Out to Lunch

by Stacey Ballis

  “I saw.”

  “Never beat him before, that was the first time!” Of course it was; god forbid Wayne would let a kid beat him at some game.

  “Well, I hope you make it a habit,” I say, trying to leave any judgment out of my tone.

  “Yeah, me too!” The kid is wiggling with excitement.

  Behind me I feel a presence. “Hey Wayne, Noah, um, Jenna.” Georgie. Who is exactly what you would expect a nearly fifty-year-old man named Georgie would be. Georgie is tall and gangly, with the most pronounced Adam’s apple I’ve ever seen outside of a Disney cartoon villain. His thinning, mousy brown hair is kept long. He wears a long black trench coat with an extralong red and yellow striped scarf everywhere. And his teeth are a shade I can only describe as gray. Not yellowed or brown, but actually gray. With sort of a hint of lavender. He is Wayne’s second best friend after Elliot, and while I’ve met him no fewer than twenty times over the years, to my knowledge we have never exchanged more than ten words.

  “Hey Georgie,” I say.

  “How are you?” He head tilts. The bastard.

  “I’m good, thanks. You?”

  “Good. Work is busy, so that’s nice, considering. But I’m ready for a break. Heading home to Michigan for a week for the holidays, see the family, play with the nieces and nephews, you know.”

  This is officially more information than I have ever known about Georgie in eight years of his acquaintance.

  “Sounds great.” Not really sure what else to say.

  And then? Georgie turns and walks away without another word. Lord, the strangeness.

  “Noah, stay with Jenny, I have to go to the little Jedi’s room.” Wayne heads for the restrooms.

  “You know what is so cool, Jenna?”

  “What’s that, little man?”

  “My friends? All their dads let them win all the time. Board games, cards, video games, sports. My dad? He always tries his hardest because he says he wants me to try my hardest, and because he only wants me to know what it feels like to really win for real, and because he says the only thing better in the world than a winner is a gracious loser.”

  I am gobsmacked. First of all, the fact that Noah appreciates the fact that his dad has never let him win all these years; and second, that it was actually a conscientious parenting decision as opposed to a juvenile need to win that drives Wayne’s actions.

  “Yeah, I bet it feels really good to know that you won even though he was trying his hardest to beat you.” I hope no one else can see the lightbulb over my head right now.

  “It. Is. AWESOME.”

  “A beverage, milady?” Elliot comes over and hands me a short tumbler, and I accept it and take a sip.

  “Delicious, thank you.”

  “Hey Elliot! I just beat Dad at Hitman: Absolution!”

  “No way! You really did?”

  “I totally squooshed him.”

  “That is amazing, dude. I still haven’t beaten him on that one. Congrats.” Elliot and Noah high-five. I take another sip of my drink, which is perfect, smoky bourbon, sweet heat from the ginger beer, a little brightness from the lemon twist; the ideal thing for a brisk evening.

  “Hey, El, awesome party, man.” Wayne returns, wiping his hands on his jeans. I hope from having washed them, thinking of Elliot’s earlier buffet comment.

  “The dryer broken in there?” Elliot gestures with his head at the bathroom. “Or you just trying to shrink those floods of yours to capris?”

  “HA! That’s a good one, he totally burned you, Dad!”

  Wayne grins. “What can I say. I was raised by wolves.”

  “That you were, my friend, that you were.” Elliot laughs. “Well, we are about ten minutes to shutting this party down. Jenna, are you joining us for dinner?”

  “Oh, I don’t . . . I mean . . .”

  “Pleeeeeese, Jenna? Come with us! We’re going to Hamburger Mary’s and Dad said we can get the fried mac ’n’ cheese fritters.”

  “Pleeeeese, Jenny? Come with us! We need a fourth if we’re getting the chili cheese Tater Tots,” Wayne pipes in, perfectly imitating Noah’s voice and inflection.

  “Pleeeeese, Jenna?” Elliot is not to be left out. “Come with us! You’re the only one who will eat the fried pickle spears with me.”

  “Okay, okay, uncle. I’ll come.” I can’t say no to all of them, and the bourbon is making me pliable.

  The three of them high-five one other. High-fiving appears to be an essential part of guy communications.

  “You guys go get a table, I’ll be there in fifteen,” Elliot says.

  “Don’t you need help cleaning up?” I say, looking around at the party, which still seems to be in full swing. There is an hour of work at least once he gets everyone out.”

  “That, my dear, is what twentysomething staffers are for. Once the party is officially over, I am off the clock and free as a bird. You guys head on over and order, and I will join you in mere moments. And Jenna? You order for me. This idiot will get me a medium well plain hamburger, and that will make me cry.”

  He smiles at me and winks, and heads over to chat with a customer. Wayne, Noah, and I go downstairs and retrieve our coats from the be-inked girl, and head out in the direction of fried pub food, Noah wiggling in between me and Wayne, grabbing both of our hands, and swinging merrily.

  * * *

  You get that boy home to bed, I’ll walk Jenna to her car,” Elliot says. Noah has hit a wall. The long day, the drive from Madison, the excitement of the party, the enormous amounts of food . . . ten minutes ago his head hit the table, and he can barely keep his eyes open.

  “Thanks, man. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. G’night Jenny, thanks for coming,” Wayne says to me over an armload of exhausted ten-year-old.

  “’Night, Jenna,” Noah mumbles.

  “Bye, guys.”

  Wayne gets Noah strapped into the backseat, his head lolling back with pure exhaustion. He claps Elliot on the back, and heads around to the driver’s side.

  “Nightcap? There is still some bourbon in the office. And I just want to do a quick check to make sure all is well, but I can walk you to your car first if you don’t want to come in,” Elliot says, gesturing at the now-dark store.

  “No more bourbon for me, I’m driving,” I say. “But you can check the store if you want. I’d actually love a water.”

  “Of course. Nothing like the salty fried goodness of Mary’s to suck all the spit out of your mouth.”

  “Exactly.”

  Elliot unlocks the door and slips inside, turning off the alarm and turning on the light. He steps aside so I can come in, then relocks the door behind me. Dinner was actually a good time. I hadn’t been to Hamburger Mary’s before, but the food was terrific versions of pub grub, great burgers, and a cool atmosphere. It was actually fun to be there. Noah is always funny, and Elliot good-naturedly ribs Wayne and calls him on his crap, and they all defer to me in very old-school gentlemanly ways. I don’t think I’ve ever spent an entire evening without being annoyed by Wayne, and even when he dropped the open ketchup bottle into my purse, I just couldn’t get it up to be overly annoyed at him. That is probably the bourbon. And the fact that I never really loved this purse anyway.

  “Hey, I gave you that purse.”

  They can’t all be winners.

  “Come on in, I’ll grab you a water,” Elliot says, heading for the door marked Office. I follow him, and again am shocked. Elliot’s office is clean, elegant; English Arts and Crafts desk, old barrister’s bookcases, sleek computer system, chocolate leather couch, more like a professor’s office than a comic book store owner. I was expecting toys and mess.

  I sit on the couch, and he hands me a bottle of water from a small fridge in the corner.

  “I’ll just be one second,” he says, powering up the computer, and pulling out a small pair of reading glasses. He scans over something, smiles, types a little, and then shuts down the computer. “Sorry, I have a client in Japan who needed to chec
k in.”

  “Wow. What did he want?”

  “I’ve been helping him build his private collection for the past few years, there is a specific item he has wanted me to track down for him, which I finally acquired earlier this week. He was quibbling a little about price, but finally agreed to what I wanted, so I had to send him the account information for the wire transfer.”

  “Doesn’t he have a credit card?”

  “Not that he can charge four hundred and fifty grand on.”

  I almost do a spit take. “Um, four hundred and fifty THOUSAND dollars? Are you selling him black tar heroin?”

  Elliot laughs. “No, I tracked down a Detective Comic number one from 1937 for him. Very rare, and this one is in amazing condition.”

  “That is insane.”

  “Lucky for me.”

  “So what is the markup on something like that?”

  “Well, this time I actually got it in a big lot from an estate, we didn’t even know it was in there, just knew the guy had been collecting since he was a kid, and he was in his eighties. It was over three thousand books, so we knew we’d make our money on it. But this was a huge, important find.”

  “So, if it isn’t too presumptuous . . .”

  “I bought the lot for about 70K. This one is the only really ridiculous item, the rest will go for between fifty and twenty-five hundred each, which is what I figured when I bought them.”

  “Congrats, that is really fantastic.”

  “A good day.” He nods. “So I think Wayne seems to be hanging in there. How do you think he’s doing? Really?”

  “I think he’s okay. I think we’re all okay. It sucks, but we had time to face it, to prepare. He has you and the guys and Noah.”

  “And you.”

  “I think I’m less support and more of a babysitter, but it’s nice of you to say.”

  “You’re more support than you think. And let’s be honest, he needs a babysitter. The man raised himself, it’s a small miracle he walks upright.”

  “Wayne doesn’t really talk about his family, Aimee never said much except that he wasn’t in communication with any of them.”

  “I knew Wayne back in Missouri; we grew up together. He was other-side-of-the-tracks trailer trash. Mom was a drunk, essentially a hooker who got paid in drinks and the occasional bit of cash or wad of food stamps. Never knew his dad, who took off after knocking Mom up, never to be seen again, but he had a couple mean drunk biker uncles who liked to beat him up for grins.”

  “That must have been awful. Did you know it was going on at the time?”

  “He didn’t really talk about it till we were older. I knew he hated his house, just didn’t know specifics.”

  “Wow. How did you guys get to be friends?”

  “I was one of those sickly kids, asthma that I eventually grew out of, but held back a year because I missed so much school. We bonded like geeks bond. Best friends since fifth grade, his mom finally drank herself to death when we were seniors in high school, and he lived with me and my folks to finish out the year, and then he and I ended up at Wash U together.”

  Now I feel shitty. “I had no idea it was so hard on him growing up.”

  “He doesn’t talk about it. When his mom died he just said that now his life could start, and he was never going to look back. I think he looks for the positive side of everything because he knows what really crappy looks like.”

  I take a sip of water. And suddenly every nasty little thing I’ve ever thought about him feels like salt in a wound I didn’t know existed. “It’s kind of amazing when you think about it.”

  “Look, Jenna, it isn’t like Wayne is perfect. Our crew is a bunch of overgrown misfit children. Wayne had it the worst growing up, but we all had the unpopular weirdo freak thing in one way or another. I like to think that a combination of decent brains and a fairly good sense of humor kept us all from becoming tragic statistics.”

  “You mean criminals and meth heads?”

  Elliot laughs. “Exactly. And at a certain level, I think we all cling to our weirdness because it insulates us from trying to fit in and failing. My brother is really fat, like four hundred pounds. Last time I tried to get him to lose weight, he said he deep down didn’t want to know what would happen if he was thin. Because if you are forty and four hundred pounds and single with a crappy job, no one expects much. He said he didn’t want to get thin and find out that still no one wanted to date him or hire him, because then he would have to know that it wasn’t the weight, it was just him.”

  “That is really sad.”

  “Yes it is. And I always thought it was pretty amazing that Aimee was one of those rare individuals who was secure enough in being A-list normal that she could afford to see the awesomeness that is Wayne, and was always very cool with the rest of us. She never tried to change him or make him fit her world, she never cut him off from us; she just let him be and loved him and let him love her. She was a great, great lady.”

  And suddenly I am weeping, for my friend who is gone, for her spirit which was even more amazing than I knew, for Wayne’s horrible childhood, for me being small. Elliot comes over to the couch and puts his arms around me.

  “I’m sorry, I know how much you miss her. Shhhh.” He holds me and rubs my back and lets me cry.

  “Sorry. Sometimes . . .”

  “Sometimes you just gotta cry. I get it. Totally.” He hands me a Kleenex.

  “Thanks, Elliot. For seeing her. Her specialness. And for sharing that with me about Wayne.”

  “Hey, I like to think we are all friends. And you really are the only one who will eat the fried pickles with me.”

  I laugh. “Anytime.”

  He smiles. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. But I have two dogs at home with their legs crossed.”

  “Let me walk you to your car.”

  He locks up again, and we walk the three blocks in silence.

  “Thanks Elliot.”

  “You betcha.” He grins wickedly at me. “Hey, I’m having a small do for New Year’s Eve. Wayne is coming; if you don’t get a better offer, I hope you’ll join us.”

  “It’s a lovely offer, and as soon as I know my plans, I’ll let you know.”

  “Wayne says you’re seeing someone, you’re welcome to bring him.”

  “That’s very sweet. I’ll figure out the plan and shoot you an e-mail.” I make a mental note to send some pecans and chocolate cake to him at the store to thank him.

  “Sounds good. Get home safe, Jenna.”

  “I will.”

  He kisses my hand, and I get into my car. And for at least four blocks, I can see him in my rearview mirror, watching me drive away.

  15

  Be prepared for them to not love him.”

  I’m not in love with him myself yet, but why would they not love him?

  “Because they love you and they want the best for you. And he is perfectly fine, but he isn’t going to make them jump up and down.”

  I don’t need them to jump up and down. I just want him to be there.

  “Why?”

  Because he is in my life and they are my family.

  “But what is he? You still haven’t once called him your boyfriend.”

  He’s the guy I’m dating.

  “And?”

  And that’s enough.

  “For them or for you?”

  Hopefully for all of us, for now.

  “Okay. Remember you said so.”

  Can I get dressed now?

  “I’d check that dog before you get fancy.”

  Crap.

  “You said a mouthful.”

  This is the moment the unmistakable smell wafts its way up my nostrils.

  “CHEWIE!” I run out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. The puppy, who’d followed me upstairs with Volnay when I came up to shower, is sitting on the bench at the foot of my bed. Next to a pile of poop that I presume must have come from a brontosaurus wandering by, based on the sheer size.


  The puppy looks neither apologetic nor sheepish. He sits next to his friend, The Enormous Stank Dump, tongue lolling, one string of drool dripping from the tip all the way to the small puddle forming next to him. Great. Remind me to call Ayers and tell them to rename the bench the Shit and Spit Bench.

  “DOWN,” I say, using my deepest register, in what our trainer calls the Voice of God. “Bad boy.” And I toss on my robe and go downstairs to get the proper cleaning equipment. Deep down, I know that this is my fault; we took an abbreviated walk during which Chewie peed but didn’t poop, but I was in a rush to shower and change. Brian is picking me up soon to go to Jasmin and Gene’s for Christmas Eve. In all fairness, he had taken not one but two enormous dumps on our morning walk, so I convinced myself that he was just done for the day and would do his business on the last walk of the day before bed. But the one thing that every dog trainer has ever told me is that while dogs are responsible for general destructive behavior like plant dumping, shoe chewing, and garbage strewing, when it comes to going to the bathroom in the house, that lands squarely on owners. No dog that has been properly watched and paid attention to and walked appropriately will go to the bathroom in the house except in a dire emergency or illness.

  I manage to get the bench cleaned up, and properly doused with enzyme spray to prevent future occurrences, by which point I’m really pressed for time. I pull on a pair of black velvet jeans, a sparkly gray tank, and a black sweater. A pair of black suede wedges, a wide bracelet made of about fifty thin silver chains, my diamond studs. I pull my hair into a ponytail, slap on some makeup, and get downstairs just in time for Brian to ring the bell.

  “Hello, beautiful,” he says, leaning in to kiss me. He looks fabulous in dark wash jeans, a French blue shirt highlighting his eyes, with a black and gray tweed sportcoat.

  “Hello, yourself.”

  He comes in, and follows me to the kitchen, where I have packed up my offerings for tonight. Instead of the more traditional Christmas ham, Gene is going with a twelve-hour slow-roasted pork shoulder. Jasmin is making roasted parsnips with pears, and Andrea is doing creamy grits. I’m bringing Swiss chard with chickpeas, and made some Brazilian fudge balls, sort of a cross between fudge and caramel, and insanely delicious.