Gary’s family was richer than mine, but that’s not saying much. In his mind he was poor.
To keep alert on the eighteen-hour drive from Binghamton to Notre Dame, Gary needed someone like me along, a chronic talker. I calmed down about being abducted once we left the New York State border, and dutifully kept the conversation going through Ohio Amish territory, Cincinnati and Gary, Indiana, Michael Jackson’s hometown. Gary stopped the car there for a corny photo op, which was of course Gary standing in front of a big green Welcome to Gary sign banked up with snow. Back in the car I sang, “Gary, Indiana, Gary, Indiana, Gary Indiana, let me say it once again!” A private joke with myself: “Gary, Indiana” was the song that most annoyed my oldest brother, Gene. Our mother listened to the original Broadway cast soundtrack album of The Music Man at least twice a week, humming along as she painstakingly ran over our old living room rug with a carpet sweeper. The music wormed its way into Gene’s brain. I’m not sure how I escaped its insidious power.
The Brit speaks again: “So there’s a story going around that you abducted this young lady for one of their basketball games.”
Gary snorts, and then a distant memory washes over his face. “I forgot all about that road trip! I friggin’ kidnapped you!”
“There was nine inches of snow in Indiana! You were insane to make me go!”
Gary can’t talk for laughter. Finally: “Man! What a trip that was. Remember how we spun out fifteen miles before getting to the stadium?”
“Remember it? Gary—we almost died.”
Gary’s laughter subsides after a glance toward the stool behind the window where his little lady friend is perched. “Shit, listen guys, I have to get back to that chick. Digging me, big time. I just wanted to refund your cocoa, Miss S. When you’re in Chi-town you don’t pay.”
“Too late, my new friend has already offered to pay.”
Gary barely contains himself, but keeps his commentary to a knowing smile. The Brit is expressionless again, but I suspect we’re his entertainment for the day.
“I’ll be over by the window, but first I have to take another horse piss. Give me a minute to finish the job, and then come over and join us.”
“He’s a bit off-color, but he’s a wonderful pal,” I say when Gary’s out of earshot again. “We lived a few doors down from each other in my college back east—”
“Ah, ah, ah. Never apologize for school chums. My mate Reece was almost sent down fresher year for streaking. Cost his father plenty quid to keep him there. Took the committee a week to take a decision on that. His old man had to cough up an endowment to keep him through to tripos. But he was a good bloke all the same.”
He chuckles out loud, and I laugh too even though I haven’t the faintest clue who or what tripos is. There’s one more rollicking memory of his school days: “Bloody Andy served everybody drinks with fish ice at our last reunion.”
“Fish ice? Is that another British expression?”
A laugh. “No, just the ice that fish gets shipped in. Salmon fish ice it was. Nasty stuff.”
I bet Gary would enjoy hearing about these fellow pranksters, but he has returned from the bathroom and right now he’s having a fine time ogling the contours of the blonde’s blinding white sweater.
“So, you’re from New York City,” he says.
“Yes, I’m living there again. Gary’s also a New Yorker, by the way, from Bensonhurst—that’s a part of Brooklyn. You can ask him about Knicks games. That’s his secondary team.”
“I’m going to New York after Chicago; never been.” My unprotected heart jumps at the news. Boyfriend, boyfriend, I tell myself as he continues, “Had to add a few days on, of course. How can you come to America and not see New York?”
“You’ll love it. And trust me, Downtown needs your pounds to rebuild.” I’m blushing a bit as I sneak another face-saving look toward the front of the line. What is taking so long? We’re ordering donuts here, not steaks. How many boxes of donut holes has that man ahead of us ordered?
“Maybe you could show me around?”
This time I look him straight in the eyes. “Of course I will.” Did I just say that? It sounds like we just made a date. Is offering to tour-guide a man you’d love to kiss cheating?
“Wonderful.”
He smiles at me and I smile at him, and the sudden silence threatens to ruin our vibe.
“You know, when you used the word college before, it occurred to me that in England, college is usually what I think you call high school here. Well, except in Oxbridge. Oh sorry, you probably wouldn’t know that term. It means—”
“So did you go to Oxford or Cambridge?”
After an amused glance he says, “Cambridge.”
“Which college?”
“You know the colleges?”
“A few of them. Try me.”
“Trinity.”
“Where Isaac Newton was a student, right?”
“Indeed, the very one.”
“Indeed,” I mimic his accent, this time out loud.
“Next!” The combination of the cashier’s blond hair, large lips and huge torso make him look quite a bit like a bodybuilder duck.
“What can I get my new friend here?” the Brit asks me.
“Oh, thank you. Hot chocolate. That’s all I want.”
“And for youse?” says the ducky cashier to the Cambridge grad.
“Sugar donut, thank you. And make that two cocoas.”
“Youse?” my “new friend” discreetly parrots to me while our paper cups of cocoa are being filled several feet away. “What has your country done to my poor language?”
“We corrected a few things, too. Calling a fight a wobbly is outlawed in every state of the Union.”
“I’m amazed you even know that term.” He studies my face and gives me the verdict: “You’re charming, by the way.”
“And so are you,” I rally back.
“Well then, we might as well be introduced. What’s your name, Miss S.? Susan? Sabrina?”
“Shari.”
“Sherri? Is that short for Sheridan?”
“No, Shari, not Sherri.”
“Oh. Right. That sounds so—American. Is that short for Sharon, then?”
I bristle at his question. Like Debbie and Tammy, plain old Shari is a pretty damn common name among lower and middle-class Jews of New York. There are at least five Shari Diamonds in Manhattan alone; I saw us listed on a computer screen when my Citibank manager brought up my account on his computer the day my checkbook was stolen. As the manager double-checked my address, I noted a Shari Diamond in Stuyvesant Town complex on Fourteenth Street, and two of us on Avenue A.
When I was around sixteen my mother huffed when I asked her why she had to choose such a tacky name: “I can’t believe I’ve given birth to such a snob.”
I’m still not crazy about my first name, but my mother would never let me get away with a legal name change like the one my Binghamton friend Rain Alexander fixed for herself just before our college graduation—Rain changed her name to Mary so that she wouldn’t come off sounding like the upstate New York hippie kid she was in her post MBA interviews. I use Shari socially but for professional publication I always use S. Roberta Diamond, uglier, sure, but far more respectable looking.
I cram all these thoughts down almost as quickly as they well up. Who needs a North American class and demographic lesson with a sugar donut? I answer with, “No, just Shari. It’s pretty common as a full name in New York City.”
“Right. Well, my friends call me Kit.”
“That a nickname?”
“Yes. Short for Christopher.”
Oh, good God. Gary is not going to believe this.
Suddenly it really does feel like cheating. I am not hooking up with this Chris, I sell myself again. “Myself” is not buying. It’s awfully hard to think of Kevin Bernstein now, but I have to try and think of him if I’m any sort of decent human being. I endeavor to do just that, but only my half-committed
relationship doubts seep through. Even if Kevin is appealing at first, the more time you spend with him you realize how nebbishy he truly is. He does, however, have endearing brown cowlicks, and an exceedingly warm body temperature—which makes sleeping with him a pleasure since I’m practically an amphibian. I would hate to think a body in the bed is the only reason I’ve stayed with him.
“You look alarmed.” He studies my face again: “I’m sorry, have I offended you somehow?”
“No. I’m just a little worried.”
“For heavens’ sake, what about?”
I wave off his concern and we talk some more. In another scarily pleasant surprise, it turns out that “after business” in Chicago, Kit is scheduled for my very flight from Chicago to New York’s LaGuardia Airport.
“Now you’ll absolutely have to be my guide to the Big Apple. Do New Yorkers really say the Big Apple by the way?”
“Surprisingly, yes. Do the British really drink a lot of tea?”
“Well, I have a fair bit,” he says congenially. He tacks on, “By the way, have I asked you already, what is your work here exactly? Are you in a conference in Chicago?”
“Yes.”
“I heard every room in the city is booked. My bellhop told me there’s an ephemera conference going on in my hotel, as well as a convention of M*A*S*H enthusiasts.”
Before I can tell him which group I’m booked for—there’s at least three in my hotel, too, including a chemists meet-up—our hot steaming order is finally ready in the take-out bag. There is a further distraction when Gary arrives back by our side with a news report on his sorority president seduction.
“What’s taking so long, you two?” Gary asks.
I raise my eyebrows in exaggerated frustration. “We just got our order. There was a donut hole holdup. How are you faring over there with your chick?”
“She loves me, my friends, but she wants to walk.”
“As in outside?” After Kit hands me the paper cup of cocoa, I gratefully wrap my frozen fingers around it. “Sweetheart, Gary, we came here for the warmth.”
“Run with me, sweetheart. We have to tootle outside or the little lady will get pissed off not to mention frostbitten.”
Kit nods okay. The cheeky British bastard’s hand is practically on my ass as he guides me out the door.
I catch Kit’s eye and smile ever so slightly. Given the tiny go-ahead he actually shocks the slut in me when he pinches my butt right through my coat. Most self-respecting American women would give the guy a miss right there. But in my reading of the moment, I’m going with raffish over chauvinist, and I pinch his flat Anglo butt right back.
When Kit opens the door, it’s even colder than when we ditched the tour. “Oh damn. I’ve lost one of my new gloves,” I mutter out loud before we introduce ourselves to Gary’s gal.
“Put this on,” Kit says as he slips one of his soft brown leather gloves off and offers it to my gloveless palm. My hand has never had it so good. “I’ll go back in the shop and check for you.”
“Shari this is Sally,” Gary introduces me to his quarry.
“Hi!” she says pertly.
“Hey.”
“I haven’t seen her in seventeen years, since college graduation.”
“Really?”
I nod. “But we write sometimes, and e-mail.”
“And now she’s blessing me with her presence because the Volachuks are in town.”
Sally looks confused, so I take over Gary’s mangled explanation. “I’m writing my dissertation on a language called Volapük. I’m presenting at a conference tomorrow.”
“Oh,” she says, without an ounce of interest.
“You know how we became good friends?” Gary says, rescuing us both. “I kidnapped her my freshman year.”
“Excuse me?” Sally says a bit prissily.
“Our junior year,” I say. “The year we got our own apartments off campus. Gary tricked me by saying we should stock our fridges before the storm.”
“The central New York storms are brutal,” Gary says, smirking.
“He knew that I didn’t have a car, and that I would jump at the chance for a lift to Wegman’s, which is a mammoth New York state supermarket chain where you can pick up anything edible in bulk.”
“Anything! Frosted Mini-Wheats, Tootsie Rolls, spinach pasta shells—” Gary puts in.
I nod. “We zipped past the supermarket as Gary so solemnly explained that yes, well, he lied and we were in actuality going on an eighteen-hour road trip.”
As proven by Kit’s reaction just minutes ago, everybody loves this story.
“That’s terrible,” Sally says. “You never told her she’d be away for a day? That’s just mean.”
“Truth is,” I say, surprised, and a bit desperately, “I ended up having tons of fun. We were bound for South Bend, Indiana for a big football game at Notre Dame.”
“I went there,” Sally says matter-of-factly.
Gary is ecstatic. “You went to ND? For a visit? Isn’t it effing great there?”
“Yes, and I wasn’t visiting. I went to school there. My father and grandfather went, too. I was a legacy.”
You’d think that legacy tidbit would hurt, but I can tell Gary is even more interested than before. Gary wants in the country club, too. He may taunt me about my proclivities, but he’s just as much a sucker for the upper classes, the All-American kind.
The Woman in White speaks again: “Since your friend from England is still looking for your glove, I’m going to race inside and freshen up. I should have done that before.”
Gary and I are alone. He sighs loudly. “She’s gorgeous. I’m not out yet.”
“What about the bitter girl you’re dating?”
“This from a girl pinching someone’s ass while her boyfriend waits by the phone?”
“Shit, you actually saw that?”
“That’s what I like about you. Used the big words in school, but push comes to shove, you’re just as loose as the townies. Worse.” We share a vice-ridden laugh. “So, what are you going to do with him?”
“Do? He pinched my ass, he didn’t ask me out. It’s tour sex. A dead end after the flirtation.”
“You sound like you’ve had it before.”
“When you go to conferences a lot, it happens.”
“Bullshit, I’ve never had tour sex. You have?”
“Two conferences ago I had a great touchy-feely conversation about Gorgonzola cheese with a man from Milan at Niagara Falls, and then the boat docked and he introduced me to his stunning fiancée.”
Gary snorts, and I do too—I’ve never told that anecdote out loud before.
“I actually think Lord Faggot really likes you.”
“I’m having a big flirt, that’s all. To be honest, I’m thinking you should give up on Doris Day’s niece. I’m not sure about her—”
“You spoke to her for two seconds. And I’m supposed to listen to you? You who hates all women who are naturally blond?”
I laugh. Gary has a point.
“So you don’t want these then?” Gary fans the Bulls tickets in front of my face.
Has hell frozen over? “You’re not going?”
“I live here. I work with them. I’ll see them again. And no bullshit, this girl might be the one.”
“One little kitty chicken pock and the other poor girl is completely out of your running?”
“Three dates, that’s all we’ve had. Hailey is a nutjob anyway.”
Who am I to make a value judgment? Even Gary sees the mutual charge I have going with Kit. Am I about to cheat on Kevin? I’m not sure that I’m not.
“The master plan is you have to say you’re going back to the hotel unexpectedly so I can drive her home. You can use those tickets for your own bait.”
“I have a boyfriend in New York, remember?”
“You look pretty interested in the man to me.”
Sally pushes open the Dunkin’ Donuts door.
“Hi!” Sally say
s cheerily. Maybe she is liking Gary. Her full lips are even pinker than before. Why is this woman possibly the one? Is it her nose, the exact button nose shared by so many of the one-night stands Gary had paraded down our dorm floor?
“Hi again!” Gary says.
“Hi!” I say with extra perk, and Gary shoots me a quick frown to let me know my condescending tone is not appreciated.
Kit emerges a few seconds later. “I searched everywhere. Your glove is missing in action.”
I shake my head sympathetically. “Don’t worry, please. It was so nice of you to look.”
Gary can now introduce Kit to Sally.
“How long are you here?” Sally says.
“A week. Than I’m off to New York.”
Gary inconspicuously kicks the back of my ankle in delight. “I can’t believe I have to give up my ticket to the Bulls,” he says. “They’re mind-blowingly close to the court.”
Kit’s face brightens enough to notice, but he seems careful not to pitch his hopes too high. “Why can’t you go?”
“I have an early morning meeting I have to prepare for.”
I zoom in for the kill. “Kit, you think you might want to come on the extra ticket?”
A big American-sized grin from Kit. “Bloody hell I will.”
Gary’s prey is next, although I’m not giving him good odds.
“Can I drive you home?” Gary says to Sally. “If you live near Lincoln Park, that’s where I’m going. And I’m parked a block away. Will you keep me company? It’s one cold, windy block.”
Sally’s apology rambles: “I can’t. I told my boyfriend I’d meet him back on South Michigan. I hope I didn’t give you the wrong message. I told my mother I would finally take the tour, but it was just too cold, that’s all. I’ll have to do it again when the city warms up.”
The Anglophile Page 3
