, a cat who was very traumatized by the advent of that dog.”
“But it turned out fine.”
“But it might not have.”
“Yeah, about that cat. Don’t you think he’s, I don’t know, a bit of a pussy? ‘Who’s a proud lion? Who’s a proud lion?’”
If I weren’t so mad, it’d be easier to admit that that’s a hell of an imitation of me.
“I’m not sure of a whole lot in this world anymore, Johnny, but there’s one thing I do know. That cat is not”—and here she stabs the air between us with her finger—“a proud lion.”