He hears me but doesn’t listen. He just keeps right on talking, trying to make his point. “Yeah, yeah, anyways, I look into her eyes, right directly into her eyes, but it’s not her eyes that I see. All I can see are her breasts, her glorious, lovely, hot summer breasts. We talk. We talk about the weather, the heat, but all the while I’m thinking about touching her, thinking about how smooth her skin is going to feel. We pull over, have a coffee at a coffee shop, and an hour later, I’m in her bed.”
I’m laughing now because I know what comes next. It’s the Terry Allister philosophical ending. His story is an interesting story, and it probably did happen just the way that he says it happened, but it’s the way that he sums it up that I enjoy listening to. It’s the way that he’s motivated his employees, and I suppose, himself, all these years. He’s an inventor, a salesman, a husband to Jo, and a good friend to me, but like lots of people, he sees himself as something else. Terry sees himself as a philosopher. No, Terry is a philosopher.
“Now, Malcolm, that little encounter all began with a flirt, just a flirt, but it became much more than that. It’s not just flirting. It’s about finding a maybe. I looked at her, she looked at me. Then, I asked with my eyes, no words, just eyes, and she smiled back a maybe. And let me tell you, my friend, there’s lots of satisfaction in a maybe.”
He pauses, and taking his eyes off the road for a moment, looks over at me, making sure that I’m listening. I stretch in the comfortable reclined seat and look over at my friend, allowing him to give me his philosophical summary.
“Maybes make the world go round, Malcolm. Maybes give us hope. They tuck us into bed at night, and they wake us up in the morning. Maybes help us navigate our way through just about anything. Yeah, that’s what you need, my friend. You need a whole summer of maybes.”
I’m smiling now, and after a moment he is too. He’s remembering the girl, I suppose, and is smiling the way he always does when he has someone who will listen to his theories.
In the movie of my life that plays in my head, I’ve tried to imagine myself just as Terry suggests. I see a charming, carefree, ladies’ man that sneaks out of bathroom windows in the middle of the night, before husbands get home, and then laughs about it afterwards. I imagine myself juggling Brittanys and Courtneys and best of all Sheenas, and being faithful to none of them. In the real world though, the world I really live in, I know that just isn’t me. Terry talks about the girl with the loopy earrings, and all of the others that he knew, but all I’ve ever really wanted was one girl, or even better the girl.
We leave the main highway, and enter the city. He starts weaving his car through traffic, changing lanes and overtaking slower drivers. It’s our drive to the water. Both of our homes look out at the same water, only my view is from my fifteenth floor apartment and Terry’s is from his house in the hills.
“Yeah, the party will do you good. You never know; you might just meet somebody; you might meet a maybe, Malcolm. Just remember what I told you. Take a break; take a break from serious for a while. Have some fun, for Pete’s sake.”
My friend is probably right; I need a break from something. I’m not sure if it’s from women, or commitment, or work or all three. I’ve taken a few days off from my accounting practice to try and forget Natasha, and the ones before her. I’m thirty four and I’ve been in two serious, and two not-so-serious, relationships in my life. All of which seemed to end the same way.
In my twenties there had been Mona, lovely, lovely Mona. She’d wanted children and I’d only wanted Mona, just Mona. We tried to pretend for almost three years before realizing that our paths were too different.
Later there had been Linda and Lori. I could never decide which was the one for me. Linda and Lori lived together. They’d been roommates since college and I tried to build a relationship with each of them, at different times of course. Unfortunately, their own relationship was more important than any type of connection that they might have felt with me. So, one day they asked me to move on and leave them alone. Somewhere they’re out there, still living together, still roommates.
Then there was the aforementioned Natasha. Now my relationship with Natasha seems like one long, long, date that should have ended much sooner than it did. We tried to see something in each other that wasn’t there, tried to fill in the blanks instead of dealing with reality. Reality can be so boring sometimes, but it will always rear its head and snap at you, telling you that it’s just not working, and with Natasha and me, it finally did.
We arrive back at my apartment, and sit for a moment in the parking lot, watching the sun settling on the water. Anyone passing by would see two men, mid thirties, smiling, talking, enjoying the view. The driver, the shorter of the two, is speaking, moving his hands in the air from time to time, gently making his point. The passenger sits taller, stiffer, his serious face crinkling at the edges, as the driver tells story after story.
That’s not where we are of course. We’re not really there. Our bodies might be, but we’re not. We’re in the same place that we always are when we spend time together. We’re sitting on overturned buckets, outside the shed on his Dad’s lot. Terry is planning his next invention, his next success, and I’m just trying to be Malcolm, whatever that is.
CHAPTER 16
Their driveway is crammed full of vehicles. It always is during their parties. Some of the vehicles are Terry’s, and others belong to his guests. Terry’s cars have names on them that say XL, or SL, or they’re just called the S Series, or the M Series. They’re the type of cars, that when he says the name, other men nod and smile, as though he’s gotten away with something very sinister. To me, they’re blue or black, and look much more expensive than my four-year-old Chevy.
Terry, and his wife Jo, have a television set that is as big as the wall. They can walk into the room and say, “TV on,” and it comes on. In the back yard there’s a pool shaped in the logo of Terry’s company, and for the party they have set up two bars, both manned by bartenders. There’s a chef standing at the head of a table, carving roast beef, and there are two Mexican balladeers, sauntering around the garden, playing requests and sweating under their heavy Mexican hats. And there are people, lots and lots of people.
His employees are a mixed bunch. They range from the very intelligent technical types, who use the party as a day to let their hair down, to the very creative artsy types, who never really need an excuse to let their hair down. There’s the twenty- somethings that have the confident look of being in the right place at the right time. Then, there’s the thirty- somethings trying to fit in with the twenty somethings, yet still trying to look superior and not quite managing to pull it off. And there are the forty- somethings that have the lines in their face and the odd grey hair that comes with having children, or going through a divorce, or both.
My timing is usually perfect at his parties. I get there early and use my tall, strong Scottish/Canadian bulk to move some tables out to the pool area or carry out the cases of liquor to the bars. I enjoy the initial laughter and merriment, have a couple of drinks, and then leave. There was one year that I stayed too long, and got involved in a discussion concerning the correct usage of the word, “pompous”, then ended up being pushed into the pool, long after the swimming had ended. Apologies had been accepted, and I left, dripping with water, drying myself off with a towel that Jo had given me. It wasn’t until the next day that I realized I’d been the joke, and I knew then that the angry young man that I used to be had all but disappeared.
I’m on the other side of the pool, close to the safety of the kitchen when I notice the girl, not in the mouth-dropping, knees-shaking, rest-of-the-room-fading-away, type of noticing but more in the “who’s the girl with the green hair kind of noticing.”
She stands out even amongst the designer, ripped jean crowd. Tall and erect, she seems to have a detached type of confidence. Wearing a skirt that is too long for a pool party on a summer day, knee-high boots, again inappropriate, and a t-shirt that
says, “I am the Revolution.” She looks like she’s in the wrong place and the right place, both at the same time. Taken with her green hair, and her height, on anyone else it wouldn’t have looked right, but on her, it somehow seems to fit.
She’s standing alone but with everyone else at the same time. I watch as she walks from group to group, joining in different conversations. They politely let her in. Then quietly, she moves on to the next one or off by herself.
The environment in Terry’s company is incredibly competitive. The top producers are rewarded and rise to the top quickly. It’s cutthroat, and not always the most politically correct workplace. I know this. He’s explained his philosophy to me more than once. For a woman, who’s probably in her late twenties, dressed the way she’s dressed to be accepted and perhaps even respected amongst these people is impressive.
“So, which one is here for me,” I playfully ask Jo, Terry’s wife, as I help her carry out some bags of ice.
Jo is a classic beauty. She’s the type of a woman who probably never really has to work at looking beautiful. She just is. Marrying Jo was the best decision Terry ever made, and they both know it. “None, I couldn’t find a willing masochist this year,” she replies, probably only half kidding.
I talk to Jo, all the while watching the green-haired woman, moving, almost dancelike, as she enjoys the conversations from three different groups at the same time. I marvel at how someone can be so comfortable with themselves, while wearing heavy boots, and having green hair, on a summer day at her boss’s home.
Terry is performing of course. He has a group of serious younger people, and a couple of his other friends around him, and is using words that I don’t understand. He’s talking about computer speeds, and an aircraft that he wants to buy, and a trip that Jo and he will take later in the year. I’m amazed how some men can have so much knowledge of stuff, just stuff. How they can remember all the model numbers and brand names. I know numbers. I can tell you the phone number of almost anyone I know. I can tell you the social insurance numbers, and net earnings of most of my regular clients, but I can’t tell you the brand name of my television or computer.
“You were staring at me earlier. Why was that?” She’s behind me. I took my eyes from her for only a moment, and she must have crossed the pool area and come over to where I’m standing. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and my face instantly turns red.
“I was wondering if you were warm, standing in the sun, wearing those boots.” I turn slowly to her, hoping to blame my red face on the warm sun, trying to look down at her boots and avoid her gaze.
“You’re blushing,” she giggles, and laughs. The sun excuse isn’t going to work. “No, don’t look away. It’s cute. It’s like you’re a little boy.”
“I’m thirty-four, being a little boy was a long time ago.” All of a sudden, I notice her eyes for the first time, “Oh my goodness your eyes are lovely. They’re so blue.” I say it, but not in a flirtatious manner. They really are blue, really, really blue.
“Don’t change the subject. We’re talking about your red face, and thank you, they sometimes change colour, depending on the weather. You dress like a banker. Are you a banker?”
“Accountant,” I reply.
She laughs again, but not maliciously. When she laughs, her eyes sparkle, and there’s a half dimple on her left cheek. Her laugh is warm. I like this girl.
CHAPTER 17
Her name is Heather, and her hair isn’t really green. It’s brown, or sometimes blonde, but very rarely green. She tries different colours each time we go to dinner or to a movie. When she tries red, I tell her that it makes her look playful, so the red stays for a while.
She tells me she likes my manners and says I’m her rumpled accountant with the wistful look in his eyes. I tell her what I think and then ask if she agrees, and if she says “no,” I listen. She likes this about me; I can tell. When we’re together, I’m confident and commanding when I need to be, but I always make it seem like it’s a temporary job, and that I’m only doing it until the person who’s really in charge comes along.
To me, she’s a walking contradiction, and I love the fact that I can’t figure her out. She dresses to shock, and wants to be involved in everything, yet seems to want me to make the decisions. There’s something vulnerable beneath the cockiness, and sometimes in her eyes there’s just a hint of sadness that comes for a moment, then with a shake of her head, or a smart remark it’s gone. She asks about other relationships that I’ve been in, other women that I’ve been with. When I tell her about Natasha, and the others, she laughs, and says that it doesn’t matter, and that none of us just got here.
I ask her about old boyfriends, old lovers, and she smiles and says that there haven’t been many; she’s been too focused on growing, on living, on trying to be happy.
We’re new. There’s nothing planned, or usual, or regular, about our relationship. I know that her father lives back east, somewhere in Ontario, and that she was in Alberta briefly, and then settled on the west coast, in Vancouver. She loves the water, and didn’t see the ocean growing up, so now, she adores being close to it. The details come out over dinners or lunches when she sneaks away from work.
I reach across the table, during dinner number two, and touch the back of her hand then look into her eyes to ask if it’s okay.
“If I said no, would you stop?”
I pull my hand away.
“I didn’t want you to. I just wondered if you would.”
I wait until the smile comes to her face and the half-dimple forms on her cheek, before reaching out, and taking it, again.
“Why haven’t you kissed me yet, anyways?” she asks, squeezing my hand back.
“Oh, I don’t kiss. Didn’t I tell you that? I don’t kiss anyone; haven’t in years. I fondle and caress and do a lot of heavy petting, but I don’t kiss. It’s just a thing that I don’t do,” I lie.
“That’ll work well. I’ve been thinking about giving it up myself,” she lies back. “We could just move right into the heavy petting part. I counted the motels on the way to the restaurant. There are seven of them. You pick one.”
And, of course, now, I can’t wait to kiss her.
We drive to her apartment and for the third time ever, I walk the girl with the previously green hair, to her front door. Then, with the confidence of a man falling in like, I smile, lean in and kiss her.
“I thought you quit.”
“I couldn’t resist you,” I answer truthfully.
“I’m glad. I liked it.” She turns and walks into her apartment building. She doesn’t have to look back. I’m sure she knows that I’m still watching her, as the door closes behind her.
When it comes time to introduce her to more of my life, more than just Terry and Jo, I do what I always do when I’m with someone new, I take her to meet George and Rose. My mother is on yet another cruise, with yet another gentleman friend, and my father, of course, is far away, in Scotland. George and Rose became my surrogate parents, after living with them for countless summers, and working with George, at Bill Allister’s car lot.
When I introduce them, George holds Heather’s hand a moment too long, in the way that is tolerated in an older man, yet can be a slappable offence in a younger one. “Mal was right, you are lovely.”
“Mal, oh, I’m not sure I like that,” she replies, allowing her hand to be held for the extra moment, and smiling.
“Well, we’ll stay with Mal until you can find a pet name for him,” Rose interjects, coming out onto the porch and pulling their hands apart, acting more like a wife than a sister, before clutching Heather and giving her one of her trademark hugs.
“I already have one, I just haven’t used it on him yet,” Heather whispers, looking at me, mischievously.
“Go on and talk as though I’m not here. It’s fine really,” I mumble, loving the attention.
“Come and help me with dinner, Heather. I can’t interrogate you properly out here.” Rose
takes my newest girl’s arm, and gently leads her into the kitchen of their old house, while George and I sit on the porch, listening to the muffled talk and laughter, as the two women got to know each other.
“She’s young, Mal. She’s young. She doesn’t seem young, but she looks young. Do you know what I mean?” His face is kind and he has his warm smile on, as he says it, the same smile that he’s given me ever since I was a little boy.
“You don’t like her? Is that what you mean, George? Already, you’re deciding? And she’s twenty-eight. She’s six years younger than me, just six years.”
When I left my Scottish home of solid, grey, brick buildings and scenic castles, and moved to Canada with its wooden decked houses, flanked by majestic mountains, I was always looking for something. I just didn’t know it at the time. I was looking for safety, for a safe place. My mother was always busy trying to find a new husband, and she never did have time for a son, so George and I spent many nights out on his porch, my safe place.
My Temporary Life Page 11
