by Neal Pollack
“Then why didn’t you say ‘I guessed’?”
Juliet would soon have a lot of conversations like this with Brad. It sounded like a fun night, though. Decent taste in food and music can blot out the crazy. At least for a while.
Brad let Juliet do the ordering. She got them a ceviche mixto with white corn, a traditional causa, which is kind of a potato and avocado casserole, and a big order of lomo saltado.
“All we need is some coca tea and we’ll be set,” Juliet said.
“That can be arranged,” Brad said.
“I’ve already got it at home,” she said shyly. “I’m an herbalist.”
“I know,” Brad said.
“How do you know?”
“I mean, you seem like an herbalist type.”
“What type?”
“Kind of like a sexy witch.”
Juliet blushed and found herself getting warm.
“Ain’t nothing sexier than a sexy witch,” Brad said.
“You’re weird,” Juliet said.
“You don’t know an eighth of it,” Brad said.
The food started to arrive. They went at it eagerly.
“Man,” she said, “Peruvian food is my favorite.”
“I know,” he said.
Stop knowing things about me, she thought. Can’t you just say, “That’s cool”?
But he didn’t, because he knew everything. When they got to the bar, he already knew that she liked mournful country ballads and watered-down Leinenkugel, preferably together. They talked about reading, and he already knew that she hated pretty much all books written by someone named “John.” They talked about politics, and he already knew that the health care system was a conspiracy of idiots designed to actually keep people unhealthy. He understood. In fact, he said, he’d written an article once for the New Century about that topic.
“When did you write for the New Century?” she asked.
“I don’t remember exactly,” he said. “A while ago.”
“How can you not remember?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I guess so!”
“But I can tell you that things are going to get way worse with health care. It’s all going to come to a boil in about 2009.”
“How do you know that?”
“I know.”
He did. He knew everything. It was ridiculous. Between Handsome Family sets, he talked about the history of the dulcimer, which Rennie had played with such mournful beauty. He didn’t just say he was familiar with the dulcimer, or with dulcimer music, which would have been unusual enough; he knew the history of the instrument. Juliet couldn’t even decide if she liked this quality.
“You sound like a guy who’s obsessed with collecting records,” she said.
“I won’t touch records,” he said. “Or CDs either. Almost all music is going to be digital fifteen years from now and people will mostly listen to it on their phones.”
“Oh, come on!”
“Trust me,” Brad said. “In any case, I like to see things live. It’s like a little piece of history that I can remember forever. I have a lot of history. In fact, I studied it for years.”
“You’ve done a lot for a guy who’s—how old are you? Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?”
“I have lived for hundreds of years,” Brad said.
“You don’t look a day over a hundred,” she said, but his face was actually pretty grim.
“My body is young,” he said, “but my mind is old. I am Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. I was born in 1518 in the village of Glenfinnan on the shores of Loch Shiel. And I am immortal.”
Well, it wasn’t the usual date. Juliet wasn’t sure what to make of this guy and his seemingly sincere Highlander references, but he had plenty of interests. At one point she said to Brad, “You should be on a quiz show, like Jeopardy!”
“Oh, I’ve been on Jeopardy!” he said ruefully.
“Really?” she said. “When did that happen?”
“Soon?” he said. “Never. I don’t know.”
“Did you win?”
“Yes.”
“That’s amazing! How much?”
“Fifty grand, give or take. I gave it to charity.”
“You did what?”
“Look, could we talk about something else?”
They did, and it was about a quarter past two when Juliet rolled into her apartment, feeling surprisingly warm even though the wind outside was nipping like a thousand airborne Chihuahuas. You could even say she glowed. Margaret was on the couch, smoking a fatty.
“How’s it going?” Juliet asked.
“Wesley Willis spat on me, and then I went to the Bucket with Cynthia Plastercaster.”
“The usual then.”
“Pretty much.”
Margaret took a drag and handed the joint to Juliet, who accepted it gladly. She needed to relax.
“What about you?” Margaret asked. “How was your night with the sad prophet?”
“It was kind of amazing,” Juliet said. “He wrote for a magazine and was on a game show.”
“He sounds like a fucking dork.”
“I don’t know,” Juliet said, her eyes glimmering a little. “He has an old soul.”
“Barf. What does he do for a living?”
“I don’t know, but he paid for everything, including my cab fare home.”
“Huh,” Margaret said. “The last guy I went out with asked to borrow money so he could pay his rent.”
“He kissed me too,” Juliet said.
“What are you, Audrey Hepburn? Was it a French kiss?”
“Yes,” Juliet said.
It had been a good one too. At the bar after the show, Brad just leaned in, gently touched her chin, and tilted it upward. He was so gentle about the whole thing. His eyes almost looked scared, like he was about to lose something very important. The kiss was gentle and lingering, and amazingly private considering that they were at a bar whose population largely consisted of drunken options traders.
“I have searched for you across the fields of time,” he said to Juliet, and he didn’t appear to be saying it ironically.
“What is he, the Highlander?” Margaret said. “Can there be only one?”
“Mock if you want, but I’m going to see him again.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“If you’d take out the trash soon, I’d appreciate it. Brad might be coming over, and the kitchen smells like dead fish.”
“It’s not my turn.”
“It is. I did it last week.”
“I disagree.”
“I would appreciate your support.”
“And you have it. But I am not going to be your butler while you live out some sort of weird Wicker Park romance novel.”
Juliet huffed. “Fine,” she said, and went off to her room, which was just off the kitchen and which did in fact stink of garbage. Someone would definitely have to take it out. She and Margaret had reached this impasse before. In reality they weren’t very good roommates.
She laid down on her single futon, stared up at the dream catcher hanging over her bed, and put a Kate Bush CD on, volume low. She took care not to brush her toes against the white-hot steam radiator.
“Brad Cohen,” she sighed. “You are weird.”
They dated three times a week, sometimes four or five. It wasn’t like she had a lot of other stuff going on. Brad called every other day, and he always had good ideas. They did all the fun Chicago stuff. There was a show at the Upright Citizens Brigade, highlighted by a goofy Lucille Ball–like blonde who Brad insisted was going to be very big news someday, and also a sketch thing called Dratch & Fey at Second City. Brad said, “I would buy stock in Tina Fey if I could.” They saw Mary Zimmerman’s production of The Arabian Nights at the Steppenwolf. There was a
Bulls game followed by a gorge at Mr. Beef on Orleans, and a Sunday evening old-man jazz jam at the Velvet Lounge, just off Roosevelt. He took her down to Maxwell Street and advised her to take photos because it would all be torn down soon. They went to a Bob Wills Hoot Night at the Hideout, where Jon Langford, Robbie Fulks, Kelly Hogan, and Freakwater played, and stayed out late doing shots at the Matchbox, “the world’s smallest bar.” There was tequila at Weeds and pints at the Old Town Ale House. They rode trains and buses and cabs all over the city, wrapping their scarves tight against the bitter winds, and occasionally even going down to the lake to watch the forming ice slush against the shore.
In some ways it was the most fun Juliet had ever had. She’d never known a man—or a woman for that matter—who knew as much or had as many different interests as Brad did. He was always on time, always polite, and didn’t seem excessively interested in putting the sex moves on her. In fact, she would have slept with him on the third date and told him so, but he just kissed her gently and said, “Not yet. I want to get reacquainted better.”
And that’s where it got confusing. Sometimes he said things that simply didn’t make sense to her, like “Nineteen ninety-six is going to be a good year again,” or “Al Gore is going to win an Oscar.” He would refer to things that had happened in the past as though they were going to happen in the future, and to things that seemed to be in the future as though they were going to happen in the past. And sometimes in the present his eyes would glaze, as though he didn’t quite know where he was. When they went to movies, he seemed really bored, as though he’d seen everything before. One night at this Italian place that was fast becoming one of their favorites, she caught him staring at his hands, muttering to himself, “So young. Always so young.”
Brad was all mystery all the time. She didn’t know where he lived or where—even if—he’d gone to college. He said, “I grew up in Hyde Park. Several times.” But other than that, he didn’t discuss his past or his childhood. If he had a job, he didn’t talk about it. He always seemed to be free to do anything at any time.
One night he picked her up at her house in a BMW 3 Series. She didn’t know he had a car or even a driver’s license. He’d told her to dress nicely, so she’d put on a skirt and blouse. But he was wearing a tuxedo.
“If I’d known we were going to prom,” she said, “I’d have rented a dress.”
“We’re not going to prom,” he said. “We’re going to Charlie Trotter’s.”
In that era, Trotter’s was far and away the nicest restaurant in town, and you never got out for less than $200 a person. Juliet had been once. Her father had taken her as a college graduation present.
“I can’t afford that,” she said.
“I’m paying,” said Brad.
“You can’t afford that,” she said.
“Sure I can.”
Who was this guy?
“How?”
“I invested my bar mitzvah money in Apple stock,” he said. “And I put ten thousand dollars on Villanova to beat Georgetown. Before the season started.”
She had no idea what that meant.
“Basically,” he said, “I’m rich.”
It didn’t matter to her, but it was good to know.
Charlie Trotter’s was as stuffy as Juliet remembered—guys folding napkins in her lap and terrines with their own special forks, and soup served in a golden bowl. They ate seven courses and didn’t talk much.
“You’re awfully quiet,” she said.
“Well,” he said, “I know everything about you. And there’s not much to know about me.”
She was still hungry when it was all over.
The valet pulled up Brad’s BMW and held the door open for her.
“You seem unimpressed,” he said.
“It was fun,” she said politely, “but not really my style.”
He smacked himself in the head. “Of course not!” he said. “I am so stupid!” Brad turned his face to the sky and shouted, “I am fortune’s fool!”
That was weird. And kind of cute.
“No you’re not!” said Juliet.
“I’m not?” he snuffled.
“Of course not,” she said. “Tomorrow night we’ll go get some real food. If you’re free.”
“I’m always free,” he said.
He rang her doorbell at 7:00 p.m. He was wearing jeans and an old gray sweatshirt and looked like he hadn’t slept much.
“Did you park the beemer downstairs?” she asked.
“Oh no,” he said. “I sold that today. We’re taking the bus.”
They rode the number 11 for fifteen minutes down Lincoln Avenue. It was sleeting, and the bus’s heating wasn’t working very well. Maybe Brad had overcompensated slightly.
As they neared Wellington, Brad pulled the wire. The bus dinged and pulled up to the curb with a loud puff. Brad got off first. He offered Juliet his hand. She walked down the step. He didn’t let go. In fact, he was gripping a little too hard.
The place was cute inside, South American down-home, lacquered wood and native garments and photo murals of old Cartagena. A collection of Cumbia music was playing over the PA. You sat at benches at long tables, and it wasn’t very crowded. Juliet and Brad had their own table in the corner.
“How’d you find out about this place?” she said.
“It just opened two weeks ago,” said Brad. “I’ve known about it for a long time.”
“How . . . ?” she said, but then stopped herself. This guy was a living temporal cryptogram.
Juliet let Brad order this time. He seemed to know what he liked, and what he liked was usually pretty good, or at least it was authentic. This time, though, it was authentic and incredibly delicious. They had the matrimonio, “marriage” in Spanish, a mixed grill of steak and shrimp served with taro root and a side of homemade chimichurri. Brad also ordered a sopa de mariscos, which was full of fish and herbs.
They were deep into their second bottle of wine when Juliet exclaimed, “This food makes me so happy!”
She saw Brad’s eyes get teary.
“I hoped it would,” he said. “I knew it would.”
“I’d rather eat here than anywhere in the world,” she said.
Most of that second bottle of wine had been hers, and she was appreciably drunk at this point.
Brad reached across the table and took her hands. “I love you, Juliet,” he said. “I always have, all these years.”
“I love you too,” she said.
But at the same time, she thought, Wait, what am I saying? I don’t love him. I don’t even know where he lives. She regretted it, but regretted it even more when he started sobbing softly at the table.
“Oh God,” he said. “It’s happening. It’s really, really happening.”
She had to distract him.
“What have they got for dessert?” she asked.
They took a cab home. He pawed at her desperately, kissing her neck, sucking on her ear. She was dizzy and drunk and sort of returned his affections, all the while thinking that she smelt like a cork that had been left on the counter too long.
The apartment smelt worse than that. She and Margaret had been feuding about the garbage for weeks. Brad gagged when they walked in the door.
“Don’t worry,” Brad said. “When you live with me, I’ll always take out the garbage. It’s my job.”
“Where do you live?” she asked.
He touched her face tenderly. “I have a beautiful place. For us,” he said. “Only for us.”
Margaret wasn’t home. They stumbled to the couch. He kissed her more deeply than she wanted, like a starving man who’s happened onto a meal. She kissed back, though, and even helped him unhook her bra. They were both drunk, she a little more than he, but there was no resistance on either part.
“I love you, Juliet,” he
said. “Love love love you.”
He climbed on top of her and started to rub. She felt him against her thigh, stiff as a pole.
“Oh God oh God oh God oh God,” he said.
“Mmm?” she said.
“At last at last,” he said.
She looked up. Brad’s face contorted weirdly, like a shriveled grape.
“Mmmmmmmmm,” he said.
She felt him hitch against her thigh. There were two rhythmic thrusts, and then a growing wetness. His cock deflated like an improperly tied balloon animal.
“Oh no!” he said.
He sat up. A viscous stain spread across his khakis, making a shape like some weird forgotten continent, an Atlantis of premature jizz.
“I’m so sorry,” Brad said.
Juliet sat up and stroked his hair. “It’s OK,” she said. “It happens.”
He started to sob again. “I just wanted it to be perfect.”
“We can do it again in a couple of hours.”
He was really blubbering now. “I miss our daughters,” he said.
“Our what?”
“There are two of them, and they’re so kind and sweet and funny. One of them has no attention span, and the other one can sit for hours and makes art and she throws up all the time.”
“We don’t have daughters, Brad.”
He grabbed her by the shoulders.
“But we will, Juliet,” he said. “That’s what the future is about.”
Juliet stood up. She walked over to the built-in china cabinet and pulled open the top drawer, where Margaret kept the weed box. There was a pipe with a little nug left in. She lit it and took a drag.
“You need to leave now,” she said.
He looked at her with mournful, pathetic eyes. “But—”
“You need to leave, and you need to forget my phone number and where I live, and you are never to call me or see me again or I will get a restraining order against you.”
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to go,” he said.
“There’s something wrong with you,” Juliet said. “I feel bad, because you’re obviously suffering, but I was not put on this planet to fix your problems.”
“You used to be,” he said.
“There you go again!” she said. “Stop talking like you know me or knew me, or whatever. You know nothing.”
