We’d also had more than our fair share of rain in the Bay Area. It was April, and the endless drizzle-filled cloudy days were beginning to get to me. Normally I enjoy the rain and the angst that comes with it but this, this was a bit much. The gray days just seemed to stretch on and on.
For the first time in I don’t know how many years, I was ready for spring. Real spring, not the calendar-induced variety. Not that I’m into premonitions or any of that New Age woo-woo stuff, but I couldn’t help but feel that something was about to happen and that it would come with the spring. The true spring. With blue skies and breezy days and purple blossoms blooming on the jacaranda. But, no, spring was not in the air. Not yet.
The young woman Maggie acquired as our first client sounded a bit pedestrian, but definitely in need of aid. I had seen the type all too often on the Berkeley campus: Still trapped in delusions of Cinderella and the prince on the white horse and men providing all the answers to her problems. No need to find herself or a life for herself except as Mrs. Whatever. Poor child, she could definitely use some work.
The prick who was her boyfriend was another matter. Maggie mentioned his name and it sounded familiar, so I looked on my roster and discovered he had been one of my students a previous semester. One of the neofascists that followed me around like lost puppies and then called me Professor Hard Ass behind my back. Yes, I knew they called me that and that I represented some sort of fantasy conquest in their pea brains. It would be enjoyable to skewer one of the wolf pack.
Men. I’ve always had problems with men. My politics don’t endear me to a large swath of the male population. Not that I respect most of them anyway, with their need to uphold an archaic image. Not that many women are any better in their participation in perpetuating the patriarchal order. So many reward the posturing and revel in their victimhood. All in all, it’s such a tedious exercise.
All things considered, though, I enjoy men. Quality men. Unfortunately, they are frightfully few in number, especially in the states. They run for the hills when presented with a woman who has something to say—something I didn’t find as much when I did my graduate work in Paris and found any number of men with an affinity for both my intellect and my body.
My fondness for foreign cultures—and the ability to disappear on campus—was the reason I spent much of my time between classes and office hours at the University International House. The I-House had a very nice café that overlooked Campus Avenue and was my secret haven with the foreign voices surrounding me blending together to allow me to muse uninterrupted.
I had been sitting at the I-House since seeing Maggie on campus and, naturally, pondering the nature of love and relationships. Ever since Maggie first approached me with the War Council project, I had been focused on an examination of the dilemmas of relationships in the post-millennial era. Now that we had a client, some of my theories could be put into practice.
I was mid-muse when HE came in. Mike, the lout—and a perfect illustration of the flaws in the American male, I might add.
“Well, hey, if it ain’t my War Council comrade.”
Oh no, he spotted me. What was he doing here? This was my secret enclave. Why wasn’t he with the pretentious people-watching crowd at Café Strada? I asked him.
“Strada? Yuckola. Not into Strada. That cappuccino stuff is for the birds. This place has beer. Good beer. It’s also where I come to meet with some of my players. A lot of them are Aussies and live here at the I-House. Waiting for one of them now. Mind if I pull up a chair?”
“Must you?”
“Come on, cookie. Loosen up. We’re on the same team now, remember?”
“Don’t call me cookie,” I said. “I am not your cookie.”
“Yeah, gotcha, Professor DeVillier. Or Professor Hard Ass, as the players call ya. Did you know that?”
“I have heard the moniker before.”
“Woo. Touchy.”
I couldn’t figure out why he felt such a need to keep this macho dude act up. Then it dawned on me. “You really can’t help it, can you?”
“Can’t help what?”
“Being a dickhead.”
“A dickhead?” He burst out laughing, a big ridiculously boisterous laugh.
“Yes, a dickhead,” I said. “Do you practice?”
“Being a dickhead?” He burst out laughing again.
“What?” He was really annoying me now. Before he answered, he stared me straight in the eye.
“It’s just that I didn’t think ‘dickhead’ was in your vocabulary. Is that the official academic term?”
“I’m just trying to relate to you on your level.” I stared back. Why not?
“Nah, that’s not it,” he said.
“Oh, and what is?”
“I’ll just bet there’s a fun broad inside all that posturing.”
“Me posturing? Me posturing?”
“Keep going, cookie. Loving it.”
“Don’t ‘cookie’ me. Please leave.”
“I’m getting to you.”
“Oh, please, you are not getting to me. You’re bugging the hell out of me.”
“More vocabulary amendments!”
“Don’t you have a Neanderthal to meet?”
“A Neanderthal?”
“You know, one of those sports types you coach.”
“You think all male sports types are Neanderthals? Isn’t that gender stereotyping, professor?”
Okay, he got me. I set myself up and, for the first time I noticed that, actually, Mike was somewhat aesthetically pleasing—in an athletic sort of way. A bit on the stocky side and not all that tall, but he was built. I liked that. He had a nice chest. The kind of chest that could really envelop you. One of the problems with all those sensual Europeans who respected my intelligence was that they were all so damn scrawny.
So, Mike wasn’t bad looking. And he had this funny hair that seemed to spike out in all directions. Endearing, it was. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was, and let’s be frank about it, the problem was that the minute he opened his mouth, all the appeal vanished.
MIKE
I was getting to her. Getting through the ice facade she presented to the world. She wasn’t a bad broad. Had a lot of spunk. And definitely not bad to look at. Actually pretty damn perfect in the looks department: The kind of eyes they model contact lenses on except hers are real, and okay, she had a bod to die for.
So, it was the bod I noticed first. Sue me; I’m a dude. She was tall and the type of gal who wore turtleneck shirts, baggy blazers, and slacks, but there was no hiding what was underneath, and it was spectacular (if you know what I mean). And she always wore this bright red lipstick. Always felt like a bit of an anomaly from what I heard of her “hard-ass” reputation—but, heck, I guess that’s what they fought for, right? I don’t know.
Still, I did have fun baiting her, you know? I just kept wondering if there was something there beneath her hard-ass exterior. At least she had a mind. So many of the babes I meet are a big zero in the brains department. I liked a little challenge. I mean, I was the only boy in a family of six kids, so teasing girls was my specialty. They’d get so mad and scream and squeal. Guys don’t do that. They hit. Not nearly as much fun.
She didn’t know how to answer that last one. Gender stereotyping was one of her topics. I knew because I had looked up some of her books and articles on the Internet after meeting her at Kathy’s dinner party. She was actually a damn good writer. I sent one of the articles—on equality in pay for services—to my sister who’s a broker on Wall Street. Seems like a no-brainer to me: If a woman does equal work, she deserves equal pay. I’m all for that.
“Did you hear Maggie found a client for the War Council?”
Oh good. She’d stopped pouting and decided to speak to me. I hadn’t heard about the client, so Monique told me what she knew.
&n
bsp; “Guy sounds like a prick.”
Monique looked surprised. “You think he sounds like a prick?”
“Any dude that cheats on his woman is a prick. If he was at all honorable, he would have broken up with her before slamming the babes.”
“And here I thought maybe you had an ounce of decency.”
“What?”
“‘Slamming babes?’ That is so degrading.”
“Why? I’m not talking about you.”
“But you are talking about my sex.”
“Well, you could say you slammed some dudes.”
“But I wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it degrades the whole act of sex.”
“Hey, there are two kinds of sex. They require two kinds of action verbs. Sport sex—the variety pricks like this Biff dude are into—uses words like slamming, bopping, humping, doing, hooking up, whatever. Sex that expresses love is a completely different matter.”
I looked at her eyes. She seemed surprised. I wasn’t sure if it was a delighted sort of surprise or a disgusted sort of surprise. Either way, those amazing eyes just shone.
MONIQUE
That last one really surprised me. The fact that the lout even thought about love—or that sex differed when a person was expressing love—astonished me. I mean, the way he spoke, the way he carried himself and his mannerisms suggested more of a Neanderthal quality.
Could I be wrong about him? Could there be a sensitive caring individual in there? Could the upcoming spring bring out a depth I could not have imagined?
I looked over at his eyes, at the hair that couldn’t quite decide where to fall, at the powerful chest just begging to be hugged. Then he belched, grinned, took a swig of his beer, and it all disappeared. Neanderthal.
Chapter Ten
NICK
Spring had sprung. For the first time in what seemed like months, the clouds began to part, and the sun began to shine. The change in the mood on campus was remarkable. Suddenly, there were people everywhere. I wondered where all these people had hidden themselves throughout the rainy winter and early spring. They also carried with them a new attitude. I saw love blossoming all over campus. Maybe it was the jacaranda trees beginning to blossom their brilliant purple. Maybe it was just my mood. Love was hopefully about to blossom for me. The time had come to ask Maggie out again. I found her in her office.
“We have our first client,” she said.
“I heard. Congratulations! How would you like to go out with me to celebrate?”
I looked into her green eyes and (internally I hoped) sighed. She was beautiful, and I was again struck by how manipulative this all was. The AWAC (what we started calling the Anti-WAr-Council War Council) had timed my asking her out for this date to coincide with the War Council’s first client. The reasoning was that Maggie would be on a high, and that would be the best time to pounce.
“I’d like that,” she said.
She smiled. Maggie smiled. She smiled at me. Maggie wanted to go out with me. Okay, the plan was working. The clouds were parting, the trees were blossoming, and the plan was working. Hello spring!
“Great,” I said. “How about if I pick you up around 8?”
“Great.”
I left her office walking on air. So what if the events of the last few weeks had been planned by a group? So what if it was a bit calculating? So what if I already knew more background on Maggie than I had my last two girlfriends? It was working! The pragmatist in me was happy.
It’s not that I wasn’t a little wary of our methods. I was. But it seemed to me that most relationships have their share of manipulation and game playing—especially in the early stages and these days when Google and social media searches are so easy—so why not do it in an organized way with people who could help point me to the rules of the game? What was wrong with a little research?
Besides, it was Maggie’s idea. Her concept. We were just playing by her rules.
We. I’ll admit that was the odd part. It wasn’t just me and Maggie. It was me and Kathy and Brian and Randy and Hallie and Maggie. I didn’t really mind having a team on my side. Maybe it’s because I grew up playing sports. I mean, the concept is the same, right? Two heads are better than one. A group working toward a common goal. Learn the rules and win the game.
Again, I figured these were all Maggie’s concepts, and I was just playing by her rules. Kind of.
It’s not that I feel that I have to justify myself, but I wasn’t going to do anything that was against my nature. I was never going to lie. I wanted Maggie to get to know me, not a fabricated image. We were just formulating that image in the best light and at the appropriate time. What was so wrong with that?
Like I said, the pragmatist in me was pleased. My romantic side? Well, I tried to make room for that within the parameters of the plan. And I did.
Our second date had been even better than the first. Well, it started off that way at least. That was when we (the AWAC) learned how important timing was to our plan. No one had factored in the fact that Maggie would be too preoccupied by the War Council to think about herself or romance until she had her first client.
We had gone to the Kingfish for dinner. The Kingfish is a Berkeley institution: more dive bar than English pub but an English pub nonetheless. I wasn’t sure why Maggie was so bent on going there, but she was.
After we got there, I learned the answer. The place was filled with students. Students mingling, students drinking, students looking for other students to “spend the evening with” (if you get my drift). Lots of couples or those intent on coupling.
Research. Maggie was doing War Council research on our date.
We were there on a Thursday night. It had been arranged that we make the date very casual. Build on the friendship, Kathy said. So we did. Thursday night is very casual, very friendly. Friday and Saturday nights have a distinction as “date” nights and that leads to increased expectations as to whether or not the twosome will be sleeping together at the end of the date, so by asking someone out for a Friday or Saturday night, the expectation is that you are interested in that party romantically. That was Kathy’s take, but I will admit that, although I hadn’t thought about it, I had rarely asked a woman out on a Friday or Saturday unless I was seriously considering a relationship with her—or, at least, considering making a move.
With Maggie, I was ready to make my move the moment I met her but was holding back in honor of the plan. From what Kathy told us, Maggie hated pressure. Hated the pressure of having someone want her before she wanted him. I could respect that (I suppose), which is why I waited.
If you want to know the truth, it was killing me, but again, the pragmatist in me accepted my fate.
Although my ego was a bit bruised that Maggie was more intent on watching the goings-on at the Kingfish than in getting to know me better, I held back. Build on the friendship, I said to myself. Build on the friendship. I held onto those words and was patient and understanding and friendly. And, I have to admit, the goings-on were quite interesting that night.
Around 10 o’clock, a perky-looking coed came bursting through the doors. She marched right over to a snotty-looking prepster who was seemingly suctioned onto a (to be kind) rather provocatively dressed gal. The provocatively dressed gal excused herself and left for the ladies’ room while the coed and preppy got into a rather heated discussion. Then the coed started crying and ran out the door.
Maggie got this possessed look on her, and I knew the date was over.
“Listen, Nick. I gotta run. I think this is it. I may be back, but I can’t promise, okay? I really had fun. Really I did. And I’d like to do this again, but I have to go. Sorry.”
And with that, Maggie was gone. Although the evening was shot, I somehow knew we would have another chance. Timing: Its importance in a relationship cannot be underestimat
ed. And now, the timing was right on. Actually, the AWAC was overjoyed that Maggie had found the War Council client while with me. “Positive association as reinforcement” Kathy called it. Psychological mumbo-jumbo but I knew what she meant. I could tell from the way Maggie looked at me in her office that she definitely associated my presence with good feelings. She appreciated my understanding about her abrupt departure the night before, and now we would have a chance to celebrate. With the friendship built, it was time for romance.
I took Maggie to the Rio Dio. The Rio Dio is a club in San Francisco that features Brazilian music—the most sensuous music invented by man (in my personal opinion). Okay, so I was ready to push things a little.
What I really wanted was for Maggie to be as crazy for me as I was for her. That was why I had been so patient and was still being patient and would be patient until it happened, so help me God.
Kathy had told the AWAC about Maggie falling for Bill over B.B. King music. We all felt that music had a special effect on her—an erotic effect, if you will—but that we needed to provide a difference. Maggie associated the blues with Bill. We (I) wanted her to associate the exotic rhythms of Brazil with me. I had developed a love of Brazilian music during my Latin American Studies days. The sensual rhythms had really helped rid me of my WASP reserve, and we (again, I) hoped they would do the same for Maggie.
Not that Maggie was reserved. Maggie had an exuberance and passion for life that translated into seemingly boundless energy. But she also had an emotional aloofness that made it difficult to really get to know her. Her passion and exuberance were funneled into things she could make logical. That damned logic was blocking me from getting to the warm, passionate Maggie I knew existed deep inside. Music had unlocked that passion once. I had to hope it would do so again.
The Rio Dio was packed. It was a Friday night (yes, Friday night!), after all. Friday night at the Rio Dio was locals night. Saturdays and Sundays were for tourists, but Fridays found the Brazilians and other South American natives who lived in the Bay Area congregating at the Rio Dio. The club was located in a big old warehouse in San Francisco’s Mission district. It had been converted into a club about ten years earlier and, at one time, had a neon sign out front that said “Rio de Janeiro” but enough lights had burnt out that now it just said Rio d- —i-o. The name stuck, and the owners never changed the lights.
The War Council Page 8
