by Dan Taylor
I think it’s a rhetorical question, so I wait for her to continue. Turns out it isn’t. She waits for me to answer. She doesn’t think that much of me.
“I’ve noticed.”
“She wants to find her father, her real one, and to find out who Charles Books is. But she wants to do so delicately. Megan’s conscious of upsetting her mom and whoever has been posing as her biological dad all her life. That’s where you come in.”
“Why doesn’t she just ask the grandparents?”
“Three are dead, one has dementia. We need you.”
“You said delicately, right?”
“Ha ha,” she says, mocking me. “Your self-deprecating humor may work on dumb makeup artists, but not on me.”
Told you. She’s brilliant.
She continues, “Press get wind of this, Megan’s fledgling star turns into a red dwarf much sooner than anyone anticipated.”
I have no idea what a red dwarf is, but I nod, having understood the gist.
“You’re to travel down to Rodeo, Texas, to carry out your investigation.”
“Why?” I take another look at Megan’s picture, noting the boob job, nose job and, if I’m not mistaken, chin job.
“Because that’s where Megan’s from, and more importantly, where her family’s from. She lives in Massachusetts.”
“What kind of actress lives there? Are you sure she doesn’t live in Hollywood?” I say as I look at Megan’s augmented cleavage.
“No, she doesn’t”
“She should move here. She’d fit right in.”
Gerry raises an eyebrow. I don’t know whether this is her only job, acting as an associate for Andre. What she does doesn’t seem like a real job. But then again, neither does mine. What I do know about her is that she doesn’t like people being cute. She has a bizarre, logical mind, with little to no sense of humor. And I took her out on a date once, and she didn’t come back to my place and remove her panties. She’s a real pro.
“When do I fly out?” I ask.
“As soon as we’ve finished here.”
“Can I not pack a bag first?”
“Andre has a car waiting for you, with luggage in the back. He’s chosen your wardrobe for this job.”
The last time Andre chose my wardrobe he dressed me up like a soccer mom. If I could, I’d avoid the next sartorial disaster.
“Any specific reason?” I ask.
“In order to infiltrate the family home, you’re going to pose as Megan’s boyfriend. A Harvard Medical School student. You’ll be visiting for a long weekend.”
“That seems a bit extreme.”
“Megan demanded it.”
“So he’s packed a suitcase full of short-sleeved V-neck sweaters and beige chinos for me?”
Again, the eyebrow.
The waiter comes over with our starters. We haven’t ordered, or at least I haven’t.
“The basil gnudi?” he asks.
It’s the starter I ordered last night.
“Right there,” Gerry says, pointing to the table mat in front of me.
I told you. She’s brilliant.
5.
I OPEN UP the suitcase and find that I was right, apart from a few details. The chinos are there, but they are a hideous gray color. As are the V-neck sweaters, though these have long sleeves. I assume that I’m supposed to tie them around my neck to create the look Andre intended for me. The underwear is a befitting style, Y-front briefs, tartan socks. In the suitcase is a pair of what look to be golf shoes, but when I turn them over to inspect the soles, they are regular. No studs. Or they could be bowling shoes.
I close it back up. If I put these clothes on in Hollywood, I might not make it out alive.
The driver Andre has sent beeps the horn so I close the trunk, rush around and get in.
He shakes his head as I sit down, having not enjoyed the wait.
Without saying a word, he hands me an envelope. Inside it are my flight itinerary and tickets, along with a typed note from Andre: “Don’t mess this up, Jake.”
We set off for Long Beach Airport.
“Rodeo has its own airport. Did you know that?” I say.
There’s silence a moment, then the driver speaks. “I hadn’t heard of Rodeo before you just said it.”
“That right?” Nor had I.
“Yep.”
Talkative guy.
I manage to self-check my bags, even managing to fasten the identification strip to my suitcase without incident or embarrassment, and get through security without feeling like I’ve done much.
I’m not a nervous flier, but I’m not that fond of airports. It’s the pressure of having to make it to the right gate on time. I have to read the big screen on which all the flight details are displayed at least five times before 16A enters my mind properly. I concentrate on remembering this so hard that I nearly walk into the international lounge. I don’t know if you’ve ever done this, but this is about as big a disaster as can happen to a flier at an airport—bar forgetting your passport, having a bomb go off, or having your departure gate a good distance from the departure lounge’s sole bar. If you find that you’re in International and you need Domestic, you have to double back ‘round. Go through Arrivals. Go through security again, which makes you look like a terrorist: sweating, making your way through security for a second time, as part of an elaborate plot to smuggle explosives into the airport so that you can blow up the Upper Crust sandwich shop.
It’s not a good look, and neither is the look that Andre has prepared for my gig, so even though I planned to change before the flight, I decide that I’ll do it at Arrivals at Rodeo.
Besides, it would dramatically cut down my drinking time before the flight.
I drink a couple warm domestic beers and then board the plane.
Andre isn’t a skinflint, but he’s booked me a seat in coach. It’s part of being incognito, sitting next to a breast-feeding mom on one side and a dozing ninety-year-old on the other.
That isn’t me being cute, but the details of this immediate situation. Seriously, he’s snoring like a morbidly obese gorilla and I can’t take my eyes off this woman’s breast. I keep snatching glances of it, and I’ve been caught a few times. She’s been nice enough to smile, but it’s only a matter of time before I glance down and find that the little guy is taking a break, exposing the nipple.
When the seatbelt sign goes dark I turn on my telephone and iPad. I planned on researching my cover story, using Google to find out in which area of medicine I’m specializing and general details about studying as one of the elite, but there are two missed calls and one text message.
The SMS is from Jane: “I enjoyed last night. Enchanting Eyes.”
The two missed calls are from my wife. As much as it pains me to phone her, I have to. I’ll need to keep my phone on when undercover, and I don’t need Mrs. Sour Bitch phoning and causing awkward situations. Nothing like an obsessive wife’s phoning to blow your cover. Press the cancel call button on your phone and she’s sure to phone back, and immediately.
I press return call, and breast-feeding mom shoots me a look. Sure, look at my milk-swollen tit all you want, but don’t you dare make a phone call.
“Hi, Jake the Snake,” she says.
I sigh, before saying, “Hi. How long did it take to think of that one?”
“I’ve been waiting to use it for months, but it only took me a couple seconds to think of it.”
“Great.”
“Fuck you, Jake.”
“What? I only said great.”
“It wasn’t in response to what you said. I’ve wanted to say that for months too.”
I don’t reply.
“Jake, are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Why aren’t you talking?”
“It was you who phoned me.”
“So?”
“So it’s traditional that the person who’s requested to talk to the other chooses the topic of discussion.”
“Is this why you phoned me, to check if I’m still wise.”
“Wiseass.”
The ninety-year-old is still snoring, but the breast-feeding mom is getting antsy.
“Where are you?” she asks.
Let me tell you about my wife. She was a girl-next-door type with heavy, natural breasts, but now she’s let herself go; she works as a nurse at a rundown hospital in a low-income area, and sees herself as giving back to the community, which is really just her way of diverting you away from thinking that’s the only hospital that would give her a job; though she’s never been diagnosed, I’m pretty sure she has a severe hormonal imbalance—or she could have been abused as a child. Oh, and the last thing, she doesn’t give a shit about me, which tells me she’s stalling, by asking such a perfunctory question.
“Why do you care?” I ask.
“Are you still doing that crappy job?”
“What’s your definition of a crappy job? Getting paid chump change so that poor people can shit, piss, and vomit on you all day?”
Now the breast-feeding mom is really antsy. I see she’s pressing the button that alerts the flight attendants.
“Fuck you, Jake.”
“We tried that, remember, and you won. How is my house, anyway?”
“Still smells of your armpits. What’s your definition of a good job, finding out if the latest starlet’s husband is fucking their babysitter?”
I take a deep breath. We’re able to go on for hours like this—and have done—but, though it doesn’t seem like it, I don’t enjoy these arguments, as creative as I get. “Seriously, Regan, what do you want?”
Did I forget to mention? Even though she denies it, she’s named after the shittiest president America has ever had, minus one of the As.
Regan starts speaking, but a flight attendant has arrived, so I put my hand over the microphone end and turn my attention towards him. It’s a guy, and in between shooting me scornful glances, I see that he’s snatching glances of the breast-feeding mom’s breast.
“Excuse me, sir. You’re not allowed to make calls while we’re in flight.”
“Seriously, is that still a thing?”
“Seriously,” the breast-feeding mom says.
Both I and the flight attendant look at her, surprised she chimed in.
I say, “Let me just finish up.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“I’m just going to say goodbye. It’s my wife, but even I’m not that much of a monster.”
He rolls his eyes, says, “Go on then.”
I put the phone to my ear, and the breast-feeding mom is seething. The baby hasn’t noticed. “Regan, I have to go.”
As I pull the phone away from my ear, I hear Regan’s voice shout-whispering at me from the small speaker.
I press the end-call button.
We sit in silence awhile. The oldtimer’s snoring stopped sometime during the phone call. Fearing he might have died, I lean in close to try and listen to his breathing. He is.
When I sit back, the breast-feeding mom says, “You didn’t even say goodbye.”
I laugh. I didn’t.
6.
“HOW OLD ARE you, like thirty-five?”
“Nice to meet you, Megan. Though I prefer the greeting hello.”
She doesn’t seem to notice I’ve spoken. Let me tell you right off the bat, Megan’s in the wrong profession. She looks the part—the tits, the nose, and the chin. Now that I’m not looking at a headshot, I can see that there’s definitely something going on with it. I’ve never seen one look so good. But despite her actorish appearance, she has the poker face of a petulant child. She clearly didn’t know that I was coming specifically, nor did she know I’m not some twenty-something.
She gives me a head to toe. Then she says, “Well?”
“I know the clothes aren’t up to much.”
I changed in the arrivals bathroom. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I looked like a blind golfer.
“Not those, though you do look like an old perv dressed up in college slacks, trying to gain access to the freshman ball. Are you thirty-five?”
“Oh, you were specifically asking if I’m thirty-five?”
“Well duh.”
“No. I’m thirty-seven.”
“Oh hell no.” She gets out her phone. Can I expect some childish quip tweeted? “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted that bitch Gerry.”
She tries her best not to look at me while she holds her phone to her ear. I feel an even bigger dork in my bowling shoes and with my college sweater tied around my neck.
“No answer,” she says.
“Well, it was nice meeting you. Enjoy Rodeo for the weekend.” I turn ‘round and head off in the direction from which I came. Takes me a couple steps to realize that I’m heading back to Arrivals.
Megan saves me the embarrassment. “Wait, will you?”
I turn. “What? If I make it back to Hollywood by five I’ll have time to polish my trumpet for Senior Corps band practice tomorrow.”
“I didn’t mean it about how old you look. It’s just, you’re supposed to be in college.”
“Not everyone follows the life path that you see on The O.C.”
Did I just say life path?
“True.”
“There are plenty of older people who decide on changes of career.”
I’m winning her over.
“I suppose. And I do want to find out who my real dad is.”
“Look, I know you’re worried that our cover will be blown. But I’m a pro. I’m a helluva actor, and I’ve got my bio all worked out.”
Truth is, I’m an okay actor. I’m not used to these undercover gigs, so I feel a little bit rusty. But compared to Megan Books here, I’m Denzel Fucking Washington. And the back story, the afternoon’s drinking left me tired, so I had a snooze on the plane. I’d hoped to research more, but my bio will have to comprise of a few nuggets of information from Wikipedia pages.
She appraises my appearance again, and I see why, apart from ostensibly having a father in the industry, she’s gone into the acting biz. She smiles and it transforms her face. And her teeth, like a fresh pair of dentures, just biologically attached.
She says, “I suppose you’ll do.”
“You say ‘suppose’ a lot.”
“I suppose I do.”
She takes me by the hand, leads me out of the airport.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“We need to spend some time together, get to know each other. Get comfortable in each other’s company. Plus, we need to go shopping.”
“What for?”
“Either a bowling ball and bag or a new pair of shoes.”
7.
WE SPEND THE afternoon in a diner called T-Boner. I have to admit, Megan surprises me. She’s got a list of questions prepared, and she drills me while we drink masses of coffee and eat. She’s thought of questions to prepare the background for our whole relationship. How long we’ve been together, where we went on our first date, and what our pet names are for each other. I suggest Honey Cup for her and Grandpa Ben for me for the latter question. Turns out it’s a red herring. “Pet names are for dorky couples in bad movies.”
She’s wrong about that, but I don’t correct her. My wife and I had pet names for each other during the latter years of our marriage. She liked to call me Pedophile Eyes and I liked to call her Bitch Features.
“And you have to think fast on your feet. Remember, my dad—or at least who I thought to be my dad—is a highly trained actor. He can spot a fake a mile off,” she says.
I don’t think the thinking fast will be a problem. Hayley, our dumb-looking twenty-something waitress, has given me five refills. I feel like I’m clenching my teeth together, but it has felt this way for the last hour, so I’m not entirely sure whether I am or not.
“And stop doing that weird thing with your jaw.”
I’m
impressed. Not about noticing the jaw thing. Hayley could’ve spotted that. But about her performance as the female of a couple that’s ready for the boyfriend of five or six months to meet her parents. I feel henpecked and worthless.
“Wait, how are you going to explain why you haven’t spoken about me during the time we’ve been going out?” I ask.
“That’s easy. You’re old, and I’ve been worried about how my dad would react to the fact.”
“I don’t know about that. I don’t look that old.”
“Trust me. You look old enough for it to be believable.”
“Keep the compliments coming my way like that and we’ll be up for an Academy Award.”
She sticks her tongue out at me.
“And maybe keep your tongue inside your face. There’s no way that a mature medical student would go for someone immature enough to do that.”
“My dad’s an actor, but he’s not stupid. He knows why you’re dating me.” She looks down at her cleavage, gives the goods a shake. “You’ve got creepy older guy written all over you.”
Megan seems to think she’s come up with a novel angle for our relationship, but she lives in Massachusetts. In Hollywood, a creepy older guy and a dumb young actress are a clichéd couple.
It strikes me that during our whole conversation, she hasn’t mentioned the complexities of tricking her mom into thinking we’re a couple. “And your mom. Will she buy this?”
Megan shows me that million-dollar smile again. There’s a twinkle in her eye. “We don’t have to worry about Mom.”
8.
“MOM, DAD, THIS is Josh Trenton.”
I smile, but my damn jaw has been straining so much after the coffee, it feels like an imposter on my face.
Charles Books greets me first. He’s got an all-American face, like a cross between an aging quarterback and a seasoned cowboy. He holds out his hand as he says, “Welcome to our home, son. Megan’s told us so much about you.”
We shake hands, and his grip is more delicate than what I expected.
Next is Megan’s mom. I find out immediately why Megan wasn’t worried about her. Her demeanor makes me feel right at home. Which isn’t to say that it’s warm and welcoming. She looks like she’s high on Prozac. Her eyelids are at half-mast, and she doesn’t seem to be looking at me, not directly, but at my right shoulder. It throws me a little, and I make a few jerky movements towards her, half going to hug her, half offering my hand for a handshake. Must be the drugs, because she swoops in for a hug. And God knows why I do it, but I kiss her on one cheek and then the other, like a European.
