Alligators in the Trees (33 page)

At first, she felt disappointed. But slowly a change began to take place. The corners of her mouth edged upward, forming a smile that owed its origins to an unshakable self-knowledge. She grasped the pen and sat poised, waiting for further enlightenment. But the only instruction she received from her brain was to take another sip.

It was a moderate sip, one calculated not to disturb her perfectly honed mental state. She let the whiskey linger on her tongue, enjoying the taste she had first found harsh. She set the glass down and gazed at it affectionately. She had it, by God, right there in her mind’s eye. She saw the truth of what she sought as a whole piece of information, multi-faceted and Technicolor, as if seen through a kaleidoscope.

The definitive answer was this: four sips of a well-mixed cocktail allowed one to view life in an unbiased state of mind. It had temporarily suspended the beliefs and sentiments of Priscilla Louise Vanderpool and allowed her to appreciate life’s intricacies with a Zen-like openness.

For instance, she now saw her fellow patrons not as sad, lonely drunks, but as individuals who had known for longer than she the calming and meditative effects of a good drink. She glanced around the room and saw the vulnerability and bravery of these individuals, where before she had suspected weakness. How could she know what trials and tribulations they had each endured, only to end up relying on shallow barroom camaraderie to fill their nights?

The bartender, whom she had initially written off as somewhat pathetically marking the last years of his life, listening to the sordid and trivial tales of his clientele, now seemed to her magically patient and non-judgmental.

There was something to be learned from these people, her fellow human beings, something she had grossly overlooked in the past. The lesson was this: don’t be so quick to judge. And what applied to these folks surely applied to others in her life for whom she had not bothered to look beyond the surface.

Naturally, Phil came to mind. But that was too easy; it didn’t take threading the cocktail needle to understand she had previously discounted his value. But she didn’t want to think about Phil just then. No, she wanted to put this new focusing device to a harder test. Frank: now there was a challenge.

She sat back, arms folded across her chest as she imagined Frank standing right in front of her, filthy apron and crooked paper cook’s hat. Okay, she had to give him credit for the language barrier. It had to be hard, being in his shoes.

If the tables had been turned, she doubted she could learn a foreign tongue half as well as he had. Still, no matter how difficult it was to blend into unfamiliar surroundings, she could never imagine herself being such a tyrant. But then again, it could just be a cultural thing.

Having debated Frank’s shortcomings and finding him to be merely human, Priscilla rewarded herself with another sip. She was enjoying this little game of hers, an internal spin the bottle. She closed her eyes and took another stab at it. Instantly, the face of Tobias Jordan popped into her head and she relished the chance of getting an unbiased take on him.

Well for starters, she might have been expecting too much from him. Just because he sat in her station a few times didn’t mean they had any kind of bond. So he happened to be the only famous person she had allowed herself to fantasize about; he had no way of knowing that. He had not taken part in the imaginary conversations she’d had with him about music, life, love. He could not be expected to behave the way he had in her fantasy.

Priscilla reached for her cocktail and drank immoderately, leaving just a large swallow in the pointed bottom of the glass. She exhaled deeply, as though she were trying to expel her humiliation. It was embarrassing to admit she resented Tobias Jordan, and only because he hadn’t looked at her that first day in Frank’s and recognized her as his soul mate. She was no better than the average groupie, building him up in her head that way.

No wonder the guy acted so strange and antsy; he never knew which female was going to lay claim to him. She couldn’t blame him for being so cold to her. But if that were the case, if he had erected a barrier to protect himself against delusional women like her, what could have possibly motivated him to come looking for her? She drained her drink and signaled for another.

Priscilla watched with anticipation as the bartender placed her second Manhattan in front of her. By this time, she was so intent on examining Tobias Jordan’s bizarre behavior toward her, she had lost sight of her scientific experiment.

She took a dainty sip of the liquid amber cocktail. She smiled to herself, believing erroneously that she was still in the rarified realm where she could unravel life’s riddles with piercing clarity.

The truth was she had merely shifted downward to the level of intoxication that skews one’s perception, buoys one’s self-esteem without proof of worthiness and fosters unrealistic expectations. Nevertheless, she continued her in-depth evaluation of the events that had haunted her for the last several days.

If Tobias Jordan had been looking for her, she reasoned unsteadily, what had been his purpose? He had no clue she wrote lyrics, so he couldn’t have come looking for what he had ultimately taken away.

And what could’ve possibly provoked him to
buy
all her lyrics, lavishly offering her
fifteen thousand dollars
for the dubious privilege of hauling her millstone across town? It was a mystery she wouldn’t be able to fathom if she lived a hundred years. She shook her head and took another sip.

Could there be, after all, a connection between Tobias Jordan and her that the rocker could not deny? Could he have been fighting the pull of their chemistry out of habit and the need for anonymity?

Priscilla gazed down into her glass. She plucked the cherry out by the stem and plopped it whole into her mouth. Sweet, sickeningly sweet, but oddly satisfying as well, like dragging one’s finger along the side of a wedding cake, snatching a taste of the forbidden frosting that never tasted quite as good as it looked. This fantasy of what Tobias Jordan’s actions meant was of the exact same nature; enticing, but impossible for a hard-boiled realist like her to take seriously.

As she was on the subject of men and their puzzling conduct—
and they complain that women are hard to figure out!
—she couldn’t help but take another critical look at Phil. If she was supposed to take him at his word, then he was plain out of his mind in love with her. More likely just infatuated, and only because he had been propelled toward his wife’s polar opposite by her cold-hearted rejection.

Priscilla didn’t doubt for a moment Phil would drop to his knees in elation and gratitude if his wife told him she had changed her mind and wanted him to come back to her. And now that The Phoenix and Phil’s career were poised for a reprieve, what could be more natural than reconciliation?

The woman in all those society page photos was no dummy; she certainly realized whatever she hoped to get out of a bankrupt Phil was far less than she could get by staying with him through more good times. Unless, of course, she had taken up with another lover already. Priscilla smiled to herself, a catty, malevolent smile, a devious grin that only jealousy could inspire.

All right, she was big enough to admit that she was intimidated by Phil’s wife. It was one of the reasons she had never been willing to take Phil’s overtures seriously. The woman was gorgeous and sophisticated, and obviously made for a guy like Philip Glessner, architect extraordinaire.

It was almost insulting that Phil would parody her by claiming to be interested in her. Maybe she resembled a high school classmate from the wrong side of the tracks who he had a secret crush on for years.

Maybe she represented not only a break from the world that had betrayed him, but perhaps he also felt as though he were performing a charitable act. Wasn’t that how those straight-laced, good-to-the-bone people thought? When one was feeling down, nothing warmed the cockles of their solid gold hearts like showing kindness to the downtrodden. The notion of being Phil’s charity case sickened her. She almost wished she had never met him.

Priscilla reached for her glass and was shocked to find she had killed nearly two Manhattans in less than an hour. With horror she realized her pen and notebook were laying untouched, no new words of wisdom inscribed on the ruled page. She wracked her brain trying to recapture those fleeting insights, the pearls of truth that had seemed so compelling just minutes earlier.

Uh…a small amount of alcohol allows a person to see with unbiased clarity…
She stared at the blank page, willing her hand to record some earth-shaking revelations. But the hand lay stubbornly unresponsive.

Damn,
she thought, as she grappled with her failure to catch the tiger by the tail. She had felt so certain she was on to something concrete and irrefutable this time. How could she have let it slip by again? Why couldn’t she have held her concentration long enough to nail this quest, once and for all?

With growing self-loathing, Priscilla watched in confusion as the bartender slid another Manhattan toward her. Was she so out of it that she couldn’t remember ordering a third drink? She needed another drink like she needed another man to think about.

“From the gentleman at the end of the bar,” the bartender said in answer to Priscilla’s puzzled expression. They both turned in unison toward a curly-headed man in his late thirties, smug in his loden-green corduroy jacket and his high-school teacher sensibilities. He gave her an ingratiating smirk, one that caused the Kung Pao Shrimp to dance upwards in a threatening manner. The bartender left her to deal with her quandary as he freshened a scotch and soda at the other end of the bar.

Priscilla pushed the nearly empty martini glass away, appalled at having two cocktail glasses in front of her. What had she been thinking, drinking with abandon in a place like this, with all the other wretched souls, friendless and pathetic? What made her think she would end up any better than the people around her? Did she have friends and family to see her through her old age? Did she have prospects for a normal life, with a husband, kids and a golden retriever?

Hell no. Normal was definitely not in her future. This is what she had to look forward to, wasting her time and money in anonymous watering holes for pitiful misfits. Why, she hadn’t even managed to get a song down on paper. The whole episode had been a complete waste of time. She should’ve gone back to her hotel room and laid low for the night.

But no, she couldn’t stand the thought of sitting in her room, all alone, watching time creep by. If she had gotten to the stage in her life where she couldn’t bear the thought of her own company for one lousy night, she was in big trouble.

Rather than further depress herself with visions of similarly dismal evenings in the Florida Keys, Priscilla stashed her belongings and pulled two tens out of her purse and laid them on the bar. The bartender appeared, suspicious look on his face.

“That’ll be twenty-six dollars for the two call Manhattans,” he said, his body language making her for a deadbeat stiff. Priscilla started at the outrage of charging uptown prices in such a shabby hole. Reluctantly, she reached into her wallet and pulled out another ten and pushed it across the bar.

“Thanks,” he said, in a less than cordial tone, as he removed her untouched drink and tossed the contents unceremoniously into the sink. Priscilla slung her bag over her shoulder and slid off the barstool.

She was in the middle of sending a wave of bad vibes to the surly bartender when she nearly collided with her latest admirer. Up close, he was even less appealing than she had first suspected. He laughed in a casual, off-hand manner, treating her to crooked yellow teeth and foul breath.

“You’re not leaving?” he asked in a tone that was meant to be seductive.

“Yeah,” Priscilla replied, stepping sideways to dodge his powerful halitosis.

“But the night’s still young. Besides, we haven’t been properly introduced yet,” the man went on, oblivious to Priscilla’s repulsion. “Albert Stubbens,” he said, offering his hand, which she glared at until it finally retreated from sight.

“Why don’t we have a seat over there where we can talk? I’ll buy you another drink and maybe you’ll tell me your name and why a beautiful girl like you is sitting all alone in a place like this.”

She stared in mild disbelief. She had not given him a single word of encouragement, yet he seemed completely undaunted by her lack of enthusiasm. It was as if he were a wind up doll, programmed to spout an endless stream of barroom pickup lines. She was surprised he hadn’t asked her what her sign was.

“I have to go,” she said.

He deftly stepped in front of her, blocking her path. “You’re not being fair to yourself here. All I want is a chance for us to talk and get to know each other.” Priscilla regarded him warily, wondering if there was a backdoor she could run out. “Can’t you at least tell me your name? Surely you owe me that much,” he said with an offended huff.

“Look, I’m not interested in getting to know you. So please just get out of my way,” she said, starring him down. He stiffened and took a half step backward. Priscilla sighed with relief and pushed past him. Shocked by the grope she received, she swung her bag at him reflexively. If she had taken the time to aim, she would’ve taken his head off.

“Jesus Christ!” the man wailed indignantly, taking the blow with his shoulder. “What’d you do that for?” he yelped.

“Don’t you ever lay your miserable hand on me again, you understand?”
Priscilla warned through clenched teeth. By now, the commotion had attracted the attention of everyone one around them.

“What’s the problem here?” the bartender asked.

“This lady hauled off and slugged me for no reason,” bad breath said, feigning complete innocence. Priscilla started to protest, but immediately saw the futility of debating bad conduct in front of a jury of his peers. She glared at him hotly for a second before turning toward the door.

“Hold on a minute, lady—I think you owe the man an apology,” the bartender called out, his voice high with righteous indignation.

“I don’t believe this,” Priscilla said, turning around to face the maligning men.

“All I was trying to do was be friendly to a stranger,” corduroy jacket said for the benefit of his compadres.

“You hit a guy ‘cause he buys you a drink?” the bartender asked scornfully, instantly winning the support of the professional barflies.

“The drink was one thing. The hand on the ass was quite another,” Priscilla said coldly, her eyes boring a hole into her accuser.

“I didn’t touch her, I swear,” the man simpered pathetically. It was enough to turn Priscilla cold sober. Without listening to another word, she marched out the door, not slowing her pace until she was halfway down the block.

“Don’t come back till you learn some manners!”

Priscilla spun around in time to watch the cowardly groper slink back into his hole, probably out of fear she was going to come after him and finish the job she had started. She answered his insult with a harsh laugh.

She couldn’t wait to get out of this lunatic asylum of a town. No matter what kind of loafers and ne’er-do-well’s she encountered down south, she was sure she wouldn’t be met with such squirrelly arrogance. She’d had enough of this city and its inhabitants to last her a lifetime.

Her only regret was she couldn’t board a train and leave town that minute. She wasn’t even hell-bent on Florida anymore. It could be anyplace, as long as it was far away from New York City. She was now glad she had stayed one more night, for it had been the cure. She was finished with this place, absolutely and for good.