Nightlife

by Thomas Perry

  “What have you done before?” he asked.

  “I’ve tried a couple of things, but I haven’t hit the right one yet. I tried starting a magazine, and I wanted to do a gift-buying service for men but couldn’t get funding. If you’ve got any surefire ideas you’d like to share, I’d be delighted to hear them.”

  She also answered the one about college. She said, “I went to school in the East, at Boston University. I was only there for about three years, and then I left.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Fatal pragmatism.”

  “What’s fatal pragmatism?”

  “I was out alone like this. And I met a man.”

  “I’m sorry. I guess I was being nosy.”

  “Don’t be sorry. There’s nothing mysterious. He was older. He had some money. I just compared what I was doing—being snubbed by snotty girls in the dorm and writing term papers—with what he was doing. His life was better, so I decided to do what he was doing.”

  “What happened? Did you get married?”

  “No. We broke up and I moved on.”

  She had him within the first two minutes. Because he was shy, she was saying enough to make it clear that having a relationship with a man she met like this had a precedent. But in order to build on her progress she had to help him win himself over. He had to feel that when he was with her he could be smart and attractive.

  She said, “What is it like to be a software designer?”

  “I like it a lot, but it’s probably boring to other people.”

  “That’s perfect job security,” she said. “If it looked like fun, everybody would be doing it.”

  “I guess that’s true,” he said. She could see he was beginning to trust her enough to forget his fear of seeming dull and foolish. He said, “It’s actually a lot more exciting than it looks. The code we write is moving to the edge, and changing a lot of things fast.”

  “You mean things in people’s lives?”

  “Sometimes. Okay. You’ve got all these machines already, with incredible capacity. Every two years the next chip doubles the speed of the machine, and the minute you have a new machine you can make a hundred million of them. The competition, the hard part, is that somebody has to think up the killer application and then write code to make a computer do it. It’s like—” He paused. “I don’t know, because the second I say it, somebody’s already doing it. Say you want to control your house with your cell phone.”

  “Control my house? Why?”

  “Just say you do. Set the temperature, lock and unlock doors, turn lights and appliances on and off, take a look to see what the dog is doing, set the alarm. There’s not a bit of new technology involved. It’s all a lot of simple operations using pieces of equipment we already have. But somebody has to design a new chip for the cell phone and program it both to send intelligible signals to a phone receiver in the house with a chip that would serve as a switcher, and to receive messages to tell it the status of each of the appliances. You can’t change the thermostat if you don’t know what the temperature is.”

  “That’s what you do?”

  “It’s a dumb example, but that’s the general idea. What we do is a lot more complicated than that. Most of it has to do with defense.”

  “But that’s really exciting. That kind of thinking extends the range of things a person can do. It makes us stronger and smarter. Is that what you meant by being on the edge?”

  “What I think of as the edge is the next step—moving into code that’s computer generated.”

  “That’s the next step?”

  “For me it is. That’s what I work on. The idea is that the computer gets designed and programmed to recognize the points in the world around it where there could be an application. It will say, ‘You’re doing this task this way. Why not do it a different way and save a step?’ Or ‘Can you combine this task and that task?’ See? It’s computers suggesting their own applications.”

  “What a great idea.” She had him. He was absolutely hers now, a possession like a pair of shoes or a car.

  He said, “Then once you have this machine analyzing your operations for things to do, you give it the capacity to write code. Computers do most operations faster than we can, and they have digital memories that are theoretically unlimited. We could have the computer see and analyze a task, go into its memory or online to find existing programming that can accomplish the task, customize it in a second or two, and do the task.”

  “That would put you out of business, wouldn’t it?” she said.

  Greg was delighted, intoxicated with the unfamiliar pleasure of having an attractive woman listen to what he was saying. “It will put us out of one part of the business—the dull part, where you’re just writing derivative code, testing, finding bugs, and making patches—and into a hundred others.”

  “Wow,” said Judith Nathan. “I envy you so much. You’re working on such exciting things. You must jump out of bed in the morning and run to work.”

  He said, “I do run to work.” He had finished his scotch, but he didn’t notice it until he picked the glass up, put it to his mouth, and had the ice clink against his teeth. “I think we need another drink, don’t you?”

  She looked at her martini judiciously. “I don’t usually have more than one of these, but I don’t usually have anybody interesting to talk to. Okay.”

  She watched him bring two more drinks to the table. He drank his while they talked, but Judith Nathan simply brought hers up to wet her lips now and then.

  She manufactured a special evening for Greg. What he said was brilliant, because she was impressed by it. When he tried to say something mildly witty, it was hilarious, because she laughed at it. He became physically attractive, because she focused her attention on the parts of himself he was proud of. When she laughed, she touched his biceps or leaned on his shoulder. When he spoke she stared directly into his eyes, never letting him remember that she must have noticed his rough, pitted skin.

  She knew that he had, at some point in his teens, begun doing exercise to compensate for the attractions he lacked. He had studied to compensate for the fact that he wasn’t clever or charming. He was a man who had learned one thing well—that patient, tireless effort would be his salvation—and he was slowly developing confidence.

  When the bar began to lose some of its customers, she said, “Well, Greg, it’s getting late. I’m glad I met you. I was beginning to think that there weren’t any men left who were smart enough to talk about something that hadn’t been on TV.” She pushed her chair away from the table.

  He said, “It’s been a pleasure talking to you. I—uh—wonder, would you give me your number?”

  “Sure,” she said. “I thought you’d never ask.” She took a pen out of her purse, wrote it on her cocktail napkin, and handed it to him. She stood up, and he stood up with her, but she didn’t move. “I’m waiting to be sure you can read it. Can you?”

  He held it up and scrutinized it in the dim light. “Yes. I can.”

  “Good. Then if you don’t call me I’ll know that wasn’t it.” She quickly turned and walked to the door. Just before she went out, she glanced back at him. He was leaning close to the table, transferring her number to his Palm Pilot. She kept moving, trying to keep from being face-to-face with any of the patrons lingering near the doorway.

  The night air had turned cooler now, and after she had walked a few blocks it began to rain. She found that she was in the mood for walking, so she opened her umbrella and kept going. It took her forty-five minutes to get home, and it seemed to rain harder and harder as she went. When she arrived she was wet, so she slipped inside, locked the door, and undressed in the entry. She went into the bathroom and took a long, hot bath. She was winning again. It seemed to have been a long time since she had felt that way.

  41

  It was still raining in the morning when Greg called Judy Nathan. He spoke as though he had read some article that said women liked to be approached i
n surprising ways at surprising times, but she tolerated the call anyway. She accepted his offer to take her out to dinner, then said, “Wait a minute. You know, I have an idea. The weatherpeople say it’s going to be raining all day and all night, and maybe we don’t need to get all dressed up to tromp around in the rain. Why don’t we just have dinner at my place? It’ll be really simple, I promise. I have this tiny apartment and I don’t have the equipment here to cook anything elaborate anyway. Come on. It’ll be nice.”

  He protested feebly, but she seemed not to have heard. She said, “Good. I can’t wait. Be here at seven, and don’t get dressed up.”

  “Be where?”

  She told him the address and was ready to hang up when he said, “There was one other thing I wanted to talk about.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Do you want a job?”

  “What?”

  “A job. Our company, Prolix Software Design, has an opening. It’s not a huge salary, but it’s okay, and it would put you in a better position to start your business.”

  “It would?”

  “Well, you can save money, or at least stop living off your capital, and you’ll learn more about the city and the business climate and all that.”

  “Let me think about it later,” she said. “Right now I’m busy planning dinner.”

  She heard a smile in his voice. “Okay. Just keep it in mind.”

  “Sure. See you at seven.”

  The clock above Judy Nathan’s stove said exactly seven when she heard the door intercom ring. She said, “I assume it’s you?” and heard Greg’s voice say, “I hope I’m not late.” She said, “Think I’d eat without you?” and buzzed him in. She opened the door and waited in the hallway for him to appear.

  He came up the stairs carrying a bouquet of flowers that had the distinctive paper wrap of Fleuriste, and a paper shopping bag from a gourmet shop that held two bottles of wine, one red and the other white. She stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Somebody raised you right.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll call my mom and tell her.” He was looking around him anxiously.

  She took the flowers and the bottles. “These aren’t wet. Did the rain stop?”

  “No. I kept them under my raincoat.”

  He took off his raincoat and she saw that he had followed her orders to the extent of not wearing a coat and tie, but he had on tailored pants, a cashmere sweater, and a pair of shoes that were too good to wear out in the rain. “What beautiful shoes.”

  “Huh? Oh, thanks. I got them on sale about a year ago.”

  “You did not,” she said. “They’re new. Somebody told you that women are impressed by nice shoes. Take them off, and your wet socks. I’ll get you something to wear.”

  He waited while she took his coat to her bedroom and hung it up, then snatched a pair of wool socks from a drawer. He held them in his hand and looked at them. They were just about his size. “Why do you have these?”

  “One time I didn’t notice somebody had put some men’s socks on the women’s rack, and I bought a few pairs in a hurry.” She had bought the socks this morning while she was out preparing for the evening.

  He put the dry socks on and followed her toward the kitchen area. The open kitchen was separated from the living room only by a high counter with two high stools. She had moved the dining table and chairs out of the kitchen, to the other side of the counter. She arranged the flowers in a vase she had bought this morning, and placed them on the dinner table.

  “I have some scotch if you’d like that before dinner,” she said. “I noticed that was your drink.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She poured him a scotch and water that was a good facsimile of the drink he’d ordered last night. Then she brought canapés and caviar to the coffee table, and sat on the couch with him.

  He said, “I thought this wasn’t going to be fancy.”

  “I said it was going to be simple. You don’t cook caviar. You just open a jar. So how was your day?”

  “It went kind of slow,” he said. “I spent most of it looking forward to coming here.”

  She grinned. “Wow. Where are you getting this stuff? Is there some men’s magazine that tells you exactly what to say? I thought all they had were pictures of naked girls.”

  “If there is a magazine like that, I’d like a subscription,” he said. “I’m always blurting out the wrong thing because I’m nervous. With you I just feel happy, so I don’t get as messed up, I guess.”

  “Another good thing to say. Maybe I’ll start a men’s magazine and let you write for it.”

  “Have you thought about the job I told you about?”

  “Not yet. I will, though. What is it?”

  “It’s support—a lot of filing and typing and answering phones. But in little companies you can make your own way quickly. You tear off as much work as you can do, and pretty soon that’s your job, and they hire somebody else to answer your phone.”

  “How many people in the company?”

  “Only thirty. Our section is ten. There are ten in sales, ten in administration. They’re all young, and get along okay.”

  “Would I work for you?”

  “No. You’d be in admin.”

  “I don’t know. I’ll think about it some more.” She stood up. “Time to get dinner going. Just vault over the counter if you want to see me be domestic.”

  He followed her into the cramped little kitchen, and she said, “I promised you cozy. This is cozy, isn’t it?”

  “I like it, and I like what you’ve done with it.”

  She smiled. She had spent most of the day buying the prints that hung on the walls, the dishes and flatware on the table, the cookware and the food, the sheets on the bed and the bedspread.

  The dinner seemed to materialize rather than be prepared. The lobster tails and the filets mignons were broiled and the asparagus seared, the wines poured. Judy had never been interested in cooking, so while she had lived in the apartment high above the lake in Chicago she had developed a few very basic meals that she could make by simply applying heat and butter. She poured the wine liberally, and drank sparingly. When they had eaten the main courses, she produced a plate of tarts and napoleons she had bought at a downtown bakery.

  Greg had experienced so few occasions when any woman had even tried to impress him that he could barely contain his delight at each part of the evening. After dinner she walked into the living room carrying cognac in small snifters, but Greg said, “If I have this, I’m not going to be able to drive home.”

  She said, “Who said I wanted you to go home?” and sat on the couch to kiss him.

  Later that night, she lay on her back in bed, listening to his breathing. Now and then a deep breath would end in a little snort, but she didn’t mind. She knew that when she wanted to sleep, she would. She decided that she was satisfied with her progress. She had only picked Greg out twenty-four hours ago, and she knew that by now he would do anything she wanted.

  The difficult part had never been getting a man interested in her. All men seemed to be doomed to hunt for sexual partners all the time, like restless, lonely ghosts. The problem was in choosing the right man, but she was almost certain she had chosen well in Greg. He appeared to be convinced that he was in the romance of his life, the one that made all of the conventional rules and precautions seem ridiculous.

  The next morning, while they were eating the breakfast she had bought yesterday with the knowledge that he was going to be here to share it, he said, “I hope you’ll take that job.”

  “I’ve decided against it.”

  “When?”

  “Last night. At the same time when I decided you weren’t going home.”

  “Why?”

  “I hate complications.”

  “What complications?”

  “If you and I break up, I couldn’t stand to work there. If you and I don’t break up, other people couldn’t stand to work there.”

  He
let it drop. She had to wait a whole week before he brought up the topic she was waiting for. He was taking her home after a dinner in a dark, romantic restaurant when he said, “You never tell me about driving anywhere. Don’t you have a car?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’d like one,” she said. “I know exactly the kind I want and everything. But I can’t.”

  “Why not—money?”

  “No,” she said. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Of course. Let me tell you all of the secrets I’ve kept.”

  “Seriously. Do you promise?”

  “All right.”

  “Well, I have a lot of tickets from when I went to school in Boston. There was never any place that was legal to park, so I have parking tickets for all three years—about seven thousand dollars’ worth. If you couldn’t make it to class, you couldn’t pass, so it seemed to be the only choice.”

  “So you’re an outlaw parker?”

  “Yep. I left Boston, and figured that was the end of it. But I found out that some judge had issued a warrant for my arrest. I tried to register a car in Colorado once, and my name came up on the computer. They wouldn’t let me register a car unless I paid the fines. I didn’t have that kind of money at the time, and so I didn’t do it.”

  “I’ve never heard of anything like this,” said Greg. “At least not for parking.”

  “Neither had I until it happened to me. But here I am. I can buy a car. I just can’t register it or get insurance for it.”

  “Not to be too obvious, but have you thought about solving the problem by paying the fine?”

  “Of course. At first I didn’t take it seriously. It seemed like everyone was doing it. Then I got kind of mad, because it’s just a way for the city to make money off all these disenfranchised students from other places. Then I figured I’d better pay it. But by the time I was in Colorado it wasn’t seven thousand dollars. Those penalties had been growing for seven or eight years. It was up to about fifteen, and now that there’s a warrant, we’re talking about lawyers, and going back to court in Boston. They could put me in jail to make an example of me. Anyway, now you know why I don’t have a car.”