Casual Choices

by Tom Corbett

  Her mind returned to Madison, Wisconsin. She did pediatric cancer research at the Carbone Center and her clinical work at the impressive medical facility located at the far western end of the campus. When she had time, she would stroll from the hospital across the adjacent soccer fields to the path along Lake Mendota, one of five lakes that served as the physical template that defined the city. She loved walking out Picnic Point, a peninsula that jutted out into the lake. At the tip, she could look across the water to the state capitol or toward the setting sun. The magic of the place never ceased to amaze her. She came across a piece in a national magazine once. It listed the twenty-five most romantic spots in the world, not just Wisconsin or the United States, but the world. Picnic Point was on the list. She laughed; there had been no moments of romance for her on this spot, just nature’s glory. The author surely must have lost their virginity on that spot while in college.

  Where did the years go? she ruminated. Her thoughts returned to an innocent time. She could recall sneaking into the back of her dad’s bar. She would hide in a small stockroom to listen to the conversation drifting her way, desperately hoping Jim would not need a resupply of something or other. How would she explain to him her presence there? Already, her father thought her strange. Early on, she had been repelled by the smells of stale beer and the faint aroma from other sources she decided not to think about. But the world on the other side of the door fascinated her, spurred her imagination. The wistful talk of the Emerald Isle was particularly moving—a longing for a world they neither knew nor probably wanted any longer, if they were honest. Still, it was such a part of the myth that gave desperate lives just a little bit of meaning. She was drawn to what she heard and yet disappointed. They seldom looked forward in life. It was just talk, sentimentality, useless emotion. They obsessed about a world that no longer existed. At some point, she realized there was nothing to learn here. Her world would lie elsewhere.

  Her calls finished, she stared at her computer screen for a while, looking at data and numbers that she labored to turn into a journal article. This one had JAMA potential or maybe the New England Journal of Medicine. But soon she slammed her computer shut. There was no way she could focus today or maybe this week. Seeing Josh again had unleashed all kinds of thoughts and emotions. She might as well let them run wild. And yet she felt a frisson of fear. Why? She had always been in command of her world. She really was like her mother—closed, self-contained, seldom showing emotion. It was her discipline and focus that had gotten her through college and medical school, mostly on scholarships and pure grit and drive. When others chose lucrative practices, she instinctively headed for research and the toughest medical questions to crack.

  She smiled as she thought about the universal med school bromide about their being three tiers among would-be doctors. Those in the middle of the class, performance-wise, would make the best clinicians. Those toward the top would gravitate toward research and teaching, while those toward the bottom would make the most money. The worst students were in it for the dough. She had done fine money-wise. She had a nice home in Shorewood Hills, the small and rather exclusive enclave on the shores of Lake Mendota. But material things never meant anything to her. Perhaps that was what she shared with Josh, a lack of concern about the usual trappings of success. It was the work that counted and her one daughter whom she did not see enough. Her ex-husband registered barely a ripple in her life. She should have conceived artificially. Much more sensible and convenient. Of one thing she was certain, if the triage based on medical school performance had any merit, she was top-tier, the brightest of the bright that sought out new knowledge for mankind.

  She shook her head and wandered into Josh’s office. “Typical,” she whispered to herself. Her eyes looked over a disaster area, piles of papers scattered without rhyme or reason. Yet she knew others like her brother. You asked for something, and somehow, they would dig deep into some pile and pull out the elusive object of desire. How did they do that, how did they live like that? She, on the other hand, was always organized. Everything was catalogued and cross-referenced. But such dispositions are the attributes that define each of us as individuals. She knew that he saw the world as an abstract painting. The colors and brushstrokes made little sense at first.

  Josh had always been able to see patterns in the chaos that looked simply like chaos to her. Where others saw random nonsense, he made connections. It was his gift. She did not actually envy him; she was happy with what God had put into her, but she did admire him, even his miraculous ability to not drown in the chaos of his own world. He had always been a source of wonder to her, and great frustration. All her life, she had careened between admiration and anger. After casually thumbing through several folders and finding nothing of interest, she noticed a box on top of a cabinet. It had held pears in another life. Now, it held pictures which, like Josh’s life, were simply thrown together without order or reason.

  She hesitated, but only for a moment. She shouldn’t invade his privacy, but here was little doubt that she could practice restraint for long in the face of such an opportunity. After all these years, it was time to learn more about a brother who had remained a cipher throughout her adult life. She poked through the box, tenderly at first. Most of the pictures had that faded look suggesting age, if not neglect. The first several were people she did not recognize, young and rather scruffy looking. They were from a period where concern about clothing and one’s grooming were easily conflated with some obsequious obedience to political, if not cultural, orthodoxy. In a couple, she found Josh, scruffy and almost unrecognizable. She looked three and four times to confirm it was really he. These were from that part of his life that had remained a mystery to her.

  At one point, she came across a photo of Josh with his arm around a young woman. She was a natural beauty but had done nothing to accentuate her looks. Her hair hung straight down in disarray, no makeup, and adorned with a loose-fitting outfit that hid her body quite successfully. Rachel looked closely. She was certain there was chemistry between the two. This was something that even the highly rational physician could sense, part of what demarked the female from their less-developed male compatriots. She called it EQ, or an emotional quotient. Quickly, she put that one in her pocket, looking around for witnesses she knew were not there.

  She continued deeper into the box. Almost immediately, she uncovered a layer that hit home. Here were pictures from her childhood—Mom and Dad, Josh’s friends, and the little girl with the sandy blond hair and nerdy glasses. She bit her lip and immediately fought back tears. He had taken these with him, kept them all these years. That meant something. She heard a sound at the front door. Quickly, she stuffed another pic into her pocket and shoved the box back onto its original perch. “Josh,” she called out, “is that you?” Damn, she thought, her voice was forced, laden with guilt. And tears, how could she explain the moisture in her eyes.

  “No,” he replied, “it is the neighborhood sex fiend. But don’t worry, I only prey on broads still in their prime.”

  “Then I’m in danger.” She tried sounding light as she emerged from his office. “I was just looking over your books, wanted to see what a pseudoscientist would have in his library.” She was forcing it, wasn’t she? She didn’t want to start again with him not trusting her but then why did she pry? Damn it, this was more difficult than it should be. “And just like I thought, a bunch of poppy cock.” Why the hell did she say that? Were her eyes still moist?

  But all he said was “Yeah, yeah, your envy of true genius betrays you. Get much done?”

  “Enough,” she lied and looked for another topic. “Hey, tell me about Connie.”

  “Good friend,” he said too quickly.

  “That might work with your male friends, but any female would immediately see that there is a history there.”

  There was a silence. After apparently weighing several options, Josh went with honesty. He always thought that a questionable strategy, honesty was nothing bu
t trouble. Still, in this instance, he might not have a choice. He sensed he had met his match. “This is going to be a tough week.” He smiled. “Bet your ass,” she responded, “so buckle up, buttercup.” Ah, she thought, she was back in control.

  “Okay, Connie and I were an item for a while.”

  When he paused, she said, “More, much more.”

  Josh collapsed into an easy chair. “After Usha decided to be true to herself, I was adrift for a while. I think it was the usual thing. I was now unattached, and she had long since returned to the single life. Someone schemed to bring us together, which I hate. Whatever subterfuge they used worked, and we started going out. At the beginning, it was just nice, concerts and museums and plays. These are things you don’t want to do alone, well, most people don’t. I was good with it, but she was different. She did not push, was funny and relaxed, and never seemed to have an agenda. You know how women are…”

  “Careful,” Rachel warned.

  “No, really, one kiss and most broads are picking out color patterns for the kid’s room.” Rachel smiled. He was right and she knew it. “She just seemed content with a friendship.”

  “Wait, not another asexual relationship?”

  “No, no,” Josh quickly responded. “We evolved into the sexual thing. It was nice. For a while we lived together, well, for several years actually.”

  “What?” She bolted upright. “I remember her name coming up, but I never heard about you living in sin.”

  “Living in sin, what’s with that? Preparing for retirement in a nunnery?” He seemed unsettled, lightness would not suffice here. “Maybe I should’ve said something, but that would have invited difficult questions. Besides, we both knew it would never get beyond a certain level. That’s what made it great. The best thing was that pressure was off. You know, people put us together as a couple. We talked about that a lot. Everyone wants you married, or at least paired off. Oh, you look very happy not having anyone to bite you in the ass every morning, gotta make sure we line you up with a warden for life. Women would ask me if I was content being alone, they would not believe when I said yes. They could not accept that it was true. ‘Look at my bright and ecstatic smile,’ I would say, ‘do I look like I am suffering?’ But to no avail, they would insist on scheming me into a relationship. Now Connie and I could go about our lives in peace. We could focus on our work, have someone to chat with, or ignore if that is what was needed. It was an agreement of sorts. I’m not even sure we talked about it, we kind of slid right into it.”

  “Into what?” Rachel gasped. “I’m beginning to think you’re impotent.”

  “Heavens no, for a while we had a damn good sex life, but we settled into a routine. No, that’s not it. In fact, the sex was too good yet became an occasional event, usually at her request. By too good, I mean that I enjoyed it too much. It rather scared me. I focused on the company she provided and freedom that being coupled gave me. You know, I could dally a bit but always had an out…I was in a relationship. Worked like a charm.” He smiled.

  “You, sir, are a pig.” Rachel thought of several questions but vocalized none of them.

  “Well then, I might as well drive the final nail into that coffin.” Josh had that lopsided smile again. “As time went on, and Connie came to her senses and moved on, I found that using professionals for sex was the best solution.”

  “Prostitutes.” She laughed.

  “No, professionals, women of quality who knew what they were doing. I mean, I didn’t scour the streets for crackheads or anything like that. I did my research and found a reputable service that offered quality girls…err, women. I had a few regulars. I got to know several quite well.”

  “Interesting. I mean, even a schlepp like you could get laid on your own. I still remember the girls chasing you in high school and college. You had to beat them off with a stick.”

  “And that is the point, exactly. You don’t go to pros to get sex, you use their services so that you can walk away after the sex. Let’s face it, dear sister, with women, kisses become contracts.”

  “Wow, and to think I looked forward to this visit.” But she smiled. “Isn’t that kind of sex demeaning, empty? Sorry, I just don’t see the attraction.”

  “Just the opposite—it is great as far as the sex goes. You can focus on the sex rather than all the collateral crap. Of course, there are problems with the best of plans. Once, the girl that showed up was a former student. That was awkward. I remembered her all too well. She was studious, quiet, and dressed much more conservatively than virtually all the other coeds. She told me that she applied the analytical tools she learned in class to estimate various returns on investment for life choices after school. Hooking easily won and I could not argue with her logic. But she was aware of the short-term life expectancy at the top of her chosen profession. She already had started her graduate studies but hooking made her much more money than being a teaching assistant and left her with more time for her studies. A very rational young lady.”

  “Did you…?”

  “Oh no. We just talked on that occasion, but it would have been fine if we did. Let’s face it, all sex is an exchange. Women trade their goodies for affection, social status, protection, a good meal, or a date. If they get lucky, they negotiate their body for love. Men, on the other hand, use the appearance of love to leverage sex. Every young man knows that the key to the kingdom are the words ‘I love you.’ Of course, back in the neighborhood, nothing seemed to work with those Catholic girls. I think they all took a vow to St. Virginius of the body as a pure vessel of the Holy Spirit. They would have preferred diving into a vat of boiling oil than spreading their legs. You know the old Catholic version of birth control, an aspirin.”

  “An aspirin?” Rachel queried.

  “Sure, just keep that pill pressed between the knees. If the aspirin didn’t hit the floor, those legs were locked shut, no guy could possibly get to the promised land. I should know, I tried hard enough to get them open.” Josh laughed at his little joke. “Anyways, the way I look at it, sex for money is at least an open transaction. Each party know the basis of the exchange, the price is set in advance, the parties know exactly what they are getting. There is no artifice, no disingenuous posturing. What could be better than that?”

  “Love,” she offered tentatively.

  “Hah!” he snorted. “You remember Kit Olson, from the neighborhood?”

  “Of course, she was one of your groupies that followed you around like a sheepdog. I could never figure out her fascination—she was a real looker, cheerleader, nice body. She could have gotten a real man.”

  “Yeah, yeah, well, this story is not all that funny. She did always seem to be around. I just thought it was because I hung around with her best girlfriend’s brother, played ball with him. But even a putz like me could figure out she had the hots for me. But there was no way I would be interested.”

  “Why?”

  “She was too obvious. I remember once, I weakened. I was horny of course, all of us guys were back then. Hmm, I suppose young guys still are. No matter, she was there one day, the big blue eyes looking up at me. I let my guard down and kissed her. I knew immediately it was a mistake. She fluttered her eyes.”

  “No, the nerve of her.” Rachel could not help but chuckle.

  “Not funny. Then she asked me what the kiss meant. What it meant! I wanted to tell her that it meant I was horny. I don’t know what I said in the moment, but I stayed away from her after that as much as I could. But here is something you could not possibly know. She tracked me down after I left. I couldn’t believe it. Here she showed up at my flat in Toronto. I’ve no idea how she tracked me down. I did not exactly broadcast my location, but I guess she was persistent. It must have been her older brother. He was working for the feds and after draft-dodgers like me.” He grimaced as if he remembered something very painful. “What could I do? She was adrift so I asked her to stay a few days and offered to show her around. I kept mentioning how busy I was
with work and now school. But I knew the truth and dreaded it. She was hoping to build a nest at my place. I gave her my bed and slept on the couch. I thought that obvious but…Anyways, I think it was the third day or something. I was sitting at my desk working on a paper and sensed she had come up behind me. God, I had been so lonely. I mean, the Canadians were great and all, they had a network for guys like me. Still, I was rather lost and felt so alone. And her smell, she always wore some scent filled with killer pheromones. I can recall it even now. But what killed me is that she brushed her breasts up against the back of my head. It was just a suggestion of a touch. I even wondered for a moment whether it had happened or maybe it was just a mistake. It wasn’t, of course, and I felt myself responding. I knew what she wanted, I was not that dense. Don’t say anything, Rach.” He leaned back in his chair, eyes distant. “I kept saying to myself…don’t, don’t, don’t be an idiot. But that was my head, the one on top of my neck. The other one, the one between my legs that controlled my brain, was saying something else entirely. And that smell, it was overwhelming. I spun around and grabbed her, just lifted her up and literally threw her on my desk. The image of papers and books flying onto the floor is what I recall best of that moment. It really was a blur after that…”