I'm with Stupid (8 page)

As soon as we sit down Manuel arrives to claim the vacant spot next to Libby. “Good evening,” he offers. He is carrying an oblong-shaped wooden box, as well as a gallon-size jug of alcohol, which he sets in front of her. An offering. He stares at his chair, clears his throat, and looks over at William expectantly. William jumps up, walks to the other side of the table, and pulls out Manuel’s chair for him. Manuel nods approvingly before sitting down. He opens the wooden box using a tiny gold key. Inside there is a long-stemmed wineglass and a gold knife-and-fork set with matching porcelain handles onto which flowers have been hand-painted. He brought his own gilded cutlery? He brought his own gilded cutlery. “Did you enjoy the game drive?” he asks his reluctant love interest while returning the gold key to his breast pocket (the orchid that was there earlier has been replaced with a white lily). When she tells him it was “all right” he points to the bottle. “I brought this for you,” he says. Libby looks away. She doesn’t want William to think she’s interested in Manuel. “Aren’t you going to ask what it is?” Libby answers no. This does not faze Manuel, who tells her what it is anyway. “This,” he explains, “is a native blend called Winta. It is renowned as an aphrodisiac. The African name means”—he pauses for emphasis—“desire.”

Max spits his wine. William looks concerned. I ask Manuel if he’s old enough to drink. Boy wonder looks at me for the first time. He declares that he is a man. He is seventeen.

Max puts down his glass. “Libby here is knocking on death’s door,” he says. “She’s not even young enough to be your babysitter’s great-aunt.” Libby tells him to keep it to himself and looks nervously in William’s direction (oh no! has he figured out that she’s not twenty-three?). Max assures her he’s only trying to help. I know what he’s trying to help himself to. Manuel quickly decides that “age is a state of mind.” I tap my knife against my palm and remind him that so is insanity. William smiles at me and I smile back at him because I am very funny. Boy, this vacation is fun! I look around the table. No one else looks amused, certainly not Manuel, who turns his full attention to the woman of his dreams.

“Libby, do you know how to prepare authentic Latin cuisine?” he asks after mentioning that he’s always been attracted to older women. He goes on to explain that when he is not studying the classics with his tutor, he is eating and nibbling and savoring—he’s a regular gourmand, whatever that means. Latin cuisine is his favorite but he’s tried it all: snake, eel, rat, even panda, which he claims tastes like koala when seasoned with saffron, shallot, and a teaspoon of Himalayan goat’s milk (a slice of chayote garnish is optional, as is the glass of vintage claret).

William suppresses a gasp upon hearing that Manuel eats koala. Libby just stares into space. Her eyes are crossing. “It does not matter,” Manuel finally says. “We have servants to do that. I was merely curious to know how you enjoy keeping life’s supreme blessing—time.” Max, who’s still annoyed with Manuel for suggesting that he’s not attractive, blurts that she doesn’t want to spend it eating pandas. “Shouldn’t you be with your parents?” he adds. “I’m sure they’re worried about you.”

I pile food onto my plate. I’m going to eat enough (of the meatless dishes) for everyone.

“My parents are not worried about me,” Manuel answers. “I am a grown man. They entrust me with everything.”

Max tears a piece of bread in two and sticks the larger piece in his mouth. “Is that right?” he says, turning the food over slowly like a bored cow.

“That is correct,” Manuel stiffly says, then turns to Libby: “I am the heir to my father’s fortune. I will be a rich man in two months’ time.” I ask Manuel what will happen in two months’ time. “In two months I will take control of the tube sock factory,” he says. This gets everyone’s attention, including Libby’s. She asks what he’s talking about. Manuel treats the question as foreplay. It’s time for desire, perhaps premature ejaculation. He elaborates: “We own the largest and most profitable tube sock factory in Mexico City. It is a very lucrative business.”

“Tube socks?” I ask. I can hear Max laughing. “Tube socks,” Manuel confirms. “I wear them every day but never the same pair twice.” I take a peek under the table. Between Manuel’s pant cuff and his beautiful (I can only imagine Italian leather) shoe, I see the fashion mistake of the century—a white gym sock.

William seems intrigued: “You never wear the same pair of tube socks twice?”

“Never.” Manuel shakes his head. “I wear a pair once and immediately dispose of it. Socks are nothing to me, like toilet paper.” I take a moment to consider this. Fascinating. Manuel agrees. He turns to Libby: “I want to know everything about you, starting with your birth.”

“I don’t remember my birth,” she says.

“Tell me, then, what is your first memory,” he presses.

“Babe, I don’t remember my first memory,” she responds.

“Then what is your favorite memory?” he asks. She shrugs: She’s not sure. Manuel looks around the table before pushing away his still-empty plate: “My first memory is indelible—”

“Good for you,” Max interrupts. “We’ll call you collect if we ever feel the need to hear it.”

Manuel continues: “I was sitting on my father’s shoulders when—” Max asks when this was? Last week? Manuel pauses and closes his eyes. “I will not dignify that with an answer,” he says and reopens them. I look over at Libby. She closes her eyes and keeps them closed. She has no dignity. “My first memory is most cherished,” Manuel continues. “I was sitting on my father’s shoulders . . .” Max raises his hand to signal that he has a question. Fat chance. “. . . when I heard my father speak the words that would go on to change the rest of my life. My father said, ‘Manuel Narciso Lorenzo Hernandez y Sanchez, my namesake, my precious only son, all of this will one day be yours.’ ” Libby’s head is now on the table. She weakly asks if we’re talking about the tube sock factory again. Pretty soon there will be a pool of drool to wipe. Manuel nods: “We were in a field adjacent to the tube sock factory. He said, ‘Manuel, all of this will one day be you—’ ”

“We heard you the first time,” Max assures him with a sneer.

Manuel nods again, as if someone asked a question: “It is a risky business, more dangerous than that of a beekeeper. I travel in a customized Rolls-Royce with bulletproof windows. I have my own chauffeur.”

William looks enraptured: “You have your own chauffeur?” he asks. I can’t tell if he’s just being polite. It is his job, after all. I should remind him that Manuel has to have a chauffeur because he can’t reach the pedals.

“I have my own chauffeur, of course,” Manuel says. “He is a humble man. A simpleton with a heart of gold . . .”

Manuel is too busy yapping to notice his mother, who approaches him from behind and says something in harsh-sounding Spanish. Manuel flinches at the sound of her voice. Before he can get up she pulls him up by the ear. “A pressing matter demands my attention,” he says to Libby with a pained look as his mother squeezes his earlobe between two fingers, draining it of color. I notice that when Manuel’s mother is upset with him his whole countenance changes to that of a weepy child. He begs his mother to let go of the ear. When she finally does, he gathers up his belongings and bows dramatically. “Please excuse me,” he offers, regaining a measure of nobility. The bow is quite impressive, actually. Manuel’s knees are touching his face at one point. He should become a personal trainer. “I will see you at dawn for the game drive,” he assures Libby before turning on his heel. I rest the bottle on its side and slide it toward her. I advise her to drink the aphrodisiac: She’s gonna need all the help she can get. William smiles at me. Did I mention how much I loooove my free vacation?

My eyes open at four o’clock the next morning. Jet lag, nice to meet you. I push the mosquito netting aside and get out of bed. I wash my face and throw on the usual T-shirt and jeans. I look out the window. Black. I take my pack of cigarettes off the nightstand and step onto the porch barefoot. Barefoot. When’s the last time I went outside without shoes? After lighting my cigarette, I take a seat and stare into the night. An hour or so later, when the sun begins to come up and the world reappears, I stand and stretch. Maybe I’ll go wake Libby and Max—or just Max. Libby will want to sleep till sundown. But when I look in the direction of their chalets I find that they are already quietly sitting on their respective porches.

At 6 a.m. we climb into William’s safari truck. As Manuel’s parents snap pictures of zebras, giraffes, hippos, and rhinos, and leopards lying on tree branches, he force-feeds Libby more information about the family business while looking down her shirt. I’m surprised he isn’t carrying his checkbook or a flowchart illustrating his mounting earnings. When he’s not bragging to Libby’s boobs about his financial situation, he’s bragging about the life his financial situation affords:

“Libby, have you ever attempted the beguine?” he asks. “It is a favorite dance on the island of Saint Lucia, where I spent my fifteenth birthday . . . Libby, have you ever sung traditional Neapolitan songs comparing love to the cruel force of the Tyrrhenian Sea? I would like to introduce you to Naples, where we own a villa . . . Libby, have you ever confided your earthly torments to a sultan counting ingots near a riverbed in Turkey? I have, and we shared so much. I would like to buy you a diamond ring to match the one worn by the sultan’s fifth wife . . .”

Libby, Max, and I do our best to ignore him. We have a day and a half of William ogling left and don’t intend to squander it. Every time William smiles, we smile wider—whether he’s getting out of the truck to examine tracks in the dirt so he can assess in which direction some animal is moving or pointing at the trees while saying things like, “Look! Lilac-breasted rollers! This must mean there are elephants nearby!”

After the morning game drive William announces that he will be taking guests on a noon nature walk. He asks if anyone from our group is interested. Manuel’s parents decline the offer. Another argument erupts; Manuel sulks. They hurry off; Libby breathes a sigh of relief. Of course we agree to participate in the nature walk. We don’t even have to look at one another—we’re ready to walk all the livelong day. This is William we’re talking about. He could throw me into the mouth of a rhino and, as long as he was doing it himself, hopefully feeling me up in the process, I probably wouldn’t put up a fight. We agree to meet at the entrance in two hours.

William is already waiting with a group of six guests when we arrive. He is holding a rifle and wearing a belt of bullets around his waist. Love that cute little waist. What are the bullets for, teddy bear? He arranges us around him and stands with his legs slightly apart. The rifle is like a second penis. Oh my. William informs us that we are going to be walking in a restricted area. He has to carry the gun in case we see any animals.

“To protect us from danger?” Max asks.

Exactly right.

“I feel safe,” Libby irrationally blurts.

That’s the point.

Max smirks: “Is it loaded, the gun I mean?”

William tells him that there is one bullet in the barrel. Max wonders aloud if this is enough. He suggests that William bring a few more rifles and offers to go with him. Maybe they’re kept in his bed. As he wastes everyone’s time posing a number of less-than-plausible scenarios—I mean what if the gun accidentally misfires and then, when we are out of bullet, we see a dragon? Would William have to beat it over the head with the rifle?—the guests look on quizzically. Max is oblivious. He points to the belt of rifle bullets around William’s waist. “You know what I mean?” he asks. “Because I see that you have the bullets attached to you somehow”—he makes a looping motion with his finger—“and I was just wondering if you would need to . . .”

Take off your pants?

“. . . take out the bullets one by one to load the gun in case of an emergency. That might take some time. Our lives are precious.” Only I know that by “our lives” he means his life and William’s. He points to Libby and adds that he hardly knows her.

I tilt my head back. The sun is bright and I’m not much of a sun worshipper. I can’t lie on a beach for more than half an hour without getting a splitting headache. After a while I start losing my grip on reality . . . I should have brought a hat. I tell Max to wrap up the Q and A. I assure him that I can throw the bullets myself if it comes to that. Upon hearing this Max thrusts his thumb in my direction: “She sure is something, isn’t she?” he says to William. “Doesn’t give a damn about public safety.”

William squeezes the rifle’s handle (he must be so sick of us) and addresses the group, most of whom we have not seen before. They look confused and hot. One guy, with his hanging, pasty flesh and double chin, resembles an ice cream cone that’s been left on a windowsill in the sun. William leans against his second penis—careful!—and says that he’ll need all of us to walk in a single-file line behind him.

“I’ll be first,” Libby says.

“No you won’t,” Max shouts. “I already volunteered.”

“No you didn’t,” she protests in frustration.

I wipe sweat from my forehead. Why is Libby not complaining? She’s usually my inspiration. “You must have not heard him,” I say to Libby. I really need that hat.

“Thank you,” Max says to me, then turns to Libby: “See? She heard me.”

Libby gives me a look; I shrug.

William begins talking directly to me: “Now, if you see me give the signal . . .” I impulsively give William the middle finger. Okay, so I’m flirting a little, too, albeit in my own delicate way. He raises an eyebrow. “Not that kind of signal,” he says with what seems a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. A woman in a Hawaiian shirt, meanwhile, begins taking his picture. I know, lady, I know, just one for the fridge. Her annoyed husband takes the camera out of her hand when she starts behaving like a
Playboy
photographer, bending at the knee to snap him from every angle. “When I give this signal”—William throws up the universal gang sign for
stop
—“you must stop. That means I’ve seen something.”

“I’ll be sure to stop on command,” Max says.