An Officer And His Gentleman

by Ryan Field

  Chance smiled. “Those containers will be gone before three o'clock this afternoon,” he said. “And they'll want more, too."

  Dan pressed his lips together and shook his head. They had been through all this before and Chance had always been right. “Where's the orange spray paint?"

  "In the barn out back,” Chance said. “Why?” They normally used the orange fluorescent spray paint for large signs out front, like when there was a huge sale on corn-on-the-cob or watermelons.

  "For the squirrels,” Dan said. He had forgotten to pull up his zipper, and his white shorts were showing through, yellow pee stains and all.

  "Squirrels?"

  The old man put his hands on his hips and smiled. “That's-a right. If I caught them in the traps last night,” he said, pointing at Chance, “this time, I'll paint their tails orange when I let them go. Bastardos."

  Chance crossed back to the deli counter and didn't respond. That summer, Dan was obsessed with a family of squirrels that had taken up residence in the barn behind the market. He kept setting traps and catching the squirrels, and then he'd take them down to the lake and set them free. But a few days later, the barn was always infested with more squirrels. He was now convinced that the same squirrels were returning, that somehow they'd figured out how to navigate back to the barn from the edge of lake. And he was determined to prove it by painting their tails with fluorescent orange spray paint. Chance could have suggested he take the squirrels to the other side of the lake, where it would be virtually impossible for them to find their way back to the barn. But he didn't.

  Sarah arrived for work at ten. She wore a black tube top and tight, low-rise jeans. Her frizzy hair was pulled back with a scrunchy and there were long silver earrings in an Indian design swinging from her earlobes. “Where is he?” she asked, plopping her purse under the counter next to the cash register. Since Dan referred to his employees with pronouns and didn't think it was important to learn their names, she decided not to call him by name.

  "Catching squirrels in the barn,” Chance said. He opened the cash register to see if she'd have enough ones for the day. “You're a little low. Call me if you need any more singles.” He turned to leave and cross back to the deli counter.

  "That's it?” she said, “You're not even going to mention last night? I'm dying to hear what happened after I left."

  "Ah, well...” he said. Then he smiled and stared at the floor. He wasn't going into any details about his back seat conversation with Brody. “We had a drink and then talked until I had to go home is all."

  She leaned forward and looked around to see if anyone was listening. Then she whispered, “Did you get into his pants? Or better yet, did he get into your pants?"

  He stepped back and adjusted his apron. “I can't believe you just asked me that question. Let's say it was a very good night and leave it at that."

  "I knew it, he did get into your pants,” she shouted. She started jumping up and down, clapping her hands together with the bottom of her palms so she wouldn't make too much noise in case the old man was sneaking around in the storage room. “I want details now."

  Chance couldn't hold back a smile, but all he said was, “It was a great night, and I'm going back to prepare a batch of potato salad now.” Then he turned and walked away.

  "Are you getting together again?” she called after him. “At least tell me that much."

  He was laughing out loud by then. He turned and said, “I really don't know. Maybe.” He didn't like discussing such intimate details with anyone, but he was also secretly getting even for that ride that nearly caused him to puke all over the amusement park.

  The market started to get busy after eleven that morning, which was typical for a Saturday. Betty Shack stopped in for her usual banana and told Chance her family was coming up from West Orange for a visit on Sunday; and that she'd be back for some nice lean pastrami, Swiss cheese and a loaf of rye on Sunday morning. When she noticed the special for the day was buffalo chicken spread, she pressed her hand to her throat and said, “Oh my, I'll take one of those, too, dearie. My grandson loves the buffalo chicken wings and it might be gone by tomorrow.” Stanley Weissman, the owner of the only gas station in town, stopped in for his usual black coffee and tuna hoagie—he pronounced it tuner hoagie—and he walked by the large wooden bowl with the black-and-white striped cloth and saw a sign that read “Buffalo Chicken Spread,” he took two. “We're having people over tonight and this looks like a good appetizer. My wife will love this, I'm telling you.” he said.

  When Dan returned at around one in the afternoon with empty squirrel traps and orange spray paint on the tips of his fingers and saw that there were only three small containers of buffalo chicken spread left, he blinked a couple of times and shook his head. And then, when an unfamiliar face—probably a weekender—reached past his shoulder and picked up two containers without even looking at the price, he smiled so wide you could see the pink plastic gums on his dentures. He looked over at Chance, who was slicing American cheese for Jane Baldwin from the library, and said, “Hey, you, they like-a this buffalo chicken thing here. We might make this every day from now on."

  Chance just smiled and continued waiting on his customer. He knew he wouldn't make it again for at least another two weeks, probably a month. That was what was wrong with the old man, as far as he was concerned. He didn't understand food, the love of food, or how people bought food. They wanted the buffalo chicken spread mainly because it had been a special, something different from the humdrum boiled ham and provolone cheese they normally bought. This was exotic compared to their typical onion dip and cream cheese spread and jarred salsa; it was a way to experiment safely with something new and not have to make too much of an investment, either emotionally or financially.

  When Mrs. Dolan, the widow from the Bronx, came in for a pound of potato salad around three that afternoon, Dan was near the deli counter organizing bags of pasta and Chance was wiping the counter down for the next batch of customers. Customers tended to come in groups for some reason, and then you'd have fifteen or twenty minutes of nothing. Mrs. Dolan looked at Chance and smiled, and it came rushing back that she'd been the woman walking with her grandchildren he'd seen the previous night at the Island. She asked for her potato salad and then turned toward Dan and said, “Did Chance tell you he saw me last night? My grandchildren dragged me all over The Island until my feet felt like they were going to fall off.” She slumped forward and hunched her shoulders in an overly dramatic gesture. When she smiled, there was a slight overbite.

  Chance froze for a moment. He didn't want Dan to find out about Brody being with them at The Island. But Mrs. Dolan was one of those talk-too-much types. Why couldn't she just buy her potato salad and leave?

  "Ah, you poor thing,” Dan said. He liked Mrs. Dolan, a widow, and tended to flirt a little with her so people would get the impression he was straight. But behind her back, he always shook his head and laughed at her. “Why on earth would a woman alone eat two pounds of potato salad every week?” he would ask Chance rhetorically, throwing his hands in the air. “No wonder she had such a fat ass, and that camel toe between her legs.” Mrs. Dolan tended to wear tight stretch pants made of polyester and nylon and she pulled them up too high.

  But now, Mrs. Dolan turned to Chance and asked, “And who was that good-looking young man with you and Sarah last night? My, he certainly was a handsome young man, indeed.” She pressed her lips together and nodded.

  "What young man?” Dan asked. He was staring at Chance now. He put his hands on his hips and lowered his eyebrows, but he was still forcing a smile.

  Chance gulped and pressed the lid on the potato salad container. “Just a friend of Sarah's,” he said. “Nobody you'd know.” He shrugged his shoulders and wrote a price on top of the lid.

  He was still smiling when he handed the potato salad to Mrs. Dolan. But when he looked toward the front door and saw Brody walk into the market, he nearly dropped the potato salad all over the
floor.

  Mrs. Dolan turned around too. She leaned toward Dan as if she knew a secret, and said, “That's the young man, him, over there.” She pointed toward Brody. He was at the cash register talking to Sarah. Mrs. Dolan became giddy and giggled a few times. “He's such a good-looking young man."

  Dan stared at Brody for a second, then looked at his watch and pointed at Chance. “Please excuse me. I have to take him in the back room and get a few pies out of the oven before the next rush comes.” He left Mrs. Dolan standing there with her mouth wide open, holding her pound of potato salad, and rushed around the deli counter to the back room.

  Chance followed, preparing himself for one of Dan's jealous tirades. If a guy so much as glanced at him the wrong way, Dan went crazy, and today was no different. He tried to explain that Brody was Sarah's friend, but the old man didn't believe him. He threw a large copper pan out the back door and punched the wall so hard the instant garlic powder fell right off a shelf. “He's not-a her friend,” the old man snarled. “You're a fucking liar, you piece of shit.” He wasn't shouting, because people would have heard him out front, but his voice was low and mean: a loud, wicked stage whisper, and his accent grew stronger with each nasty word. “He's here for one thing, eh? To get in your pants.” Then he called Chance more vile names, in English and in Italian: a little slut, a cock-hungry whore, a good-for-nothing cocksucker who was willing to spread his legs for any dirty dick that came along. Chance just stood there with his shoulders slumped forward and his arms folded across his chest, taking the abuse because he knew it would be worse if he'd argued back.

  Dan stopped hissing for a moment. He took a few deep breaths, and then pointed his crooked, orange-tipped finger and said, “You. Get rid of him. I don't want him coming in here anymore."

  Chance straightened his shoulders and walked back to the deli counter. He'd learned to be tough and to do what he had to do in order to survive. So when he saw Brody standing in front of the counter smiling and holding the last container of buffalo chicken spread, he looked at him with a somber expression and said, “What can I get for you?” He talked to Brody's neck, not his eyes. He couldn't bear to look into those beautiful blue eyes and cause pain.

  "I was hoping for at least a smile after last night,” Brody said, and Chance noticed he had a bunch of flowers in his hand. “I had fun. I would have come in earlier, but my mother had a few problems this morning I had to take care of. Sorry."

  Chance took a deep breath and clenched his fists. “Look, I'm really busy here today and I don't have time to stand around and talk to strange customers. Is there something I can help you with?” He felt a little shaky; the floor didn't feel solid anymore. His stomach turned, and it felt as if it were about to jump out of his mouth. He knew he'd just crossed a line: that instant when you realize you've ruined something forever and will never be able to get it back again.

  Brody stopped smiling. He stepped back from the counter and spread his legs wider. “Sorry I bothered you. I'll see you around.” Then he slammed the container of buffalo chicken spread on top of the deli counter, dropped the flowers on the floor, and stormed out of the market with his fists clenched.

  Chance closed his eyes and sighed. He knew the old man was in the doorway with his arms crossed, tapping his foot. He was relieved when Mrs. Johnson stepped up to the counter. “I'll have a half-pound of American cheese and a half-pound of bologna..And I guess someone dropped these,” she added discreetly. She placed the flowers on top of the deli counter right next to the last container of buffalo chicken spread. Chance took them both and tossed them into the trash can behind the counter, then pulled a long tube of bologna from the deli case.

  Later that evening, while Chance was sweeping the floor and preparing to close, Sarah walked over. After Brody had stormed out, the market became busy and they didn't have a spare moment to speak. “What the hell happened?” she demanded. “Why did Brody drop the flowers on the floor and stomp out of here?” Sarah didn't miss anything.

  "The old man doesn't like him,” Chance said, “so he forced me to get rid of him."

  "You're kidding."

  "It's probably for the best,” Chance said. “It's really pointless to get involved with a guy who is only here temporarily.” He tried to smile—he didn't want her to know how devastated he really was.

  "Are you an idiot?” she asked. “No, seriously, go find this guy and apologize. Tell him the truth. Tell him your boss is a fucking asshole and you only did what he forced you to do. You can't let that old fucker control your life forever, Chance."

  Chance stopped sweeping. He raised his arms and shrugged. “I don't even know how to get in touch with Brody. We never exchanged phone numbers. He only knows that I work here. And I don't think he'll be returning soon."

  Sarah put her hands on her hips and smiled. “Well, guess what? I know where he lives."

  "You do?"

  "We were talking while you were in the back with the old man, and I asked. I was curious,” she said. Then she repeated what Brody told her.

  Dan didn't play poker on Saturday nights. He was terrified of going out on Saturdays because that was when all the local police were out stopping weekenders and tourists for drinking and driving. So he did what he usually did on Saturday nights: He sat in his dowdy, plaid reclining chair, polished off a bottle of cheap red wine, and listened to old disco music from the ‘70s on an ancient stereo. Chance would usually spread out on the sofa naked and read a cookbook while the old man chain smoked and tapped his foot to the disco beat. At ten, he'd hobble out of his chair, lean forward so he could squeeze Chance's bare ass a few times, then announce, “I'm going to bed. Turn off the lights when you go to bed.” Chance would turn on the Food Network and watch for a few more hours.

  But that Saturday night he had other plans. After Dan had groped his ass and was finally in bed passed out for the night, Chance covered his naked body with nothing but a black blazer and crept down the back staircase in his bare feet. He knew where all the creaks and noises were. He knew that when he opened the back door he had to carefully remove a set of wind chimes first. He'd even pointed his car downhill earlier that evening so that he could slip it into neutral and coast down the dark road before he turned on his lights and started the engine. It was a bold move, and he'd never done anything like it in the past. His hands were shaking a little and he didn't take a deep breath until the car was at least a mile away from the market.

  He'd memorized Brody's address ahead of time; it was only about four miles away from Dan's market down a dark, remote road where large, old lakefront Victorians made most of the other homes in town look like matchboxes. He knew the road, but he had to read the number on Brody's mailbox several times to be sure he wasn't knocking on the door of some stranger's house wearing nothing but a black blazer. His eyes opened wide when he stared at the front entrance. It hadn't occurred to him that Brody's mother owned The Castle, a well-known stone Victorian with towers and turrets and verandas, which was actually on the list of important sites to see from the tourist boats and guided local tours. Legend had it the old mansion had been built by the boss of an organized crime family back in the l920s so he could hide from the authorities in the remote hills of northwest New Jersey. It was considered one of the finest homes of the long-lost golden years at the lake.

  Chance was intimidated by the house, not to mention he wasn't sure Brody would give him a warm reception after the way he'd treated him earlier that day. He was practically ready to turn the car around when he looked up again and noticed that Brody was now standing in the doorway watching him. He must have seen the car pull up. Chance took a deep breath, got out of the car, and smoothed the blazer down so that it covered his private parts. He walked up the driveway on his tiptoes because the stones hurt the bottoms of his feet. When he reached the bottom step, he smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

  "Is that how you always drive around town on hot summer nights?” Brody asked.

  Chance shook his
head no and then asked, “Do you hate my guts?"

  Brody lowered his head and smiled. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt. He stretched his right arm all the way out and said, “Get up here.” He stared at Chance's smooth, naked legs and whistled.

  When he reached the top step, he said, “I'm really sorry about earlier today. I can explain.” He lowered his head and stared directly into Brody's blue eyes.

  Brody took him by the hand and pulled him toward a rounded end of the front veranda where there was a long wicker sofa with green-and-white striped cushions. Chance tripped over a potted geranium and bumped into the wooden side rail. When he leaned forward to balance his body, with his back to Brody, the back of the blazer rode up, exposing his bare ass. He turned just in time to see Brody lick his bottom lip and rub his palms together. “You can explain later,” he said. He sat down on the middle cushion of the sofa and motioned for Chance to sit on his lap.

  But Chance had a better idea: He wanted to apologize in a way Brody would never forget. He smiled, unbuttoned his blazer, and let it fall to the wooden planks. Then he got down on his knees and placed his palms on Brody's knees so he could spread his legs a little wider. Brody leaned back and bucked his hips forward. His erect penis pressed against the fabric of his sweatpants.