“On what? A boyfriend? A pretty girl like you must have a fella or two.”
“Not exactly,” I said, and changed the subject. “Tell me about Ireland. Is it beautiful?”
“That it is! There’s nowhere like it on earth. Of course, you have to get used to a wee bit of rain,” he said, turning his brogue up a notch.
“How much is a wee bit?”
“Nearly every day,” he said, and we both laughed.
“Are you from Dublin?”
“No, I’m from Wexford, a little town where the River Slaney flows into the Irish Sea. Like all of Ireland, Wexford has Norse roots and a dark, sad history at the hands of the English. Cromwell sacked the town more than three hundred and fifty years ago, but we’ve not forgotten.”
“America didn’t even exist then. As a country, I mean. My ancestors must have still been in Ireland, getting sacked along with yours.” Oh, God, I’m beginning to babble. I stopped myself by asking him another question. Guys always like to talk about themselves. “What did you do in Wexford?”
“Grew up, went to school, the usual. My family’s still there. Like any reasonably bright, ambitious lad, I went to university in Dublin and stayed there, working as a busker and a bouncer and writing the odd piece. All Irishmen are half in love with America. I was lucky enough to get a visa when I wanted to visit America. So here I am.”
“I know what a bouncer is,” I said, “but what’s a busker?”
“A street performer—I play the guitar and sing a little.”
“Wow, I’d love to hear you sometime. What sort of music do you sing?”
“All Irishman learn to sing Irish folk songs and ballads in our cradles. Do you know Irish music?”
“No. Everything I know about Ireland, I’ve learned from the movies.”
He smiled at that. “So you like movies?”
“I love them,” I said. “I go at least once or twice a week.”
“What’s your favorite film?” he asked.
“Oh, there’s so many.” I thought about it for a few seconds. “I really loved Sliding Doors with Gwyneth Paltrow, but I guess Breakfast at Tiffany’s has to be my all-time favorite. I love Audrey Hepburn.”
“You like old movies?” he said. “Me too. You should watch The Quiet Man if you like films about Ireland. The Dead is another good one. What do you think of film noir?”
“Mmmm, that sounds like black-and-white movies, and I think they’re boring.”
He shook his head at me in pity. “Oh, you ignorant girl. Some of the best movies ever made are black and white. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen some of the film noir classics. I tell you what: Out of the Past and A Lonely Place are playing at the Roxie on Friday. Mitchum and Bogart, two of the best. I’ll take you. You need educating.”
I agreed to go to the movies with him. Maybe it was reckless, but I was sick of being alone and going everywhere alone. Table for one, please. One ticket, please. I had been the loner, the loser, the ghost, and I was tired of feeling invisible.
• • •
I was very excited about my “date” with Patrick. At least, I hoped it was a date—it wasn’t exactly clear. I had never actually “dated,” the way I understood the concept from the olden days. My high school crowd traveled in packs and went out in groups. Only toward the end of an evening did couples get together in corners and cars and other isolated spots. Scott and I had been a couple, but we had never gone on a date for a movie and a milk shake like those dopes on Happy Days.
For the last few months I had been too busy adjusting to my new circumstances to worry about hooking up. My experience with Webb would definitely be worth repeating with the right person, but I hadn’t had the time to do any shopping. Not just anyone would do. My romantic fantasies revolved around a sophisticated and intelligent guy who knew about poetry, literature, and art, and looked good wearing a tuxedo.
While Scott had been way cute and his family had plenty of money, I had never considered him husband material. No way was I going to spend a lifetime watching basketball games and surfing tournaments. And I didn’t plan on ending up with some boring banker or lawyer whose idea of a good read was the Wall Street Journal.
I pictured my future husband as an intellectual—a writer or poet or maybe a film director. He wouldn’t care whether the 49ers or the Raiders won the Super Bowl, and he would never, ever think farting was funny.
I wasn’t stupid enough to imagine that Patrick was “the one.” Sooner or later, he would be moving on. But in the meantime, he was attractive, well read, and didn’t say “dude” five times a minute.
At the Madhouse the next day I felt a little apprehensive about how he might behave toward me. He was as friendly and flirtatious as ever but didn’t say a word about our chance meeting or our plans for Friday night at the movies. I was relieved. The last thing I wanted to do was become the center of any Madhouse gossip.
Hugging my secrets to myself had become a habit. I feared the disapproval or pity that exposure might bring. More than that, I was afraid of admitting that my mother wasn’t coming back.
• • •
By the time Friday arrived, I was finding it hard to remain cool about my “date” with Patrick. We had agreed to meet outside the Roxie Theater at six thirty sharp. I didn’t bother to change my clothes after work—that would have sent a signal that I wanted to impress him. But I did pull my hair out of the pony-tail I wore at the coffeehouse so that it hung loosely to my shoulders. Then I unbuttoned the top button of my shirt to show a little cleavage. As Tattie would say, I intended to use all my natural assets tonight.
The Roxie turned out to be a run-down movie house in the rougher section of the Mission. It was surrounded by ethnic restaurants, secondhand stores, and other graffiti-covered buildings. As I walked toward the theater, a black man with a bandana on his head went past me, spinning and hip-hopping to his own music.
Outside the theater I saw Patrick waiting with a cigarette in one hand. He was wearing jeans, a black turtleneck, a black leather jacket, and boots—in other words, he looked dangerous and totally yummy. Even the cigarette didn’t put me off, although I had always sworn I wouldn’t hook up with a smoker.
Once inside, I discovered that the interior of the movie house was not so bad. The movies were good, too, even if they were in black and white.
As we walked out, Patrick said, “Let’s get a bite to eat, shall we?”
I nodded agreement.
We walked to a tapas restaurant called Andalu. After we settled into a corner table and ordered, Patrick stretched out his legs and asked, “So what did you think of the films?”
“I liked them,” I admitted. “Especially the Mitchum guy. The other movie was pretty dark and had an interesting twist to it, but I just don’t get Bogart as a screen idol. And the women were annoying. You had to sort of admire Kathie. She played helpless, but underneath she was ruthless and determined not to be controlled by anyone. But the other chick didn’t do anything, just looked beautiful and got a lot of massages. Suddenly she’s in love and starts cooking and taking care of her man. Then—hello!—she starts to think that he’s a murderer. Maybe all that housecleaning stuff made her flip out.”
“Spoken like a true woman of the twenty-first century,” he tweaked me. “Are you saying you don’t want to cook and be some bloke’s little woman?”
“Not like that. I don’t want anyone bossing me around and expecting me to mother him. Is that what you’re looking for in a woman?”
“Like most men, I want it all. A woman to take care of me who’s beautiful, intelligent, and passionate.”
“Sounds like two women to me.”
He grinned and drawled, “So, tell me all about this boyfriend of yours in San Diego.”
For a second, my mind went blank until I remembered the lie I had told about Webb. Maybe this was a good time to unravel that particular part of my tangled web.
“Oh, him,” I said carelessly. “There’s not much t
o tell. He’s a great guy, but it’s so hard to maintain a long-distance relationship. We didn’t pledge undying love or eternal fidelity to each other.”
“That’s good,” Patrick said, leaning back in his chair. “You’re a bit young for pledging undying anything.”
“I’ll be a year older very soon,” I said mysteriously.
“Me as well,” he said, then added with a mock leer, “What’s your sign, darlin’? I’m a Scorpio. We’re supposed to be very sexy devils, if you believe all that malarkey.”
“I’m a Scorpio too.”
“Now what are the odds of that? I’ll be precisely a quarter of a century old on November nineteenth.”
“My birthday is the twenty-second,” I said. He raised his brows at me as if in a question, and I added, “And ‘old enough’ is all I’m saying.”
“I thought women didn’t start hiding their age until at least thirty,” he protested.
“I’m getting an early start.”
“We’ll have to celebrate our birthdays together,” he announced. Just then, the waitress plopped our plates down in front of us, so nothing more was said about age or birthdays.
It was nearly one when he walked me to my car. I was parked in an alley—not dark exactly but not floodlit either. After I unlocked the door, I turned around to say good night and hopefully get kissed. But he gently pulled me against him, one hand in the small of my back and the other resting slightly on my shoulder. We stood there, inhaling each other. He felt great and smelled wonderful, like soap and leather.
All my nerve endings were tingling, and I realized that somehow he had gotten control of the situation. That wasn’t what I was used to at all.
“You’re so lovely,” he whispered with his cheek lightly touching my hair. “You know I fancy you, don’t you?”
Then just as quickly, he released me, and called, “Drive safely” as he walked away.
Unkissed and off balance, I got into my car and drove back to the camper, to enjoy a night of pleasant dreams for once.
Chapter Twenty-Three
On Monday Patrick strolled into the coffeehouse around eleven and we both pretended that nothing had happened between us. I was careful not to pay any special attention to him, yet I was aware of every movement he made. At one point, I looked up to see him staring at me with a half smile on his face. I walked over to the table where he was sitting.
“Did you want something?” I asked. “Another cappuccino?”
“That would be grand,” he said.
As I reached over him for his cup, my breast lightly brushed his arm. With that brief touch, the air between us seemed to become charged with electricity. I froze for a moment, then moved away.
When I caught Malcolm’s eye, I realized he had noticed.
He didn’t say anything right away. But the next day, when the place was half-empty, Mal invited me to sit down and have a cup of espresso with him.
“How do you like working here?” he began.
“Great,” I said, thinking that only a fool would tell her boss any different.
He must have realized the same thing because he chuckled. “Like you’d say anything else.” In a falsetto, he added, “Mal, you’re an idiot and the customers are all cracked.”
I smiled but didn’t say anything, not sure where this conversation was going.
He went on. “We probably seem like a bunch of eccentrics and lost sheep to you. Let’s face it, you’re different and everyone here knows it. You look like a girl who took a wrong turn on her way to Neiman Marcus.”
I started to argue, but he cut me off. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy you’re working here. You’re smart, you’ve got a lot of energy, and you don’t take any guff from anyone. But we both know you don’t really belong here.”
“But I do. No one could be more of a lost sheep than me right now.”
Mal patted my hand. “Okay, dearie. We’re happy to have you in the flock. But, please, listen to a piece of friendly advice. Patrick is, well, he’s very attractive. If I were younger and he were gay, I’d chase after him myself. But he’s not for you. He’s too old, for one thing.”
At my look of protest, he wagged his head. “Hey, I’m your boss. I know exactly how old you are.”
“I’ll be nineteen in two weeks,” I interrupted.
“Listen to you! Eighteen or nineteen, Patrick is six years older than you in age and a lot more than that in life experience. He’s not going to settle down in the suburbs, drive an SUV, and raise two point five children. The man is an adventurer and a womanizer, with a girl back home in Ireland and half a dozen scattered between here and there.”
“Come on, Mal. Don’t you think I know that?” I teased him. “I’m way too young to settle down, much less have kids.”
“Of course. But you should be dating fresh-faced, beer-swilling college boys, not Irish bad boys with literary ambitions and a trail of broken hearts.”
“Bad boys—now that sounds promising,” I jibed. “Things are so dull in the suburbs. No one I know has ever left a trail of broken hearts.”
He laughed. “Maybe I overdid the purple prose. Hell, I’m a fool for even trying to warn you. You’re gonna do what you wanna do, whatever I say.”
I gave him a teasing look. “Relax, Grandpa. Times have changed.” I stood up and paused to add, “Have you ever thought that I might break his heart?”
“Maybe you will.” Mal smiled back at me. “Maybe I’ll just sit back and watch all of this unfold.”
Not if I can help it, I thought. Whatever happened with Patrick, I didn’t intend it to be a source of entertainment for the Madhouse inmates.
• • •
Another Friday night and I was singing along to the radio and playing poker in a gas station with a seventy-year-old grandfather while trying not to think about an Irishman with a crooked smile.
“You can’t sing and play poker at the same time. You have to watch what’s going on,” Earl scolded me, reaching across the desk to tap on my cards. “If you don’t, you might as well not play. The easiest way to win at poker is to sit across the table from folks who are drunk, tired, or just not paying attention.”
“Sorry,” I yawned. “But we’re just playing for fun right now.”
“You said you wanted to learn how to win. To win, you have to work at it and concentrate. The player who isn’t distracted or drunk will win your money because he was paying attention.”
I sat up straight in my chair “All right, I’m paying attention. Remind me, is it a flush or a straight when all your cards are diamonds?”
He let out a long sigh, shaking his head. “You know, I think I’m going to call. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
I spread my cards out on the desk and Earl chuckled. “You’ve got a pretty good hand there. That’s a flush. But I’ve got something better.”
He deftly fanned out his cards. Four queens. “These ladies beat your flush, I’m afraid.”
“I think I see why you made a lot of money at poker.” I sighed, and grabbed a potato chip to nibble on.
“It takes time, baby doll. Like anything else in life, it doesn’t come without effort. Luck is for suckers. Poker is a game of strategy. When the cards are cold, you fold, and when the cards are running your way, you throw money into the pot. The secret is to study your opponents and figure out what they’re thinking while you make sure they don’t have a clue about what’s on your mind.”
“I’m good at acting,” I said. “For sure, I’d be good at bluffing.”
He shook his head. “Bluffing is an advanced skill, and it’s hard to get away with. Most people give themselves away and don’t even know it. I knew a man who always licked his lips when he was bluffing.”
I stretched and yawned again. “Wouldn’t you love a beer right now? I would.”
“Don’t look at me. I don’t drink and I don’t give alcohol to teenagers.”
“You don’t drink? Ever?” I said in surprise.
“Can’t,” Earl said.
“Does it make you sick—I mean, throw up?”
“The stuff makes me drunk, crazy, and sick. I had a bad problem years ago. Almost killed someone in a fight over nothing—nothing!” He shook his head in wonder at his own stupidity. “So I gave it up. Promised myself I’d never touch another drop, and I haven’t.”
“And you just quit, without going to meetings and all that? You really are a tough guy.”
“I guess AA works for most people, but it wasn’t for me. I believe in being fair and respectful of others and taking responsibility for your own behavior. But I have problems with religion and folks who want you to believe what they believe. I’ve especially had trouble believing that making love could be a sin.”
“Me too,” I agreed, and then added, “Making love. No one I know calls it that.”
“You kids talk worse than half of the men I used to ship out with.” Earl frowned. “Potty mouths without a clue as to what you’re saying. You don’t have any idea what love is.”
“Have you ever been madly in love?” I asked.
He chuckled. “Madly in love? Well, I guess so. Madly in love or lust. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”
“How do you know the difference?”
“Well, there’s a fair amount of lust in love, or should be. But when you’re in love, you want to be with that person and talk to her, not just do the horizontal hula with her.” He stared at my face. “Are we talking in generalities here or is there something you want to tell me?”
“I’ll let you know,” I said, smiling a little at his protectiveness.
“You remind me of an article I read about the moose in Yellowstone.”
“I remind you of a moose?” I said, mystified. “Is this another one of your goofy platitudes?”
“Nope. It’s a true story. Fifty years ago the wolves and grizzlies were shot and chased out of Yellowstone. For a long time, the moose didn’t have much to worry about. A couple of years ago, the wildlife experts reintroduced wolf packs. But those moose were so dumb that they didn’t even try to get away. The wolves just had to walk up and make the kill. Quite a few moose died before they wised up and learn to take off in a trot when the wolves showed up. They had to learn to become watchful. Don’t learn everything the hard way, baby doll. Listen to your uncle Earl.”
My Lost and Found Life Page 18
