Carrie Pilby (21 page)

“Antitrust theory interests me,” Matt says, “because it's so antithetical to the theory of our capitalist system, and yet, so completely in line with it. Our country was founded on the idea, among others, that if you work hard, and you get more and
more successful, you get to enjoy the fruits of it. You can overcome whatever situation or class you were born into with sweat and determination and ideas. But there's this nondelineated point at which if you will become
so
successful, you will get punished for it. And this is necessary because if you have a monopoly, you can do things that a regular market wouldn't allow, so there is a need for trust-busting. But the idea of the government knocking you off because you've done
too
well in America—that's strange, isn't it?”

“Yes,” I say, and I take a sip. “I confess that among disciplines, economics isn't the one I'm most well-versed in, although I've always wanted to learn more.”

“Economics bores me,” Matt says, “and yet, I play the market all the time. There's psychology involved, too, not just numbers. I don't buy powerful stocks—I buy little ones that I think might rally.”

“Are you good?”

Matt suddenly looks bashful. He shrugs.

I get the feeling it's a hidden talent of his, that he's wildly successful at it.

The waitress puts down our food. I drain my margarita, while Matt has a tiny bit left.

“More drinks?” the waitress asks.

Matt winks. “For her,” he says.

When the waitress leaves, Matt raises his glass. “Here's to…to…”

“To good friends?” I ask.

“You know what?” he says. “Millard Fillmore came up with that.”

“I think it was John Quincy Adams who first said, ‘What'll it be?'”

“You've hardly eaten your food,” Matt says.

“I'm too excited to eat,” I say. “I want to tell you about Sanka.”

“What? James Buchanan invented it?”

“No,” I say. “This is serious. What it stands for. It stands for
sans
caffeine.”

“No shit.”

“Really,” I say. “And Chicklets are chicle pellets.”

“I never thought about that.”

I can't seem to stop babbling. “‘Brillo' is Spanish for ‘I shine.'”

“You're just a fountain of knowledge.”

“3M stands for…guess what?”

“I'm going to get this one. It stands for Mmm… mmm…good.”

“No, that's soup, silly. It stands for Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing.”

“Hmm.”

“Necco is short for New England Confectionery Company.”

I'm delivered my second margarita and I take a big sip. I put the glass down. “I read all kinds of wacky things all the time. Right now I'm going through this phase where I rent the top 100 movies…”

“Oh, the AAFR list? Yeah, I keep meaning to rent some of those. Half the time I go into the video store and have no idea what to rent.”

“Me, too, so anyway, the list inspired me to take out this book on the origins of Hollywood. It said that Samuel Goldwyn, the Goldwyn of Metro Goldwyn Mayer, that wasn't his name. His name was Goldfish. But he had this partner named Selwyn. And the two of them combined their names to make a company, Goldwyn. And I was wondering why they decided to do it in that order, like, why didn't Mr. Selwyn's name get to be first, followed by Goldfish? And then I realized that if they did that, the company would have been Sel-Fish.”

Matt laughs. “So this is what goes through your head all day.”

“Nah,” I say. “Only during first period.”

“Come on. Don't tell me you order your days like school.”

“Sure. I keep seven alarm clocks in my room, each set for a different period.”

“You're lying.”

“Trivia, gym, lunch, nap time—my favorite—art and music. I was in music when you called.”

“Bullshit.”

I'm actually making him smile. He gets me. The job interview guy never got me. “Okay, I made that up.” I finish my second margarita. This stuff is good. I lick the salt that's encrusted on the glass. “Are you going to be late getting back to work?”

“I can be late.”

I saw into my fajita. I have to be careful not to make a mess with the sour cream, salsa and guacamole. I've had so much to drink that the spiciness of the food is blunted.

“What are your parents like?” Matt asks.

He must really like me if he asks a serious question like that. “My mother died when I was two,” I say.

“Oh, I'm sorry.”

“It's okay. She had cancer. I don't remember her, really. My father tells me about her sometimes. It's hard for him to talk about.”

“Well, if you ever want to talk to me about it.”

“That's nice of you.”

“Well, I like you.”

I look at him. He's smiling. “Thanks.”

“How did they meet? Your parents.”

I think about it. “They worked at the same company.”

“What does your dad do?”

“Investment banking stuff. He travels a lot.”

“You must be very self-reliant.”

I shrug. “I try.”

He looks at me sympathetically. “It's impressive.”

“Grows you right up.” To negate this, I put a bit of guacamole on my spoon and pretend I'm about to fling it. He laughs. “I was born in London,” I say. “We only moved to New York when I was two.”

“No way,” Matt says. “I was born in Paris.”

“Really?”

“My mom was getting a doctorate in French studies. My parents are both college professors.”

It always seems like people who are interesting had interesting parents. But then again, sometimes they had really awful parents. In any case, Matt obviously got a lot of support growing up. “Did you go to public schools?”

“Yeah,” Matt says. “My parents are big public school fans. But they also taught me outside of school. Every night they discussed current events with me and my sister at the dinner table. And my mom started teaching us French before we were ten. She was one of those people who believed you have to learn a language when you're young.”

“Really?” I say. “I hate to say this, but say something in French.”

“
Sans
caffeine,” he says.

“
Très bien,”
I say. “Unfortunately, that is about all I remember of my seventh-grade French.”

“That's because you didn't start learning it before you turned ten.”

“I did.”

“Ha.”

“I took Spanish, too,” I say.

“Say something in Spanish,” Matt demands.

“Eat-o your burrito, gringo.”

He laughs.

“Fun fact,” I say, unable to resist. “Gringo comes from ‘Griego,' which is the Spanish word for ‘Greek.' Because ‘Greek' can be used as a word to mean something foreign, as in, ‘It's all Greek to me.' So they took Griego and it mutated to ‘Gringo.'”

“That's pretty interesting,” Matt says.

“So is this margarita.” I polish off the very end.

“I hope you're not driving today,” Matt says.

“I'm out of Essolene.”

“Put a tiger in your tank.”

“Martin Van Buren invented that.”

The waitress comes by. “How is everything going?”

“Fine!” we both bark at her. She looks like she just got hit in the face. “Take your time,” she says, and walks off.

“She wants to get rid of us,” Matt says.

I shrug. “What kind of issues did you debate at the dinner table?”

“Mostly our discussions were about Ronald Reagan. My dad's a political science and history professor. He actually teaches the theories, not presidencies or elections. He complains that students today only want to learn about campaigns. They want to read Ted White's
The Making of the President,
and he wants to teach Michael Harrington's
The Other America.
”

“Ah,” I nod, although I haven't heard of either of those. But the fact that he believes I do, and that he doesn't need to stop and explain them to me, is flattering. And I will just keep listening to him, and I will learn. Professor Harrison was like that, too—he would talk to me about things I hadn't heard of as if it was a given that I had. Like I was his colleague. I loved it. I felt like after every conversation with him, I'd learned at least three new things. And I had also impressed him by revealing my knowledge of three others. It was a challenge, a fantastic give-and-take.

“I don't agree with my father on everything,” Matt says. “He's
kind of a leftie, and I'm pretty much in the middle. But he always sat back and let us debate. He'd ask my sister and me questions rather than just give us answers. Like, ‘Well, I can see why you'd say that, but what if X and Y happened?' It was great.”

I can imagine meeting Matt's parents. I'd sit at the table with his family at Christmas, passing the mashed potatoes, hashing out the tenets of Marxism, then ladling out the gravy and interventions.

“So, you want dessert?” Matt asks. “I think I'll skip it.”

“Nah,” I say.

“Another margarita?” He grins in mock-sinister fashion because I've clearly had enough. “Another,” I say, “and I won't make it past 14th Street.”

“I'll get you home,” he says. He orders me another and watches me guzzle it down.

Even though I offer to pay for my share, he insists. I wobble out of the booth. When we're both in the vestibule, he suddenly puts his hands around my waist and kisses me.

“Sorry,” he says. “I couldn't wait. I've never had this much fun on a workday.”

I smile. “Thanks.”

“I need to get back to work, but I wish I didn't have to.”

“I can try to squeeze into your briefcase.”

“That makes me sound so old,” Matt says.

“I can try to squeeze into your bookbag.”

“That's better.”

Outside, the sun has broken through. A cold breeze blows.

“You are so cute,” Matt says. “I mean it. You look so young. Just like, a girl. I mean, I don't mean that in any offensive way.”

“I don't get offended by ‘girl.'”

“And then you say these really sharp things. It's great.”

“Thanks.”

“You want to stop by my place for a little bit?”

I don't even question the wisdom of this. “Okay.”

He takes my hand. Obviously, neither of us is being responsible, since Shauna could see us.

As if reading my mind, Matt says, “Shauna's away today. She's got a meeting in White Plains with some guy her dad works with to talk about PR. He's a Kraft executive. He might throw her some work.”

Great. “How's that going?”

“She should land an account soon. I'm not so worried.” He looks off at the sky. “We don't need the money much, but she feels better when she's working. I don't think she just wants to sit around the house waiting for me.”

My hand feels cold in his. He's still talking about “we.” But maybe it's just because he's used to it.

Matt starts swinging my hand, like we're two kids on the playground, and I let him. This is funny. I start to feel good again.

It seems like it takes forever to get to his place. “Are you sure you won't get in trouble?” I ask.

“No.”

He leads me upstairs. As soon as he closes the front door, he pulls my blouse out of where it's tucked in, kneels and kisses my belly button. “I'm sorry,” he says. “I'm just so turned on right now.”

For a second, I feel like I'm someone in some movie, that I'm over by the wall watching this happen. Then the feeling goes away.

“Come on,” Matt says. “In here.”

I enter his room and he pushes the door shut. He takes me in his arms and pulls me onto the bed. Then he gives me a long deep kiss. “I learned this in France,” he whispers.

“You mean, when you were a baby?”

“I had an ambitious nanny.”

He slides his hand down and unbuttons my pants.

It's been years since I've been naked in front of anyone. But I'm not that self-conscious right now. I step out of my pants and then we end up back on the bed.

I look at the pictures of Shauna.

Ignore it,
I think.
Why does everyone else get to have fun?

Matt firmly puts each of his hands on my shoulders, pinning me. He crawls on top of me and suddenly feels very strong. I like it.

After we've kissed a bit more, he gets up and undresses himself. I guess he's figured out that I won't do it for him. I've never undressed anyone. I'm not
that
unselfconscious.

But I start thinking about how I need more to keep him interested in me and to get his mind off Shauna. I should save one thing for next time. It's hard, but I whisper, “We better stop.”

He looks up. “Why?”

“I just think we should wait until next time.” It's also true that I'm not completely sure about this. I don't want to do this and then feel awful afterward, like I have about everything lately.

“I want to see you as soon as I can,” Matt says. “Any chance I get. I mean it.”

“Good.”

 

I pick my clothes off the floor, and Matt sits on the bed, watching me. When I bend down to get my shoes, I notice something among the tangled computer wires under his desk, and I can't help reading it—a dusty yellow Post-it that fell there. Written in pen is:
M—This is my reminder to you to call about the cable thing. I love you to.—S

This depresses me. Something about the misspelling of
too.
It
makes Shauna seem—I don't know—sweet, or real, or something.

I put my shoes on, and I feel sad. She does love this guy, and trusts him.

But then, I'll bet she doesn't feel bad for
me.
I'll bet she never even thinks about the people who can't share their daily responsibilities and struggles with someone else—the people who will always have to call about the Cable Thing themselves.