Love Monkey (8 page)

“You work at the
Times
,” John guesses.

“No,
Tabloid
,” I say. “Sorry about that.”

“Why not the
Times
?” he says, disappointed.

People often ask me this question. Why not the
Times
? I do all right. Make enough money. Does it really matter if I work for a paper whose first edition is so rife with typos that in-house wags call it “the rough draft”? Does it matter that the ink of the heds comes off on your hands so smudgily that you literally (as well as morally) feel as if you need a shower after reading it?

No, none of this matters: I do it for the love of the adrenaline, the freewheeling personalities, the take-no-prisoners attitude. Plus the
Times
's editors won't return my calls.

“The
Times
?” I say for Julia's benefit. “Why would I want to take a forty percent pay cut?” Shooter say:
Poor men don't get laid
.

“I thought you guys were kinda low paid,” John says.

“The
Times
pays you in prestige. You can't eat prestige,” I say, although I have no idea what the
Times
pays except I'm pretty sure it's more than what the cash-strapped Australian tax dodgers who own our paper pay. But Julia is new to this racket and for all I know, she thinks I get paid like a corporate barracuda.

“Oh,
Tabloid
's a good paper,” the guy says, nodding. “I read it on the train.”

“Everyone reads it on the train,” I say. “As long as people shit and use mass transit, we're still in business.”

Julia laughs.

“What do you do?” I say.

“Guess,” the guy goes. He has the striated arms and overdeveloped
neck of a construction worker. The cast-iron palms of a construction worker. The sun-hammered skin of a construction worker.

“Interior decorator,” I say.

Julia chuckles.

“No,” he says. “Guess again.”

“Oh, sorry. How could I have been so dumb? Interior de
sign
er.”

“Nah, something totally different.”

“Symphony conductor.”

Another giggle from Julia.

“No,” John says. “Come on.”

“Tae Bo instructor?”

“Nah. Come on, I'm the foreman of a construction crew.”

“You put up buildings,” I say.

“That's right.”

“I respect that,” I say, and I do. “You're going to be able to walk around this city with your grandchildren and say, ‘I built that. I built that.' But every word we wrote in the paper this whole year will be forgotten.”

Julia seems to approve of this. She's done with her drink. I order her another.

“More of the Courage for you?” says the barkeep.

Sure. For all Julia knows, I could be an impressive individual. Forthright, sincere. A wit, keen dresser, and friend to the workingman. Now all I have to do is work in a few lines about my love for animals.

“Hey, where you from?” John says. “You're from Manhattan, I'll bet. I'm from the Island.”

“Actually, I'm from D.C.” I always tell people this, to make them think I'm a senator's son from Georgetown, when in reality my dad was an air-conditioner repairman in Rockville, Maryland, a man who considered french fries to be vegetables. I had to pretend to live with my rich aunt so I could attend the Potomac schools, where
the kids appeared born in their Tretorn sneakers and Benetton sweaters. Mr. Farrell's wardrobe? Exclusively by the Husky Boys' department at Sears, right down to the tan work boots that said “maximum dork” then and yet would become inexplicably cool with this city's fashion-wise uptown kids by the time I hit thirty. (I, of course, can never wear them again, or corduroys, or flared-leg jeans—which means my cycle of uncool continues.) We couldn't even afford real Oreos: we were one of those Hydrox families. Every drinking glass in our house bore the image of Hamburglar or Mayor McCheese. (Whatever happened to Grimace? Was he too gay? Or did he just reinvent himself as Barney?) Senior year of high school, I hoarded the ten-dollar bills my dad gave me every time I mowed the lawn and traded them for a cut-price Member's Only windbreaker, only to discover that they had become about as fly as the canasta tournament at the Topeka Country Club. Thus did I learn my first lesson about fashion: by the time I can afford it, it's over.

“So what'd your father do?” John says, calculating the size of my trust fund in his head.

“That, I'm afraid,” I say, “is a national security issue.”

Julia laughs.

And my hard-on is clanging in my pants.

Time for a break.

In the men's room, I look at the mirror and think, It's been an hour and a half. Julia is sticking. She could be planning to leave any second since she still hasn't taken her coat off, but we're kind of near the door and it's kind of chilly and anyway
she's sticking
. My God, my God: do I actually have a chance with this girl? The thing is, when I first saw her, I thought, No biggie. Just another beauty in her don't-touch-me force field. She didn't get to me that much. But now I'm thinking: this is it. Maybe every guy gets one chance.

Time for a chat with the man. The top dog. Mr. Underneath. My A-Rod.

—So.

—
So.

—How do you feel?

—
How do I feel? How do I look?

—You're plumping like a Ballpark Frank.

—
Swelling often accompanies fever.

—Settle down. That's not what we're here for. I can't if you're in that mood.

—
Bullshit. We're put on earth for one reason.

—This isn't earth. This is a urinal.

—
Get me in her mouth. Do whatever it takes. That's all I ask of you.

—“All I Ask of You.” That was in
Phantom of the Opera
. Streisand sang it.

—
You fucking pussy.

—Just trying to do a job here.

—
I mean, have you checked her equipment?

—Mmmm.

—
The lips on her? Dual air bags, amigo. So ripe they're about to burst. And the softness. That color. Can you imagine how good I'd look wearing those lips as a sombrero? O-fucking-lay!

—You're Ballparking again.

—
I need, I need.

—I'm laying the groundwork.

—
Lay the girl.

—Jump her?

—
I would.

—You're a dick.

—
I will never ask you for anything again.

—Wrong. You'll keep asking again and again. You're never happy.

—
I'm only human.

—Nothing's happening here. She's going to think I'm stroking you.

—
Would you? It'll only take a sec.

—Not appropriate.

—
Bitchtalk.

—It's a woman's world. We play by their rules.

—
Take her.

—Calm down. Barbara Bush.

—
Ow. No.

—Hillary Clinton.

—
Ugh.

—Camryn Manheim. Rosie O'Donnell. Oprah.

—
Uma.

—Oprah.

—
Uma!

—That's it. Liza Minnelli.

—
You win. You fucker.

—Ahh. Thanks.

 

Tinkle, tinkle little stud.

 

—Anyway, I can't just jump her. What if I get slammed?

—
Failure is not an option.

—You're quoting Ron Howard movies?

—
He did
Night Shift.

—Shelley Long.

—
That scene in her
panties.

—You're Ballparking.

—
Her ass when she's reaching over the counter.

—Ballpark. Stop it. Bea Arthur. Nancy Reagan.

—
Jackie Kennedy
!

—Jackie Mason.

—
Faggot.

—It worked.

—
The only constant is acting like a man.

—You have to be smart.

—
A man doesn't need brains. He needs balls.

—You need brains to earn money to spend on her.

—
Stephen Hawking has brains. Hugh Hefner has balls. Who'd you rather be?

—You have too much balls, you wind up in prison, then you're somebody's girlfriend.

—
Do not fuck it up.

—Doing my best.

—
Your best? Like that time with Sabrina Klein?

—I know.

—
You had her right there.

—I was being a gentleman.

—
On her couch. In her bathrobe. She put her head on your shoulder.

—She was sick.

—
You're sick.

—I'm supposed to take advantage of a girl who's been in bed all weekend?

—
Her head. Your shoulder. The body on her. I would have gotten so deep in her I would have tickled her liver.

—I figured it would pay off in the long run. Being trustworthy.

—
Trust, yeah. That's fine. If you want to be her
sister.

—She might have just slapped me.

—
Her head. Your shoulder.

—You can't tell with girls. Sometimes they're offended if you make it a sex thing.

—
Everything's a sex thing.

—To you, maybe.

—
I am the most powerful force in the universe.

—What about God?

—
Yeah, but I actually exist.

—How did I miss with Sabrina?

—
How close was the belt of her robe to your hand? One fucking tug would have done it.

—Oh God. Angela Lansbury. Ethel Merman. Jean Stapleton. Janet Reno.

—
Okay, okay. We'll talk later.

—When?

—
About ten seconds after you get home.

—Right, buddy, done. Time for me to tuck you in.

—
You are not my friend.

 

Back in the bar, John has wandered off. Julia hasn't. What's her last name?

“Brouillard,” she says, taking a puff of her Camel Light.

“French, huh?” I say.

“
Un peu
,” she says, exhaling.

“So what'd your boyfriend get you for Valentine's Day?” I say. All casual like.

“Nothing,” she says.

I look at her. She looks at me. She doesn't elaborate.

There's a scene in
Fort Apache, the Bronx
(number four on my list of Greatest New York Movies, right behind number three,
The Warriors
; number two,
Midnight Cowboy
; and of course number one,
Dog Day Afternoon
) where Paul Newman is sitting in a car in a crappy neighborhood in the Bronx with this lady cop (who turns out to be a junkie, of course) he's been flirting with. She asks him why he hasn't hit on her. “I don't go to parties where I ain't invited,” he says. “Do you want an engraved invitation?” she says.

The mail has arrived.

Shooter's ninja combat training is kicking in. Shooter say:
As soon as you get a Moment, get her out of there
. Just leaving a place and going to another place with her raises the stakes.

“I told a friend of mine I'd stop by his bar. Do you want to come with?”

“Yes,” she says.

Well that was easy.

On the way over she casually drops in a mention of how she “and my boyfriend” used to work at the Bridgeport, Connecticut, paper. It is unclear whether going out with the boyfriend is part of the “used to.” And Bridgeport is like the Bronx of Connecticut. So I just say, “Uh-huh.”

Shooter say:
All hot girls have a “boyfriend” hanging around somewhere. Ignore this information. The brain of the hot girl is not wired to handle the concept of being without a boyfriend. So they hang on to the old until they begin with the new.

She doesn't elaborate. I don't press her.

Luck is on my side again at South, a ramshackle underground alcohole on Forty-ninth. Pete is on the door. He acts like a big friendly slobbering bear, as usual. Gives me a manhug (no contact below the chest, which necessitates sticking your butt out, which is an incredibly gay-looking pose, which is why the straight manhug is an exceedingly rare beast, the did-you-see-it-or-didn't-you Sasquatch of social gestures). He's the only bar owner I know in this town. Julia doesn't know that. Pete loves journalists, always treats us to free drinks. We treat him to free stories in our papers. We would do the same for any saloon keeper. Why haven't the rest of them figured this out? I get some drinks. Pete won't let me pay. I don't try very hard.

Time to show her the back room.

Hardly anybody hangs in the desolate overlit back, the empty place where the barbershop and shoeshine stand used to be. I let her pick three songs from the juke (an obscure Nirvana track, some Nick Drake, and Jane's Addiction's “Then She Did”). It won't occur
to me for months that two of these songs are by dead people and the third sounds like an extremely exhausting heroin trip.

We sit on a tattered orange sofa big enough for two, and only two. The light is garish but we're completely alone in the room.

“What were you like in high school?” I say.

“I was such a dork,” she says. “No guys would ever go out with me. Till I was, like,
fifteen
.”

“You seem like a loner,” I say.

“I always have been,” she says. “I'm just, I don't know. A geek.”

“You have very nice eyes for a geek,” I say.

She smiles. “I don't know if I'm ready for the city,” she says.