Cartilage and Skin (9 page)

“You're a brute,” Miriam said.

“Pick the shots. Nothing too girly.”

Miriam perked up in her seat and made a jittery, excited swaying motion more appropriate to an anxious child than to a prospective law student. When the waiter came over, his venom was now replaced by a black indifference. Miriam tugged his arm, brought her mouth close to the side of his face, and whispered.

“What?” he asked, slightly recoiling from her proximity.

She pulled him again and restated her order.

Before stepping away, the waiter considered Stephen's plate, hesitated to venture picking it up, and then apparently abandoned the thought.

Miriam sat bristling with joy. She wanted to entice Stephen with the secret of the drinks, but he didn't seem like he cared to play with her anymore. She made some lilting sound that vaguely resembled a giggle. The drinks were getting to her. We all became silent, and at that moment, I became aware that I was not the only one who felt uncomfortable and out of place. I wanted to leave.

When the waiter returned and set down the three small glasses, Stephen leaned forward and sniffed his.

“What is it?” She challenged.

As an answer, he picked up his glass to toast. “To Red Death,” he said and instantly threw back his shot.

“To Red Death,” I said, and was surprised that despite its name, the drink was less putrid, if not almost tasty.

“To Red Death,” Miriam said, and then, as she wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, she gave Stephen a sly look, as if to say he was a clever boy for guessing correctly.

Once again, he didn't reciprocate her playfulness. I started to feel sorry for her—as the pleasant young man whom she'd come to know via the Internet was now cooling off before her. During the next few minutes, it was a sad spectacle to witness her flitting about, dimly confused and nervous, and all the while trying even harder to lure Stephen back into the happy game.

I looked for the waiter, so I could settle my tab. I was so anxious to leave that I swore to myself that if he snubbed me this time, I'd pelt him with the potato, to get his attention.

Breaking an awkward, silent moment, Miriam took her cell phone out of her purse and said that she needed to make a call.

“I can't in here,” she said. “The music and all. I'm going to try outside.”

When she stood up, she placed her hand gently on my shoulder and gave me a wan smile. Although her eyes were close-set and unattractive, they now conveyed a hint of sorrow, the dull ache of remorse, or possibly some deeper pain that she'd been carrying with her for her whole life. She took her purse from the back of her chair and slipped it onto her shoulder. Because she hadn't taken her purse on her earlier trips to the bathroom, I knew by this gesture that she was saying goodbye to me.

“I won't be able to hear in here,” she said.

I wanted Stephen to say something, but he simply assented with a nod of his head.

As soon as she reached the bar area and descended the single step into the throng of people, Stephen pushed away from the table, causing the glasses to wobble slightly.

“You know what that means?” he asked.

“She's leaving.” I had a sudden impulse to lash out at him, which was checked and vaguely tempered by a slight feeling of admiration.

He shook his head.

“Not yet,” he said. “She'll wait a while on the sidewalk or by the front door. She wants me to chase after her. But I'll give her a few minutes.” He looked at his watch.

We sat together in silence. He glanced at his watch once and smiled.

“A minute and fourteen seconds left.” He drank his beer with complete repose, as if he couldn't be any more composed and in control.

I glared at him, hoping to convey something with my eyes—but my conscious expressions, no matter how intense, always came across a bit blurry and ineffectual.

“All right, my friend,” he said at last, standing up. “I'll be right back. Don't vanish on me yet.”

When Stephen stepped past me, I noticed that not only was his head round but also that the area from his midriff to his thighs ballooned as though he were a woman, like a pear or a bag of milk. Somehow, the shape of his body seemed to eradicate any claim he had to manliness. All his supposed knowledge of women, all his boyish charm, faded with the loose jiggling of his ass. I doubted the bearded boy had as much confidence with women as he'd led me to believe, even though I'd heard many times that it is precisely this assuredness, and not so much a man's physical appeal, that mostly attracts women. It makes them respect him and feel secure and protected in his strength. This theory, of course, lacked relevance to me.

While I waited to get my bill, I was curious why Stephen didn't want me to leave. Perhaps he wanted to come back from his sordid outside adventure and tell me what had transpired. He wanted to relish the details with his fellow man, so we could bask and gloat in the aura of our own testosterone.

I twisted in my chair, craning my body in an attempt to find the greasy, absurd creature who had accused me of insulting his mother. By now, I was hoping that I had truly degraded the woman, and I longed to repeat the offense—whatever it was—and maybe hurl a few more obscenities her way. At the very moment that I was contorted in my seat, with my body leaning into the aisle and my eyes full of frustrated savagery, I noticed the two blonde-haired girls smiling at me, as though I were a poodle performing a cute trick.

Rather than regain myself and say something funny and captivating, I recoiled as if they'd just spit at me. Then I casually began to inspect the waves and the rocks hanging on the wall, not only as if the girls were un-noteworthy and incidental but also as if my spastic response to their momentary attention hadn't actually happened. I was tempted to glance at them; instead, I peered into my glass and swirled around the residue of beer.

“You need another?” The waiter was beside me.

“Just the tab, thanks.”

“And what about them?” He pointed to Stephen's plate with a pen.

“He'll be back.”

Although his sharp black eyes were fixed on me, he seemed vacant of any emotion, as though I were no longer the person who had offended his mother but rather a shoehorn or a doorknob. He discarded me again to fetch my bill.

Sitting there alone, I felt strangely captive. When I had originally stepped out of my cramped apartment, I had been anticipating my release; I had wanted to explore broader options. But now among the noise, the permeating cigarette smoke, and the diverse people, I sensed that the vast world—with all its petty dramas, its sincere flashes of emotion against a general backdrop of apathy, and its countless personal anguishes not only borne in silence but also veiled beneath the all-important cloak of code and custom—offered no freedom at all, but only drove the individual deeper into himself. I wanted to creep back to the tiny, stuffy refuge of my rented home.

Eventually, Stephen returned, and on his way to his seat, he drummed his fingers on the table of the blonde-haired girls and, in passing, said something to them, which I didn't hear. When he sat down, he started telling me that the rain was coming down hard now outside and it was already as dark as night. Although I informed him that I'd requested my bill, he blathered on with several innocuous observations about bars on Sundays during football season. He occasionally glanced at the table across the aisle, as if he, too, weren't interested in what he was saying to me. He then leaned forward and paused for a second, apparently ready to whisper something. Finally, I thought, he was going to tell me about Miriam and how his plan to close the deal had worked on her. Instead, he said, “Are you with me, my friend?”

Although I didn't respond, he assumed I knew what he was talking about.

“Follow me.” He got up from his seat and, holding an empty glass, stood before the girls' table. They both tilted their heads to look up at him, at his face. I imagined that with his female hips and broad ass, he would soon return to his chair, but once he started talking, the words flowed out of him, and the girls, first one and then the other, had fresh smiles on their faces.

Although I couldn't make out all that he was saying, I heard him say my name, but no, it wasn't actually my name. He was still calling me Walter, and now it seemed too late to correct him. One of the girls glanced at me. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, yet a few loose locks fell along the sides of her face. Whatever he was saying somehow motivated her to slide over into the next seat, making room for him to sit down. After a moment, he turned to me.

“Right, Walter?” he said. A barely perceptible message flashed in his eyes, but I wasn't certain what his message was meant to convey.

I nodded my head, still without the nerve to “follow” him.

They continued to talk, and conscious not to stare at them like some geeky boy at a school dance who gawked at all his classmates having fun and romancing one another on the dance floor, I only peeked occasionally at the trio. The girl with the ponytail had a beautiful but serious face, which gave her a haughty, intolerant appearance that I found intimidating. The other girl, despite her beauty, seemed more approachable; even the way her hair curved softly around the sides of her face and rested gently on her shoulders suggested that she was warm and kind.

“Walter,” Stephen called across the aisle. “What are you doing?”

“What?” I asked, still trying to keep up my charade of casual indifference.

“Come tell us a story,” he said to me; then turning back to the girls, he added, “This guy has got some of the best stories I've ever heard.”

The girl in the ponytail looked at me, as if daring me to move. “Come on, Walter,” she said. Her eyes were the color of emeralds, bloodshot, and glazed with drunkenness.

I got up and sat across from her at the table. Like Stephen, I'd carried my empty glass with me, realizing that there was a certain comfort in having my hands occupied.

Stephen introduced the girls. In response, the girl with the ponytail briefly nibbled her bottom lip, slowly blinked her emerald eyes, and nodded; her name was Ann. The other, softer girl turned in her chair to shake my hand. Her hand was warm, but for some reason, it was also wet. She was called Bruni because her actual Russian name was long, unpronounceable, and filled with y's and v's.

Although she was drinking a martini and smoking a thin menthol cigarette, she wasn't so much sexy as hopelessly cute.

As the three of them talked, I fell silent.

The waiter returned with my bill and set it on the vacant table where I'd left my things. Despite our empty glasses, he walked away without saying a word to us or even seizing the opportunity to take Stephen's plate.

“Fucking bastard,” Stephen said, when he noticed that the waiter had ignored us

Ann laughed and looked around, curious about what had provoked Stephen.

“Excuse my language, ladies.” He placed his hand on his chest like an old, stuffy, white-wigged gentleman. “But I was raised by a French whore.”

“Hey!” Ann slapped his arm, laughing. “My mother's a French whore!”

“Look at that, Walter,” he said. “We're in good company.”

“Damn right,” Ann said, and the two girls clinked glasses across the table.

No sooner than Bruni snuffed her cigarette, she picked up the pack and offered each of us a cigarette. Because everyone decided to smoke, I felt strangely obligated to participate, in order not to be left out of the mix, which would have surely continued to swirl around just as well without me. I now understood that sometime before Miriam had left us, Stephen had been planning to approach these girls, and this was why he'd told me not to vanish. Even so, I questioned why he wanted to attach himself to me. Were we supposed to pair off in couples? Was I supposed to make him look good? Did he need to feed off me to keep the conversation lively?

Then there was a slight break, a pause in the conversation, and Bruni, as though she'd been waiting for such a moment, turned to me, and with her breath held, with her lungs filled with smoke, she said, “All right, shy guy. Tell us one of your stories.”

“I don't have any stories.”

“Come on, Walter,” Stephen said. “Don't hold out on the ladies.” In a more flat and serious tone, he added, “We need to get him stoned. He's nonstop when he's stoned.”

“For now, get him another drink,” Ann said.

“I'd like to, but we're being snubbed.” Stephen pointed his cigarette at me. “He insulted the waiter.”

This seemed to pique the girls' interest; they both looked at me.

“That's not true,” I said coolly. “I insulted his mother.”

“He's a crazy fuck,” Stephen said, and the girls laughed, apparently indifferent to his cursing.

“Go apologize. I want another drink.” Ann held up her martini glass, pinching the stem between her thumb and ring finger. “What's up with you two? You both have a thing for insulting a person's mother?”

“It comes natural to us,” Stephen answered.

“Come on, shy guy. Where's your famous story?” Bruni tapped her ashes. “You get no more cigarettes if you're going to let it burn down like that.”

“Sorry.” I picked up the cigarette and took a drag; it was nearly down to the filter.

“I want a drink,” Ann said, now standing up. “When I come back, I want to see a drink on the table.”

She started away, and without a word between them, Bruni also stood up.

Instinctively, I looked at her as she moved past me. She was wearing a pair of gray, soft slacks that clung so smoothly to her, without a single wrinkle or crease, that apparently the girl was wearing either a thong or no underwear at all.

“My God,” Stephen said to me. “I'd burrow my face in that for hours.” He laughed. “It's the bit of Italian blood in me. I hear it's common to all the sons of matriarchy.”