I'm with Stupid (6 page)

She doesn’t turn around: “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“But you would not mind if I did?” he presses. “I have an excellent aromatic balm that my Vietnamese apothecary brought back from Ho Chi Minh City.” Out of his pant pocket he pulls a small red tin with a picture of a cat.

“Yes, I would mind!” she says with genuine frustration, not really sure what is happening and why. “Please do not rub me!”

Max loudly asks if she’s sure. She’s never refused a rubdown from anyone, so what’s wrong with getting the treatment from the world’s youngest registered sex offender? This seems like it would be right up her alley. Manuel hears this and pounces. “Is this man your husband?” he asks in the tone of a jealous lover. Libby does what she said she wouldn’t do, she turns around, then asks Manuel if he’s still talking to her. “Of course,” he says. “I asked if this man is your husband.” Libby rehashes the info: She’s not married, her neck is sore, she doesn’t want to be rubbed. “Are you his intended?” Manuel wants to know.

Max turns around and rolls his eyes. “Hardly,” he says. “Now get a grip before you start beating your breast with your fists like a gorilla.”

Manuel can’t be bothered to make eye contact with Max, either. Max turns back around and looks at William, who’s still conversing with the other ranger. Let’s go, William. Talk to him another time.

“I am relieved to hear it,” Manuel says to Libby. “A radiant maiden such as yourself must attract legions of suitors—your anomalous charms are beguiling. You have quickly become as precious to me as the Bible with the false bottom given to me by a baron in honor of my first holy communion. This acquaintance—this sedentary barnacle—is neither clever, distinguished, nor handsome enough for you.”

Uhhhh, Max is not going to like that. He doesn’t even bother pointing out that he and Libby are cousins. He whips around, his agenda clear: “Did you just tell me I wasn’t good looking?” he snaps.

Now Manuel is annoyed. He must think he’s inside a discotheque instead of a four-by-four with his folks. “I am not interested in qualifying your physical limitations, sir,” he says. “That is surely something you must contend with alone.” And then to Libby: “What is your favorite color? Pink, I imagine. Mine is green, the color of money.” He pauses, then adds: “I own a renowned seamstress capable of designing delicate muslin frocks and negligees as thin as gossamer.” No response. Libby would rather be getting a Pap smear. Manuel is not worried. In fact, he seems eager to offer the complimentary breast examination. “I feel compelled to confess that your generous bosom—an emblem of fecundity—gives—” He is cut off.

“It gives you a hard-on, we get it,” Max cracks.

Before Manuel can defend his motives William climbs into the truck. Damn, does he have nice legs—muscular, long, tanned, not a lot of hair. He smiles and asks if everyone is ready to see some animals. The three of us nod, as if in a trance. Yes, please. And we’re off.

The two-hour game drive is magnificent, the views are spectacular—and the truth is that we don’t care. We could be driving through a minefield or New Jersey and it would be just as inspiring. Unicorns could be gliding through the evening sky and it wouldn’t change a thing. We are being driven around by William, it’s really all that matters. Where has he been all our lives, in a test tube? I can’t imagine he was birthed by a mere mortal.

The orange sun is setting as we drive through an open field of tall faded grass and pull up alongside a pack of lions feasting on the remains of a water buffalo. William cuts the engine; the lions go about their business. Some have had their fill and are lying on their backs, moaning out of satisfaction. Others, meanwhile, are tearing at what’s left of the carcass. I notice a sad pair of enormous black horns protruding from the thick blades of grass. “You’re lucky,” William explains in hushed tones, “we don’t come across this every day.” I study his profile. Don’t I know it, toots.

La Familia Sanchez begins snapping enough photos for all of us—it’s like they’re working the place with submachine guns. Pop! Pop! Pop! I pull out my disposable camera and wonder if there’s any subtle way of taking William’s picture when he addresses me directly. “Where are you from?” he asks, a beautiful smile spreading across his beautiful face. I’d be smiling, too, if I looked that good.

“New York,” I say, trying to control myself. The last thing I need is for this guy to think I like him. I don’t chase men, not anymore. I’m going to try to keep quiet—for once. Besides, William’s handsomeness is intimidating.

Manuel takes a break from snapping photos to address Libby: “Do you hail from the Liberty State as well?” he asks her.

“No,” Max says without taking his eyes off William. “She’s from Uranus.”

Undeterred, Manuel continues: “I have an uncle who resides in Brooklyn, New York. He is a failed entertainer specializing in stand-up comedy who now works at a restaurant catering to the lower classes. He does not know the difference between a burgundy and a merlot. We view him as an outcast.”

Libby ignores this. When Manuel resumes his picture taking, William tells me that he’s always wanted to go to America—New York especially. Many of the lodge’s guests come from the United States, and from them he has learned many American phrases. “I don’t even say loo anymore,” he reveals. “I say bathroom.”

As another lion rolls onto its back, Libby, who’s practically waving a sign in front of William’s face to get his attention, tells him to visit New York because it’s a great place. William acknowledges that that would be a lot of fun and looks at me again. Stop! I can’t handle those blue eyes. I feel like I’m being hypnotized.

“It would,” Max enthusiastically decides, trying to get William to notice him. “We could go dirty dancing. The clubs are great. I’ll take you around, it’s the least I can do. You’ve done so much for me already.”

Dirty dancing. I crack a smile and look at William to see if he got the joke. “I love to dance,” William says with excitement. Libby informs him that she, too, likes to dance.

“She has two left feet,” Max says to William, “but I’m good. If you’re ever in New York I’ll take you out. We can go to the Manhole. Great music. And if it’s slow dancing you want we can do that afterward—or before. I’m flexible.”

I picture William walking into the Manhole. He would need a security team or police escort. Walkie-talkies and helicopters would have to be involved. He’d be black and blue from the ass pinching if he ever made it out alive. “I don’t think he’d be safe at the Manhole,” I say under my breath. Max informs me that he’ll watch over William. I bet he will . . . and when he’s not watching over him he’ll be watching him from underneath . . . or from the side . . . or some such thing.

“So how old are you, William?” Max asks. William tells him that he’s twenty-three.

“And do you have a girlfriend?” Libby asks. I look over and shake my head. Their victim blushes. He doesn’t have a girlfriend.

“Interesting,” Max says. “Is there any chance you have a boyfr—”

Libby interrupts to ask William how long he’s been working at the game reserve. Two years, he tells her. She nods: “Since you were twenty, then.”

“Twenty-one,” William corrects her.

The math whiz nods. She asks if William lives on the grounds. He does. He works for five weeks and gets one week off. Max asks what he does during his week off. Nothing much. He stays with his parents on their farm. “You’re a family man.” Max nods. “How inspiring.” William affirms that he loves his parents and glances over at the lions. I hope they’re not his parents. Libby notices his preoccupation and leans in. “William,” she asks, “in your time here at the lodge have you ever been involved in any dangerous situations with the wildlife?”

“Yeah, I have,” William starts to say. “This one time—”

Manuel leans over: “I have been involved in many dangerous predicaments,” he offers to Libby. “Once, while on a tour of Easter Island, I was accosted by a scrofulous native. He was a scrimshander by trade, at least that is what he claimed. Eager to purchase whalebone carvings, I followed this imposter to his hut. I did not notice the knife until it was too late . . .”

Max turns around. “No one’s talking to you, beaver fever,” he says to Manuel. “Your life has no meaning, I just got the telegram.” Max apologizes sweetly to William for the rude interruption and encourages him to continue with the story.

“It’s not much of a story,” William says, “but there was a time, oh, about a year ago, when a guest stood up in the truck to take a picture of an elephant and the elephant got mad and charged at us. I had to make a fast getaway.”

Libby’s eyes widen with concern. “But you got away?” she asks. Obviously. We’re not in Heaven. Or are we? William assures her that they made a clean getaway. “You tell a great story,” she marvels.

Max seems to agree. He begins behaving as if William just got done recalling his experiences fighting in the Civil War. He breathlessly asks William if he was scared when the elephant attacked. “A little,” William admits. “I didn’t want the man to fall out when I was pulling away. I would be responsible.”

“So you really gunned it then?” Max asks. William nods. He really gunned it. “How many miles per hour?” Max wants to know. I correct him: How many kilometers per hour. He glances at me. I think he forgot I exist. “How fast were you going?” he demands of William.

“The truck doesn’t go that fast,” William admits. “About twenty kilometers per hour.”

“That sounds really fast,” Libby says. “And dangerous,” Max adds.

William looks at the lions. Manuel grows impatient in the back: “My own predicament was much more complicated,” he starts to say, “it eventually involved a hot-air balloon and an engorged . . .”

“Keep it to yourself,” Max says over his shoulder.

William takes his eyes off the lions to address me again. He asks what I do in New York. “For a living, you mean?” I ask. William nods. Even his long neck is awesome. And that skin. My goodness gracious.

Before I can answer Libby assures him that what I do in New York is not nearly as dangerous as what he does here. I give her a look:
Come on, kiss his ass a little more
. “What?” she says innocently and points at the lions. “It’s not. Those are lions.”

I explain that I work at a literary agency and that it’s uneventful. Max nudges me. “Tell him about Jennifer Leon,” he says like some stage mother. “You discovered her.” (By the way, I did not discover Jennifer Leon. Jennifer Leon is a writer whom my boss signed two years ago. Her book fetched a lot of dough, which is not surprising considering that she’s a moron. End of story.) I remind everyone that I didn’t discover Jennifer Leon. I’m pretty sure she discovered herself.

Max slaps me hard on the back. I cough. “Oh, don’t be modest,” he says, then turns to William. “She discovered Jennifer Leon and the agency got her a four-hundred-thousand-dollar advance on her first novel.”

William’s eyes light up. “Four hundred thousand dollars!” he gushes. “I didn’t know you could make that much money as a writer.”

Usually you can’t, not by a long shot. Example: One of the agency’s clients recently got screwed with a twenty-five-hundred-dollar advance on her first book. She could barely upgrade her laptop with that. A pity, too, because she’s good.

I offer that most people don’t make four hundred thousand per book. It’s not exactly a flat rate.

“Unless they have you on their side, babe,” Libby says.

Who am I, Johnnie Cochran? I seriously don’t know what Libby and Max are talking about right now. I know they don’t, either. All they are doing is putting me on the spot, which I’m not appreciating. “They’re exaggerating,” I say to William, rather embarrassed.

“We never exaggerate,” Max says. Yes, and my mother smokes.

William asks how I got the writer four hundred thousand dollars. He concludes that I must be really smart. Libby announces that I’m a genius. Not to be outdone, Max tells William that he’s a genius, too. I shake my head at William. “I didn’t get anybody four hundred thousand dollars,” I clarify. “I just happened to be the first person at the agency to read her manuscript. I passed it on to my boss; he’s the one who negotiates deals with publishers. I opened the mail. It’s my job.” I pause, trying to deflect attention from myself. “My job is to open mail. That’s all.” And I can’t even do that right. We have not signed a good author in ages. Lately most of the work I’ve passed on for consideration is crap.

“Don’t get down on yourself,” Max says, offended by my supposed modesty. And then to William: “She’s always getting down on herself.”

I inform William, who continues smiling at me, that I am not always getting down on myself. I look at Max. I want to tell him to go down on William already but am afraid he might. A series of flashes go off in the back row as William asks how much money Tom Clancy makes per book. I tell him that Tom Clancy makes millions of dollars. He’s in a whole separate category. I don’t even think people consider him to be—

William cuts me off to ask if I’m friends with Tom Clancy. I think about the role of Tom Clancy in my life. I offer that my boss met him years ago. Is that even right?

“Wow, that’s fantastic,” William says. “I would be honored to meet Tom Clancy! He’s a great writer.”

Libby adjusts her tube top. “Come to New York and she’ll introduce you,” she offers.

I remind her that I’ve never met Tom Clancy.

“But you could,” Max says, sensing that this is one topic William is eager to discuss. “He lives in New York, doesn’t he?”

“I have no clue, I don’t think so,” I say to Max. I’m done talking about Tom Clancy. I’ve never talked about Tom Clancy this much in my life. I feel like his stalker. Max assures William that we’ll introduce him to Tom Clancy when William visits New York. William looks down at his lap—I’ve been doing that, too!—and shyly mentions that he’d like to write a book someday. Max jumps in. “Oh, what about?” he asks William. “Your adventures fighting lions and tigers and bears? I’m sure it would be wonderful.”

William grows pensive: “I would like to write a book about the political situation in Monaco.” Max grabs his arm and asks him to explain. “Well,” William begins, “I think the world should know how people in Mo have been treated. There are a lot of bad things happening there.”