Meets Girl: A Novel

by Entrekin, Will

  I didn’t know how she would react if I told her. I was fairly certain she wouldn’t tell me she never wanted to speak to me again for fear of the complications to our relationship my romantic feelings might have caused, but then again, I was also fairly certain she didn’t reciprocate those feelings I had. Which may sound diffident, but then again that’s just one of those things you just sort of know, isn’t it? Romance and attraction may both be nebulous enough that science and psychology still bend over backwards in their efforts to explain them, but that’s only because things like love and chemistry can’t be confined to either the laboratory or the classroom; half the fun is in the chaos, in barroom Brownian motion and the particle-wave of lust. We dismiss reason and logic for those calloused fingertips, that brilliant smile in an otherwise dim dive, those sweet eyes that tug you like you just don’t expect and can’t ever really fight. You know that moment—you’ve felt it mid-slug of lite beer, bottle raised to your lips and bubbles halfway down your throat, when the whole world has stopped on account of her laugh or his voice (or, let’s be honest, her butt or his chest, or vice-versa). You just sort of know those things, and I just sort of knew Veronica and I had the bright, clear warmth of sunshine on a beach, not the hot, slow burn of embers in the darkness.

  So what was I to do?

  Well, right then, I was to drive home. I was to park at my parents’ house and carry inside Veronica’s present tucked beneath my arm, if only because I have always felt that it’s better to concentrate on what is concrete in front of you than to expend too much effort on speculation.

  I’m no longer exactly certain of that, but it’s what I told myself as I slipped my key in the door and let myself into the house in which I’d grown up. Comin’ home Christmas, so very different from comin’ home New York: the different scents, for one, mom’s homemade cooking and sugar cookies as opposed to the oddly neutral, gritty fragrance of the subway, but also . . . the home where you grew up always feels different from the home you make, even if you sometimes only realize it on Christmas morning long after the rest of the world has gone to sleep. It’s not just the scent, not just the different warmth, but trying to decide exactly why—is it the knowledge of your mother’s soft snoring a few bedrooms over? That you fall asleep in the same bed you slept in when you were a sophomore in high school?—is difficult at best. Sometimes, in fact, all you can really do is pull the blanket up knowing that Christmas morning is only a few hours away, and thinking all the while that maybe it’s not such a bad thing to be in love, even if you’re not exactly sure how she would feel if she knew.

  Laying there, in that same old bed, I thought again of D.H. Lawrence, he of perfect letters to particular someones, and something else he said: that desire is holy. Which it is, and which makes longing a state of grace.

  And then I slept.

  Chapter Eight, in which I demonstrate some initiative, not to mention: meet Angus (finally)

  Conventional wisdom dictates that, upon completion of any first draft, a writer should step back. I think Stephen King noted (in On Writing?) that the magic number is six weeks; finish your first draft and then stick it in a drawer, and for six weeks do anything at all that doesn’t include reading that finished draft, after which time you may retrieve your manuscript from your drawer to mark it with your editor’s pen, and you may moan and groan and lament your general lack of creativity when you’re not admiring your own genius, though you may be in a spot if there don’t exist more moments of the former than of the latter (which may sound backward but, when revising, better to groan than preen). After all that time, you may proceed onto work on another draft, which, mathematically (at least according to Stephen King) should equal approximately your first draft minus ten percent.

  I note all that because it’s so totally not what I did. After attending a brunch at my grandmother’s house, I spent part of Christmas evening polishing the first chapter of my manuscript, then wrote a single query to my dream agent—Merrilee Heifetz, an agent with Writers House, who represented Neil Gaiman, my own personal writing hero/mentor. Gaiman’s a guy who, since the events of this story took place, has topped nearly every bestseller’s list the New York Times can offer him, who’s not only had several novels and stories adapted into television series or movies but even written a few himself (including an adaptation of Beowulf directed by Robert Zemeckis). Neil maintains a blog in which he manages to refer to Zemeckis as “Bob” without its ever feeling like name-dropping, and of all the writers I can think of, I think I’d like a diverse, varied, and successful career most like his, which is why Heifetz was not just at the top of my list of agents to query but managed to be the list in its entirety, at least to start.

  Because why not, right? What had I to lose?

  (you’ll find out)

  So I wrote up my query and polished up my first chapter, then printed both out. I signed the query with my lucky fountain pen, folded query and sample and a self-addressed, stamped envelope into another envelope, and headed down to the post office to mail it out. I wasn’t sure it was the best idea to send it out so fresh and new, but then again, I figured, most agents cite a response time of no fewer than two months, and many request two to three times that many before you even hear from then, and even then, that’s usually only in the case of a rejection. So if a rejection can take six months to arrive . . .

  ***

  I hadn’t been sure when I planned to return to Manhattan, but Tom’s gig on New Year’s gave me a reason to stick around for another week during which I’d be lying if I told you I did anything productive. The agency through whom I was temping assured me they’d probably be able to find something for me, if not at my previous wage then close to. I poked around on other job sites to see if anyone was looking for literature-slash-science majors, but funny thing that combination, because not so much.

  I didn’t mind too much. I had a few weeks before February rent would become an issue, and my parents didn’t seem to mind the idea of my staying with them for a little while as I figured things out. Besides, I thought, taking a week off to gather my thoughts might do me a world of good, though that makes it sounds like a more formal or official process than it actually was, makes it sound like I didn’t spend most of that week reading and watching television and pretty much slacking off to such a degree that you might as well picture me on the sofa in my boxers, scratching my balls, and it wouldn’t be far off from the truth.

  Thing was, I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t worried much about money if only because I trusted my temp agency at their word and didn’t think it would take long to place me well; I’d basically fallen into the job at the New Yorker as it had been, and Lord knew those sorts of gigs were a dime a dozen in the Big Apple, or so I thought. What else are you supposed to do in Manhattan, besides things like investment banking and driving cabs? Or maybe retail . . .

  I spent most of that week thinking (for various definitions of the word), and by the time Tom’s gig rolled around I was ready for a break from my melodramatic self.

  ***

  On New Year’s Eve, 2006, Foolish launched Music We Done Played at the Grape Street Pub in Manayunk, Pennsylvania, a hip and swinging establishment that had once been host to a Tuesday music night when it had been located on the nominative Grape Street. It had since become popular enough to move to new digs on the cool Main stretch, just beyond the ice cream parlor and the sushi joint. Manayunk is ten or fifteen minutes from Philadelphia proper and is a sort-of post-collegiate town, the kind of place where twenty-somethings whom a decade before would have been called yuppies go to polish the teeth they’ve already cut. It’s the sort of place where an Apple store would not only not seem out of place but would also be able to find every one of its employees within a ten-block radius.

  The perfect place for Foolish, whose music I have only just now realized I haven’t yet described to you. If you imagine a network dramedy in which Patrick Dempsey’s dreamy-but-troubled lawyer courted Mariska Hargitay’s h
arried-but-optimistic forensic psychologist, and then play through an entire season to that singular moment when, after months of extended courtship, the two characters finally kiss, Foolish is playing the song you hear when they finally lock lips. It’s bombastic mid-tempo pop like Coldplay decided Justin Timberlake’s “SexyBack” should be more than a danceable pop tune and had to be both sultry and emotional simultaneously; like Mutt Lange and Rick Rubin collaborated on producing an album for a band equal parts Def Leppard and matchbox twenty; straight-up rock and roll crossed with massive pop.

  I’ve never seen Foolish not get the room dancing, no matter the venue, no matter the crowd. Which was why Grape Street hosted the launch party on New Year’s Eve, and probably why the show sold out days before it was to occur. Grape Street is not a small place—besides a main room large enough to hold a few hundred people, it has a secondary bar, an outdoor bar, a sidebar that’s almost a lounge (generally where the acoustic open-mike nights go down) and an upstairs room that’s totally a lounge when it’s not a dance floor—but the entire place was packed by eight in the evening, and most of them were there for Foolish, which had built a loyal following around the Philly/South Jersey area.

  It was very much like a massive New Year’s Eve Party among good friends and their families; the crowd wasn’t just mutual friends and their husbands or wives but also moms and dads and aunts and uncles—I’m pretty sure there was a grandmother around somewhere. It was hard to keep track, crowded as it was. Foolish played for several hours, mixing what seemed like dozens of covers among the songs on their CD, as well as the songs I’m pretty sure are required for all New Year’s Parties, “Auld Lang Syne” and what not, and I danced and drank and partied and mingled and basically had more fun that single evening than during the entire previous year. If the New Year is supposed to begin as it may continue, I should have by all accounts expected a year that would have made Gehrig relinquish his whole luckiest-man-on-the-planet title.

  It was also the night I met Angus.

  That was at the end of the night. Tom had invited me to the Foolish afterparty; the guys and their wives and girlfriends were headed to a local strip bar where one of them had worked as a bouncer years before. An afterhours type of joint, and I was happy to join them even though I’d never really been into strip clubs (I just don’t understand them. Don’t get me wrong, I like looking at women as much as the next guy but Chris Rock has taught us nothing if not that there is no sex in the champagne room. Ever. And while I enjoy a good tease, the one thing a good tease demands is satisfaction), so I was waiting around for the guys to break down their equipment. I’d maintained a pleasant buzz for a solid several hours, very proud I’d spent only the first hour fully sober but had never once tipped over into full-on drunk.

  I was nursing a Yuengling at the bar, when Veronica approached. “Just wanted to say goodnight before I left.”

  “No afterparty?”

  “The strip club? Nah. Not my thing.”

  “Yeah, I hear you. Not really mine either, mostly.”

  “Ah, come on. Totally your thing. You’re a dude.”

  “Indeed, a dude I am.”

  “Well have fun. I’ll catch you later. Let’s do something before I go back to school.”

  “Give me a call.”

  “Awesome,” she said, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “And happy new year.”

  “Yeah,” I squeezed her arm. “Happy new year.”

  She smiled, then turned to leave, and I watched her as she did so.

  “She’s certainly a beautiful young woman,” came from my right a voice with a burr so deep it could have worn its own kilt, and I turned.

  Anthony Hopkins.

  That was my first thought the very first time I saw Angus. I’m certain the resemblance was superficial— and probably should since this is a novel and all resemblance of any character to any single person either living or dead must be entirely coincidental—but I also must note, knowing what I later learned, from Angus and otherwise, that nothing Angus did was entirely coincidental. Instead, I will say up front: Angus wasn’t Anthony Hopkins, but could have passed for the great Welsh actor’s brother—the same clear, blue eyes; the same neat, white hair; the same wide, puckish grin. He had that charming way that transforms wrinkles into laugh lines, and they were crinkling then. “But it’s not just that, is it? Pretty, certainly, but there’s a lot more to that special young lady. I can see why you like her so much.”

  “Excuse me? Do I—?”

  “Know me? Not at all. You’ve never seen me before in your life.”

  “That’s what I thought,” I said. I sipped the beer I was nursing.

  He had before him a highball of something amber on the rocks. His fingers circled the glass’ rim, and he wore a silver pinky ring with a dark blue stone that twinkled ambient light like a tiny star.

  “So how—?”

  “Did I know? Besides that you wear your infatuation for her like a heart on your sleeve, I always notice. My ability to sense in the cheeks of youth the first blushes of attraction is merely but one speciality among many,” he said, and then he winked at me, and here’s where I started paying closer attention, because . . . okay, you know the creepy guy in the bar? That guy on the end over-age drinking, his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back but just a little too long, like he’s gone one too many weeks without a proper trim? He wears his mustache unironically and trims it a touch too precisely, and that’s never mind the fact that he’s overdressed in a double-breasted blazer over a dark shirt, the collar and buttons of which are open enough to reveal the gold coin he wears as a pendant in a cushy bed of white chest hair. You’ve seen that guy, throwing around his money like he’s trying to impress someone, and on his arm he usually has a woman ten years younger but no better for her wear, a peroxide blonde like a bird of prey, an objet d’artifice. You’ve probably smelled that guy, who wears too much Polo but can’t hide the reek of old desperation.

  You know that guy? Because Angus?

  The opposite.

  Classy. He had a dark suit on, but it was European cut and he wore it like it had been tailored just the week before, over a black shirt whose collar was open but not ostentatiously so. Besides the Anthony Hopkins resemblance, he had that sort of movie star ease about him.

  “Specialities,” I said.

  “Oh my yes. Myriad specialities of various and sundry nature. A long and diverse list of skills and talents the likes of which it would take any man several lifetimes to acquire and several times that to master.”

  “You must be pretty old, then.”

  “Only to the pretty young. And you are pretty. Young,” he smiled.

  “Wait, are you—?” I stopped short of asking if he was hitting on me. It didn’t feel like he was—just that he was a charming older gentleman—but neither was I completely certain he wasn’t.

  “An old man sitting at a bar, meeting a new acquaintance after having listened to a rather splendid band? Indeed I am.”

  “They are good.”

  “Splendid,” he corrected. “And yes, indeed they are. Friends of yours, I take it?”

  “You’re quick.”

  “I figured that’s the only reason you’d be sitting at the bar while they stowed away their instruments, instead of chatting up one of the numerous and rather splendid examples of young ladies currently in the room. I’d say I’m rather surprised you’re not keeping one of them company, rather than some unfamiliar old man. Then again, the only one you’ve had your eye on has only just departed, and I’d wager you’ve had your eye on her for far longer than this single evening, pleasant as it may be.”

  I looked at the beer I was drinking, as though captivated by the way light shone off the green glass neck of the bottle. “That’s not a wager I’d win, that’s for sure,” and with that, I slugged down the remainder in one long, slow draw. It had already warmed to the room, and it went down as bubbles without any taste. I set the empty down on the bar and started to signal
to the tender, but Angus stopped me.

  “Why don’t you let me get your next round?”

  “You want to buy me a beer?” I was a little less certain he wasn’t hitting on me. I wasn’t yet sure what it felt like, only that it didn’t feel like that.

  “Don’t be vulgar. I might as well just piss in the bottle you just finished. No, my boy, I would much rather indulge you in one of the finer things in life,” he told me, and before I could say anything, he called over the tender, a tall, muscular blonde with sparkling blue eyes and cleavage I’m sure the band could have enjoyed from the stage twenty feet away. “Good evening young lady, and might I first compliment you on your choice of tee shirt for the evening? Your splendid body has made an old man think back wistfully on the days of his youth, and I don’t mind telling you that, though I never wanted for female companionship, very rarely did I find myself accompanied by a lass so lovely as yourself, and I hope you won’t mind my saying so.”

  Like I said: from anyone else? Fucking creepy. From this guy?

  I watched the girl blush. I’m sure she was used to hearing a hundred lines like that every night. She carried herself like she knew she was attractive, too—not like she was stuck-up about it, but like she was aware of it, which I’m sure she must have been, because otherwise I would have had to fault her for having been in deep denial. Even still, her lovely cheeks reddened on their high bones. “Not even a little. Thank you,” she said, chuckling as she tucked a strand of hair back behind her ear. “So can I get you boys something?”

  “Well, yes, my dear, I’m certain you can, in fact, get us something, as I’m sure your employment here is based only secondarily on your fine features and primarily on your ability to procure refreshment. I say this merely to point out that ‘can’ is solely indicative of one’s ability, whereas ‘may’ indicates an actual action, and so, being that I am certain you have the ability to pour for my new acquaintance and me, should we require the whetting of our respective whistles, the beverage of our choice, I will tell you that what you may do is pour for each of us your very finest Scotch. And by Scotch I mean real Scotch, and by finest I mean the sort you keep on the shelf so high you will require a stepping stool to retrieve it from its perch of honor, if only so that my acquaintance and I might at the same time enjoy the sight of you reaching for it.”