by Dan Taylor
As she orders a glass of wine from the bar, I wipe the drool away from my mouth and wait for the keyboardist to stop his solo, and then take over.
And with—you guessed it—‘Lady in Red’.
The band adjusts to the jarring change in music, and I manage to remember the whole song—with the odd bum note—which the crowd doesn’t seem to notice. The opposite happens, in fact. There are smiles of delight. Is this what they call avant-garde?
The gig is inexplicably one song—if you want to call that strange medley a single piece—and I get down from the stage to applause.
I wave, holding my flute in the air, and shake the hands of a few audience members.
I order a beer and lean on the bar, letting my heart settle down, and then start planning how I’m going to seduce Bertha. I get the dreaded feeling of not being on home turf. Of having to woo a woman from a different culture. Maybe they don’t like accidentally charming men who treat them with indifference—my forte. Maybe it’s a whole different ball game here?
There’s only one way to find out. I take a deep breath, leaving my flute on the bar as I walk over to Bertha, who’s standing alone, but who doesn’t look self-conscious of it.
She spots me coming, glancing a few times in between taking in the jazz club with refined, unconscious indifference.
I don’t know what line I planned on using, or if I planned on using one at all. Maybe it was Old Hancock’s arrogance getting the better of him, despite my drought. Or maybe I’m just surprised that she speaks to me first, uttering with a coolness, “I like the way you blow.”
But what I didn’t plan on was stuttering, my tongue all dry and getting stuck to the roof of my mouth before blurting out the first word that comes to mind. And not a good or even relevant word, at that: “Margaritas!”
29.
“WHAT DID YOU say?” she asks.
I think, Oh fuck off! before getting my cool. Then I say, “I said, ‘Pangritas.’ It’s Ecuadorian for thank you.”
She looks at me strangely. “No, gracias is Ecuadorian for thank you.”
I inspect dirt underneath one of my fingernails as a smile grows on her face. Then she says, “I get it now. You were being ironic, playing on the American stereotype of possessing bad geographical knowledge and an ineptness when it comes to foreign languages.”
“That…I did that.”
We share an awkward smile and then I lose her interest. One thing’s for sure. This woman is way more intelligent than me. Or is that I? I’m all out of sorts.
I decide to come clean. “Look, I said, ‘Margaritas,’ when I came over. It was my clumsy way of asking you if you’d like to have a drink with me. What you said before, I have no idea what that means, and I certainly didn’t intend it. Whatever it was.”
She raises an eyebrow. “So you really are just a dumb American. There was no pretense at all.”
“I really am just a dumb American.”
“Then I’m pleased to meet you…”
“Kent, Kent Smoothwaters.”
She throws her head back, laughs. “You can’t really expect me to believe that’s your name.”
“I don’t expect that at all. That’s a stage name.”
“Okay, now you’re being ironic. I like that. You don’t take yourself seriously as an artist. Most of the men that get up on that stage I think pleasure themselves while in the mirror. I don’t get the impression you do that at all.”
“No, you can go ahead and assume I don’t do that.”
She laughs again. “Don’t take everything I say so literally. That was a metaphor. I said you’re not a pretentious naval gazer.”
“I have no idea what that is, so I don’t think I can be it. Does that make sense?”
“It does. So, what’s your real name, if Kent Smoothwaters is a stage name?”
“Cooper. Cooper James.”
“So it’s like that, is it?”
“What do you mean?”
She laughs. “That’s not your real name, either.”
I come clean. “How did you know?”
“Most men don’t have to think for a couple of seconds about their name. So what’s the deal with you, Coop? What is it you’re hiding?”
I have no idea if this is going south or if I’m making headway. The only way to think is the latter. And only the man who dares wins.
I say, “I’m married.”
She looks down at my ring finger. “You’re not wearing a ring.”
“That’s because I dropped it in the can when I took it off before coming to the club.”
She chortles. “You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”
“Oh, I do. I was taking it off so that I could possibly deceive a beautiful lady into thinking I wasn’t married.”
She leans in close, whispers, “And why would you do that?”
“It wasn’t to lure a woman into bed, if that’s what you’re implying.” I find a spot at the back of the room and gaze at it, smiling as I think about the ol’ ball and chain back home. “My wife busts my balls, but I love her nonetheless.”
“I like that in a man.”
“What, the ability to take a henpecking every day?”
“No, honesty, even if it means his messing up getting lucky tonight.”
I hold my hands up, holding my beer in one hand. “I didn’t even know that’s what I was doing. So how could I—”
“Know what you were doing?”
“Right.”
She takes a sip of wine as she peers over the rim of the glass at me. “So why did you take it off?”
“Because I wanted to have a natural conversation with a woman, and that meant her not knowing that I was married.”
She furrows her brow. “I don’t understand the logic of that.”
“Is this a natural conversation?”
She thinks a second, then smiles. “It feels it, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it is. Did you engineer this conversation? You choose an unbelievable name, admit that you’re married, and then I drop my panties because of your honesty?”
“No. You know what I think you’re doing?”
“Ooh, now I’m intrigued.”
“I think you’re busting my balls, because you think that’s what I like.”
She laughs. “And why would I want to act the way I think you like?”
“Because you want me to drop my panties tonight.”
She laughs, and naturally for the first time. How do I know? She laughed like Janice from Friends. Only worse, it sounds like a litter of weaning piglets is being scorched with a flamethrower.
I wince at the point she closes her eyes mid-laugh.
When she’s stopped laughing, she says, “So let’s give each other the benefit of the doubt. Start afresh.” She holds out her hand. “Nice to meet you, I’m Bertha Handvinkle. And you are…?”
“Kent Smoothwaters.”
She raises an eyebrow as she’s still holding her hand out.
I explain, “My grandpappy used that as his stage name when he toured the East Coast as one part of a jazz trio. So I changed my name legally to that, in memory of him. And we shake hands like this in America.” I close her hand into a fist, and give her an awkward fist bump. “Okay, now I was doing that thing you said before. The stereotype thing.”
“So are you acting the way you think I want you to act?”
I pause for effect, wink. “Baby, I can act anyway you want me to.”
Those poor piglets.
It’s going well, so I decide to go to the bathroom before I fuck things up.
She warns me against running off, and I salute her, go get my flute off the bar, then go.
When I come back from the bathroom, I look over at where we were standing, find that she isn’t there. There’s a moment of panic as I look around, and then I find her sitting in a dark corner, her back to me.
I walk up to the table, and smile when I see what are standing on the table: two margaritas.
She raises an eyebrow as she lifts one of the glasses to her lips, takes a slow sip, her lips bunching up as though she’s kissing the glass. After she licks the salt away from her lips with a suggestive tongue swipe, she says, “This doesn’t mean I’m going to fuck you tonight. The cocktails.”
I take a seat. Take a sip myself. Raise the glass and nod in approval. Then I say, “Even if you wanted to, I would say no.”
“So, we got that out of the way. What do you want to do now?”
I think a second. “I’m tiring of listening to jazz. What do you say to finishing these and taking me on a guided tour?”
“So you like sightseeing?”
“No, I hate it. But I reckon with you it would be fun.”
“And why do you think that?”
“Because you’re a beautiful lady.”
She takes a sip. “Do you want me to say that you’re handsome in return?”
“Nah.”
“I feel like I’m playing right into your hands, but I’ll ask anyway. Why wouldn’t you like to hear it?”
“I’m tired of hearing it. This is the bit when you tilt your head back and laugh, and then say in that silky voice of yours ‘I like arrogance in a man.’”
“So you like to guess what my next move will be?” She raises an eyebrow. “I was actually going to say, ‘You have nice features, except for the mustache. I don’t care for that.’”
“Really? You don’t think it breaks up what would otherwise be an overly elongated face?”
“I think it makes you look dishonest and pretentious, which you’ve shown yourself not to be. At least this version of you, the one talking to me right now.”
“A bit of hair says all that?”
She leans in close. “It’s amazing what a patch of hair can say.”
I think to myself, Oh boy!
30.
I KNOW WHAT you’re thinking: It can’t be that easy, can it?
And you’re right to think that.
It never is.
Actually, that’s not strictly true. Six months ago, in return for her helping me while I was in a sticky situation, I let Kate Cans—a Glendale twenty-something I had gone on a few dates with—host a party in my apartment for all her girlfriends. The catch was I had to be there to, you know, supervise my apartment while they partied, making sure my vases didn’t get broken and someone didn’t make a drunk, teary two-hour phone call to her mom in Texas or someplace long distance, running up a huge bill. For one night, and the early hours of the next day, I had an apartment full of drunk socialites, who were just clawing at the walls to meet the man who owned such a classy place. After I’d gotten over the damage being done to my floor from drunk women parading around in stilettos, and over the occasional splash of White Zinfandel on one of my rugs as one of the ladies laughed at something stupid and not remotely funny, I had a blast. I maneuvered some of the less attractive ones out, by whispering to them that the party had finished and calling them cabs, but held on to the smoking-hot ones.
After entertaining them with conversation for half an hour or so, I checked their IDs, and that was that.
I don’t want to be crude, so I’ll just say a word that sounds a lot like what happened: smear-some.
Oh, and none of my vases got broken, if you were worried about that.
Something tells me tonight is going to take a little bit more sophistication than telling a few vapid, name-dropping anecdotes about my life as a P.I. to the stars. At least if the way the sightseeing is going is any indication.
She seems to have sunk into a pensive mood. There’s something on her mind, but she’s not saying what.
I show my sensitive side by grabbing her by the arm and swinging her around to face me, then say, “There’s something on your tits. I mean, I’d like to probe your—”
She slaps me. “Kent!”
“Ow!” I bring my hand to my face. “I meant to say chest.”
She slaps me again, but the other cheek, this time.
“What was that one for?”
She puts her hands on her hips. “You want to probe my chest?”
“Mind…probe your mind. And I meant to say, ‘There’s something on your chest.’”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“No problem.” My cheek feels like someone’s rubbed distilled Carolina Reaper chili pepper juice on it. “But the slapping, though…You should probably let a man finish before you try and remove a layer of skin from his cheek with the palm of your hand.”
“Again, I apologize.”
She’s not committing to the apology. In fact, she’s acting a little sassy about it. As though I deserved a full-on man-slap. I have to admit, it’s kind of turning me on.
I say, “Will you at least tell me what’s on your mind? I think I earned it.”
She sighs, then says, “You’re not really a jazz musician, are you?”
“You’re right. I’m not a proper jazz musician.”
“I knew it!”
“Hold on now. I’m trying, but I just don’t have it in me. Was it that obvious tonight?”
“When I first walked in, I thought someone was farting into a recorder.”
“Ouch!”
I don’t believe for a second that’s what’s been troubling her.
“Oh Kent, you must have known you sounded bad.”
“I didn’t, but I know when I’m being patronized.”
She laughs and points at me, covering her mouth as she does. I go red, shake my head. Conveniently, she says, “So how did you get the gig tonight?”
“Have you heard of a guy called Herb James?”
“Of course I have!”
“He swung it for me. I’m a regular down at his club. I wanted a vacation to Europe, and he suggested I come and play a number here. After I agreed, he phoned ahead and pulled some strings.”
“I can buy that.”
“You should, because it’s the truth.”
She thinks a second. “When you played ‘Lady in Red,’ was that for me?”
“Would it increase my chances of being able to kiss you tonight if I said it was, or would you think that it was a bit creepy?”
“Definitely creepy.”
“Then it definitely wasn’t for you.”
She laughs, then there’s one of those moments when a man and woman lock eyes—the dude thinking about what she’d look like naked, the broad thinking if the dude has enough in his bank account to afford her dream wedding. And then we kiss.
Mid-kiss, she pulls away, and then slaps me.
I ask, “What was that for?”
But she’s already running away, deep into a city I know little about.
I sigh, then look around, realizing I don’t have a clue where I am.
See, it’s never that easy.
31.
AFTER FINDING MY way back to the hotel, I phone Gerry.
“Gerry, hi!”
“Okay, what went wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
“You always use that tone of voice when something’s gone awry.”
“Awry? And what tone of voice?”
“Yeah, wrong.”
“Why didn’t you just say wrong again?”
“I didn’t want the language to be repetitive.”
“Like this?”
“You’re stalling, yet another indication tonight didn’t go to plan. What happened?”
“Well, we got on like a house on fire—”
“And…”
“And then she took me sightseeing—”
“And…”
“And then we kissed—”
“And…”
“Will you just let me finish?”
She’s silent.
“Thanks. Mid-kiss, she slapped my face and ran away.”
“Please tell me you got her phone number or an address before she ran away.”
“Yeah…about that.”
“Oh fuck off!”
I can hear what sounds like a
chainsaw cutting through furniture, so I pull the phone away from my ear and wince.
After a minute or so of this, it stops, and then Gerry’s back on the line.
“Jake?”
“Still here. It sounded like you might have been massacring your dining room set with a chainsaw. What the hell was that?”
“Sorry, it’s my day off. I’m watching a horror movie.”
“Why didn’t I hear it before?”
“I took my shoe off and threw it at the coffee table, accidentally hitting the play button on the remote.”
“Wow. That seems unlikely.”
“So, I’ve calmed down now. Please tell me you’ve thought of a solution to this Bertha Handvinkle situation.”
“I was kind of hoping you’d be able to think of one.”
The chainsaw starts up again. Goes on for thirty seconds or so.
“Jake?”
“Still here. What happened that time?”
“I used my other shoe.”
“And hit it again? What are the odds?”
She sighs. “No, I beat the remote with it this time, purposefully hitting the play button.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s rewind a little. You managed to charm her in that accidental way of yours?”
“Yeah.”
“She invited you out sightseeing?”
“Well, I kind of invited her out.”
“Then you kissed her at the opportune time, after the eyes-locking moment?”
“Yeah.”
“And then she just slapped you? Just like that?”
“Like what?”
“I snapped my fingers.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re leaving something out. You didn’t try and fondle her chest or something else?”
“My hands were on her hips.”
“See, that’s where you went wrong. They should’ve been going through her hair passionately, or cupping her jaw line. On the hips is a total high school prom move.”
“I think you’re reading too much into it. I think there was something on her mind. Like it was that time of the—”
“Don’t say it!”
“What? I was going to say, ‘…that time of the…night when she’s least likely to succumb to the charms of a tourist.’”
“Nice save!” She sighs. “Well, now we’re royally fucked.”
