Plan C (11 page)

“What did you see?” I ask, concern seeping into my voice.

It was a penis….” He trails off.

“Was it a soldier’s penis?” I dare ask.

“No. Somebody I knew.”

“Was it, like, your uncle’s penis?” asks Kitty.

“No,” says Helmut.

“Your father’s penis?” I ask.

“No,” he says, taking a deep breath and looking off into the distance. “It was my mother’s penis.”

“Your mother had a penis?” I say, imagining the sex-change operation.

“Sort of. It was my mother, Helga, with a strap-on. She was taking my father from behind.”

We fall silent. Then Helmut roars with laughter. “Got you!” he says.

“Oh, Helmut, you’re such a
dick
!” says Kitty.

“I knowwwww,” he says eyeing his penis art.

Ben moves to the first painting attempting to get serious. “You must have looked at a lot of abstract expressionism. De Kooning…?”

“”Helmut’s definitely a kindred spirit,” Kitty says. “But hardly an imitator, as you can see.”

“Sure, I can see,” I say sarcastically, sipping my champagne and lost in whatever-the-fuck-they’re-talking-about.

“It’s funny about German artists,” says Kitty. “They morph, they change, they pursue new things. But Helmut has found his niche.” Following Helmut’s eyes as they move to Kitty’s ass, I’ve already figured out the next niche he’s likely to pursue.

“Just take it in. Take it all in,” says Kitty. “You can
feel
it coming at you.” I bite my upper lip in order to stifle laughter. “It’s insanity culminating into serenity,” says Kitty. “Like Francis Bacon and Monet if they had a love child and just well, went with it.” Now I guffaw into my glass and champagne is coming out a nostril. “This one is called ‘The Shaft,’” says Kitty.

“
Of course
it is!” I blurt out.

Kitty shoots me an enraged look that says if she had a paint brush she’d stab me in the eyeball with it. “This is a
penetrating
analysis,” she says.

“I can see that,” I say. Is it possible to snort champagne twice in two minutes?

Ben can’t conceal his grin. And I’m getting drunk enough to feel mischievous.

“You know, honey,” I say, “This sculpture reminds me of us.” I nuzzle into Ben’s side. “I mean how many couples still do it doggie style after ten years.”

“How many couples still
fuck
?” says Ben.

“Interesting,” says Helmut. “Maybe we should take a poll.”

“Count me in. I’d fuck every day if I could,” says Kitty, eyeing Helmut’s wienerschnitzel.

Helmut tosses his head back and roars with laughter. Kitty grins uneasily and shoots me one of her “I’m-gonna-kill-you” looks.

“And this one…” says Helmut moving proudly to the next, “this one is ‘The Log and the Beaver.’” We study a beam light that penetrates the beaver carved from a piece of oak.

“The Log
and
the Beaver?” I ask. “Or the Log
in
the Beaver?”

“Interesting,” says Helmut.

I slide over to the next exhibit, worried I’m going to wet myself.

“Oh you’ll like this one, Libby,” says Helmut, one step behind me. “I call it ‘The Warrior in the Bush.’”

I keep moving but Helmut and his bad breath are on my heels. “This one is called ‘Potent – tial,’” he says.

Kitty is ahead of us now. “Oh! Oh! Oh God! This one is my favorite!”

Ben leans into me. “It’s her favorite. It’s called ‘Oh! Oh! Oh God!”

“Actually it’s called ‘The Member,’” says Helmut. “I bet you have a favorite member, Libby…” He takes my hand, kisses it and then glances up at Ben with a look that suggests he might want a three-way.

Ben steps over to the last display which is a huge beam of phallic light, projecting out the small double-hung window into the traffic on the street below.

“Our highlight of the evening,” he says, proudly. “This one I call ‘Der Dong.”

We stand there studying it, struggling to keep our eyes from rolling. It’s like Darth Vadar has cast a beam to the ceiling in some Star Wars Trilogy.

“This takes time to reveal its true purpose,” says Kitty.

“Oh, I see its purpose all right,” I say.

“There’s so much to take in,” says Ben.

“Exactly, Ben! You understand me,” says Helmut. “I want the viewer to process its manliness. I love to watch a woman respond, as Kitty does.”

Clive comes up behind me and whispers, “Oh, Christ Almighty. It’s just a giant knob.”

“Excuse me. I’m getting a refill,” I say, jiggling my champagne glass, “With Clive.”

“You should try the
Penis
Noir,” says Helmut. I ignore him.

“I can’t take another second of this fucking wanker,” says Clive, right behind me. “Blimey!”

“Clive, what does blimey mean anyway?”

“Blimey? Even in England nobody uses it anymore. It’s short for God blind me, apparently. Gosh. Holy Moly. Fuck me. That sort of thing…”

“Oh,” I say, heading to the bar but when I turn to Clive, he’s turned to a guest who’s just tapped him on the shoulder. “Be back straight away, Libby.”

I lean on the white cloth atop a makeshift bar and let loose a round of pent-up giggles. Suddenly Kitty is behind me, hissing into my ear. “Knock it off. I can see right through you!”

“You see through
me?”

“Get serious,” says Kitty, dragging me into a small alcove. “I need you to be a cheerleader right now. That’s what friends are for.”

“Sis boom fucking bah!”

“You’re being obnoxious, Libby.”

“I’m obnoxious?”

“Helmut’s worth to these clients could pay off Madoff’s debt! Don’t you understand?” says Kitty, “This is my Renaissance.”

“You mean midlife crisis.”

Kitty moves to her desk where she snatches a business card and hands it to me. “Call this number,” she says. “Tell ‘em Kitty sent you.”

I study the raised ink on the white card. “American Museum of Natural History?”

“I found you a
fifth
job,” says Kitty.

“Am I on five jobs now? I can’t keep track.”

“It’s only one day a week. Event planning for the head of security.”

“But what about Talbots?” I say, a childish grin crossing my face as I peer out at Helmut.

“What’s that smirk for?” she says. “Stop making fun of him. “Unlike Clive, Helmut’s not a dud, he’s a stud.”

“Clive is not a dud,” I say.

“What do you know?”

“I know that Clive’s British. And if ‘The Tudors’ on
Showtime
is accurate, he could have you beheaded.”

“Clive’s no King – he’s just a royal pain in the ass,” says Kitty. “And besides, they only beheaded you
after
they were done with you. Clive’s not done with me. Unfortunately. There’s a lot of duty booty left in our marriage,” says Kitty.

“What’s gotten into you, Kitty Kat? Is your Venus in Saturn? Or is your vagina on Helmut’s face?”

“I don’t have time for this. I have to get back out there,” she says craning her neck over my shoulder. “Some corporate types just walked in. Hope those swinging dicks can afford some swinging dicks.”

“Cavemen really
were
hung,” I muse, passing the glass case of wax figures –one sans loin cloth, with full frontal exposure, the other donning a mastodon skin. And then I panic. The very words that the museum security guard just told me all but two minutes ago have seeped from my brain: “Payroll is
past
the primates,
through
Northern American Indians,
past
Amphibians and Reptiles…” And then….and then? Shit. I forget what’s then. That’s what I get for taking on three jobs in seven days with no sleep.

“Okay,” I whisper, gathering myself. “This must be it.” The grey, metal door swings open into a vast and dark space. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust and then I spy two male archaeologists in the corner tucked next to a sea turtle display where they’re unloading wooden crates stamped “China.” Clearly I’m in the wrong place. The archaeologist who looks like Crocodile Dundee glances up. My uncertainly must be transparent. “Sorry,” he says, “But this is reptiles, mate.”

But I ignore him because my eyes have already landed on the other guy – the hot Indiana Jones guy with the sandy blond hair and the thigh muscles bulging beneath his jeans. Suddenly I’m squirming like an Alaskan sockeye caught in a net. He stops what he’s doing and rolls up his shirt sleeves, displaying more muscles. Tanned ones. Placing
his hands on his hips, he makes it clear he doesn’t appreciate the interruption. He stares at me staring at him.

“Oh, um,” I say, in a mouse-sized voice, “Can you tell me if Payroll is near Human Resources?” My eyes go fluttery. Competition for the salamander he’s just unloaded.

“Payroll - over near roadkill,” he says.

“Roadkill?”

“The wall with the hanging rodents,” he explains. “You know, raccoon skins, squirrels, skunks.”

“Oh, I get it. Roadkill,” I say, looking like an idiot. But the look on his face tells me he finds me slightly more charismatic than annoying.

“I saw you yesterday eating lunch,” he says, with a thick Aussie accent, and flashing a killer movie star grin.

“Are you sure?” I say coyly, playing the dumb blonde from a centerfold.

“Employees cafeteria,” he says. “Salad bar. Balsamic dressing. I needed a fork. It was hot. Very hot.”

“Oh, I…”

“Here,” he says. “The new brochure on salamanders,” he winks. “Maybe we can discuss them over coffee sometime.”

“Oh thank you. But my boyfriend…”

“Saddest two words in the English language: ‘My boyfriend.’”

I laugh. “Well, I do, um…have a boyfriend.”

“Well, I do, um….have a girlfriend,” he says.

I keep staring at him, the brochure hanging loosely between my fingers. I’m more consumed with seeing his chest muscles beneath his denim snapped shirt with just a hint of his chest hair peeping out. Is this Russell Crowe’s double from the “
Gladiator
?” I practically slap myself back to reality before spitting out: “I mean, I have a boyfriend who’s really a fiancé.”

“Oh, well,” he counters, “And I have a girlfriend who’s really a wife.” We both laugh. “And I’m kidding,” he says. “I’m not married.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” I say, completely forgetting that Payroll is waiting for the paperwork in my hand. In the other direction.

“Sure I can’t get your number?” he asks.

I spin back around feeling very girly-girl. “Noooo.”

“Look, uh…”

“It’s Libby.”

“Right, Libby, about that cup of coffee?” He pats down his chest and searches his pockets, “Problem is I don’t own a damn Blackberry, a cell phone, or even a piece of paper.”

“Are you Amish?”

“No, Australian.”

“Yes, I know.”

“But that was very funny,” he says pointing at me like with a revolver and holding the pose.

He’s got rugged rogue written all over him, and I’m liking it. Far cry from my sweet Jewish fiancée at home. But listen, Hugh Jackman, I’m thinking, it’s been a blast, but I have to get to work. Or do I?

“What about the Frick?” he asks.

“The museum? What about it?” I ask with a hint of flirt and hearing the sexual innuendo but turning to walk the other way.

“Never been,” he says.

“It’s wonderful, but I can’t go. I really have to work. Thank you again,” I say turning back around and now moving faster.

“Thank you for what?” he hollers. “I didn’t do anything.”

Thinking how to respond, I bang into the door, almost breaking my nose in the process. But not before tripping over…

“That crate,” he calls, “Mind yourself!”

But it’s too late. I’ve just flown over a box marked “Gecko” display.

“You alright, Miss? Ah, Libby?” he says, scurrying toward me.

“Fine, fine, don’t mind me,” I say. And then I’m on my feet and flying out the door like an eighth grader on the last day of a science final.

In the elevator I glance at the brochure and learn something about that Amphibian wing. Apparently the salamanders engage in vigorous sexual dance routines before mating. And usually in groups! Oh, my. Was my Indiana Jones suggesting something? The elevator dings, and a group of school children enter followed by their spinsterish old teacher holding up a guide sign that says “field trip.” Feeling very R rated, I cautiously place the brochure under my clipboard of papers.

As the elevator door closes, my mind shifts gears to a Christina Aguilera song “Still Dirty,” I smirk as if somebody’s just whispered a joke in my ear. “I gotta let the naughty in me free. There’s a woman inside all of us, who never quite seems to get enough. Tryin’ to play by all the rules is rough, cause sooner or later something’s gotta erupt us cause I still got the nasty in me. Still got that dirty degree.” If that school teacher could read my mind, she’d wash it out with a bar of soap. As the door opens to my floor, I exit, humming the second verse: “Why is a woman’s sexuality, always under so much scrutiny…”

*

Finger inside his nose, Jean-Christophe kicks my seat. He’s on my left side and Jean-Baptiste is on my right as I proudly place a piping hot tray of homemade lasagna on the trivet in the center of the table. To the side, a decorative platter of basil sprigs dripping with olive oil, olives and mozzarella. Next to it, a piping hot homemade garlic bread, and finally, a bowl of broccoli – not because it goes with the dinner, but because it’s the only thing the boys will eat - no salt, no butter, and al dente, as specified.

“Looks yummy, Mom. Can I serve?” says Madeline, anxious to dig in.

Jean-Baptiste stops his fidgeting just long enough to insert his pinky finger into the casserole dish, then quickly retrieves it. “Ow! That’s hot,” he says, narrowing his eyes. Oh God, here comes the tsunami.

“What’s
that?
” Jean-Baptiste, sucks on his burnt finger. “It looks gross,” he says, as though I’ve just served him dead animal guts baked in the dessert sun.

“Homemade lasagna with meatballs,” says Madeline slicing portions for everybody.

“Well, I don’t like it,” says Jean-Baptiste settling back down in his chair and folding his arms. “And I never had
that
kind of pasta,” he says, examining it as Madeline spatulas a scoop onto his plate.