Seth Baumgartner's Love Manifesto (11 page)

I cough.

Someone laughs.

“That'll put some hair on your chest,” one of the men says, clapping a heavy palm on my back. I drain the rest of the cognac, and a few of the sport-jacketed men—Mr. Gilbert, Mr. Tattinger, and some men I don't recognize—give feeble cheers.

“That's Louis the Thirteenth de Rémy Martin,” Mr. Tattinger says. “It's the best of the best. Fifteen hundred a bottle. Chad—you know my son, Chad, don't you Seth? He got into Yale this week. Better late than never.”

More men laugh.

My father pours me another. “This is it for you,” he whispers. “Drink slowly.”

I swirl the golden brown fluid in the glass just like the men are doing and gaze through it at the Albany skyline. The first firework of the night—a red, white, and purple burst—illuminates the horizon. It makes the cognac sparkle. The report of the firework is delayed, and it makes the show seem disjoined, incomplete. The James Cattrall Orchestra starts with some patriotic tune, and I hear my father's voice creep in around the edges of the static in my head: “Happy Independence Day,” he says.

I hold up my glass but don't say anything in return. Independence isn't something I want to celebrate right now.

Throngs of people start coming outside to watch the
show. I head to the far corner of the patio, where the lights from the party have trouble reaching. I sink into a deck chair at one of the glass tables and put down my snifter.

“You old enough to be drinking that?”

The voice startles me.

It's Audrey. She's sitting at the next table under cloak of darkness. Her feet are propped on the patio railing. The glow of a handheld video game illuminates her face.

“You young enough to be playing that?” I say.

“Touché.” She keeps playing whatever she's playing, not looking up once. “You won't be able to see the show from over here, you know.”

“Never much liked fireworks,” I say.

“Me neither.”

We sit in silence, her playing and me drinking. I watch the flashes reflect off low-hanging clouds and listen to club members “Ooh” and “Aah” at the bright sparkly lights.

“So did you start your list?” Audrey asks.

I look over my shoulder to see if Veronica and Anders have come out to watch the show, too. The thought of them together repulses me, sends my stomach flipping into knots. It also makes me want her back more. But something in me doesn't want Audrey to know that.

“What list?” I say.

Audrey pauses her game. Her R
OGER
name tag catches the light from the patio. “Wow, she hurt you more than I thought.”

I want to tell her she's wrong, but denying it would be pointless. I think back on the time Veronica and I spent
together, of our first kiss over our chemistry homework, of the first rose I ever gave a girl and how she closed her eyes when she smelled it, how she plucked the petals off one by one and we made out on top of them on her bedroom floor. I think about all the clumsy fumbling around we did in the darkness of my parents' basement and how we would sift through our tangled clothes, careful I didn't put on her pink Abercrombie T-shirt and wear it upstairs by mistake. Then I think about her doing all those things with Anders, and I want to fling my fifteen-hundred-dollar-a-bottle glass of cognac off the patio in the rare chance it might hit Anders's Mercedes or whatever it is he drives.

“Yeah, I started my list.” I almost tell her I've already shared thirty-seven of my reasons on
The Love Manifesto
, but, of course, I keep that part to myself.

“How's it going?”

“Okay, I guess.” I take another sip of the cognac, let it burn my throat as it slides down. I place the glass on the table and push it away. “Why do you care?”

She considers my question. “I just think it's something you need to do. I don't know her personally, but from what I've heard she's a bitch.”

Words rise to defend Veronica, but I let Audrey go on. “And that Anders guy. His family joined the club a month or two ago, but I can already tell they're a bunch of tools. They're always sending stuff back to the kitchen, complaining about this and that, wanting items taken off the bill. If you ask me—”

“Which I didn't.”

Audrey smiles. “Which you didn't. But if you ask me, the two of them deserve each other. Him ending up as drunk as his father, staggering around, unable to sign his own bar tab. She'll drive him home and sadly laugh it off when he can't remember coming home with red wine spilled on his Armani jacket and his pants down around his ankles.”

“And you know this because…”

“Because I'm psychic.”

I grab the armrests of my chair and angle my seat toward her. “Because you're psychic?” It comes out more as a challenge than a question.

“Well, not really,” she says. “It's just that Veronica is not the girl for you. You need to get her out of your system is all.”

“So, what, am I like a wounded bird you scooped into a shoe box? Are you going to nurse me back to health?”

“Who says I scooped you anywhere?”

A few more fireworks go off, the little white ones that make big pops.

“So, how's your friend Kevin?”

Audrey keeps her eyes locked on the horizon. “He's good. He gave me a dozen roses today.”

“Hey, you must be doing something right,” I say.

“Thanks, Seth….”

“For what?”

“For making me feel like a hooker, like I need to perform a certain way to procure gifts.”

“I didn't mean—”

“I'm kidding.” Audrey looks up at me. “Plus, I do
everything
right.”

Audrey laughs as the grand finale of the fireworks begins. The “Oohs” and “Aahs” get louder. “What's with the name tag?” I manage to say.

She slides my glass in front of her and expertly swirls the liquid. She takes a sip, and her eyebrows lift as though she appreciates fine cognac, as though it doesn't taste like liquid hell. “It says in the employee handbook that we have to wear a name tag, but it doesn't specify it has to be our correct name. I like the sound of Roger. It's rugged, a little nerdy, and definitely refined.”

“If there's something you're not, it's refined,” I say. “You came from the same womb as Dimitri.”

“Don't remind me.” Audrey leans on the arm of my chair and flips open her Nintendo DS again. It's the hot pink one. “At least he came out a few years before I did,” she adds. “He was eleven pounds when he was born. Probably made things easier on my soft baby skull.”

“That's true,” I say. “I'll bet you could have come out like this….” I stretch my arms wide and start flapping them like bird wings.

Audrey laughs, her eyes still fixed on her video game. Her teeth sparkle. Whose teeth sparkle in the light of a Nintendo DS? I want to touch her arm, just as a friendly thing, but I don't want her to get the wrong idea. I mean, she's Dimitri's little sister. She's the pesky girl who stole the reflectors off my bike so she could put them on her own. I try to get a glimpse of anything Dimitri-ish about her. She
is long, slender. Very
not
Dimitri.

Her eyes meet mine. “Too bad my brother's been a pain in the ass ever since.”

I raise the glass of brandy. “You ain't kidding.”

Intro Music: “The Bad Touch” by Bloodhound Gang

Welcome back to
The Love Manifesto,
a podcast where we examine what love is, why love is, and why we're stupid enough to keep going back for more. That last song is called “The Bad Touch” by Bloodhound Gang. You might be wondering why I played that one, and the answer is simple. Today we're going to be talking about mating rituals.

Now, I hear you saying, “Mating rituals? Stop talking crazy.” You're probably saying that going out with a girl—casual dating and all that—has nothing to do with mating rituals. But that's where you're wrong. Dating is a mating ritual. Push-up bras, high heels, and bright red toenails are mating rituals. That shimmy thing girls do with their boobs when they dance is a mating ritual. Blasting music
in your car as you cruise up and down Central Avenue on twenty-four-inch chromed-out spinners is a mating ritual. We do those things to get the attention of a mate, one who is searching for something we have.

And it's no different from what Charles Darwin saw when he wrote about natural selection a hundred and fifty years ago. Darwin looked at peacocks and wondered about their beautiful feathers. He looked at elks and wondered why their antlers were so ridiculously huge. Antlers bigger than chandeliers don't lend themselves to survival; they lend themselves to getting some hot elk bootie.

But here's where this crap gets interesting. Darwin was right when he said sexual selection is more important than natural selection. Attracting a mate and having babies is more important than surviving the elements, getting food, having the longest neck to reach the highest branches, or any of that other stuff. No babies means no future for the species. Period. Bye-bye.
Hasta la vista.

It's all about finding someone to spread your genetic code with. Sounds sexy, right? But it makes me wonder if that's why those overpowering feelings of intense love only last for a short time—weeks, maybe months at best. Is it because those feelings only last until the female and the selected male have had a chance to do the deed?

I loved my ex—heck, I still love her—but back then the love felt different. At first it was like I was floating, soaring through the clouds, a total rush. After a while, it changed. I'm not sure how or why, but it changed. It got duller, but
deeper. It was there like the wiring of a house is there. You don't see it, you don't think about it every day, but it's there and it works.

And then she yanked everything away. She yanked it away for some total jerk.

We're up to number forty-seven in what you, my listeners, have dubbed the “biggest display of nadlessness in the history of mankind.” I don't care. Judging from the leap in downloads, at least some of you are enjoying the show and telling friends about it. Not to mention that I woke up today with an actual theme song in my inbox. How cool is that?

Anyway, number forty-seven is how she would text me when I least expected it. Early in the morning. Before she went to sleep. It was cool. Hearing that cell phone beep still makes me jump. At least it used to….

So, back on topic. Are girls looking for Mr. Right, or are they looking for Mr. Right Now? And if girls aren't monogamous, why do couples stay together for the long haul, even after the heart-thumping excitement has worn off?

I guess you'll just have to stay tuned.

Outro Music: “Milkshake” by Kelis

M
y father called to say he'd be home from work late, and on impulse I hopped in my car. When I got to Schuyler Village Condominiums, I found Luz's Integra sitting in her parking space. There's a car in one of the guest spots, too, but it's a Chrysler 300, not my father's Beemer. And whoever owns it could be visiting any of the apartments.

So I wait.

After about two minutes, waiting gets boring, so I climb out of the car and make my way over to Luz's stoop. I stand at the bottom and dare myself to climb the concrete steps.

I don't.

There are four units in the building marked 1103. I can see from the doorbells that they are lettered A through D. Aside from the name Miller on Apartment A's doorbell, no names are posted.

That leaves B, C, and D.

I stare at the small glowing row of doorbell buttons, hoping some clue might come along and clobber me over the head.

Nope.

As I make my way back to my car, I consider the mailboxes sitting under the pink glow of the halogen lights. I head over there.

My cell phone beeps. Text message. I flip open my phone. Veronica's name is plastered across the screen. Who else? She's texted me around a dozen times since Saturday night.

So sorry u had 2 c me w Anders. Tried 2 call b4 but u nvr pkd up.

I shut my phone and drop it into my pocket.

She could have left a voice mail. She could have texted me. She could have done a whole load of things. How about not going to my golf club's Fourth of July party in the first place?

The halogen light buzzes above me. A bug sizzles against the hot bulb. I find a mailbox labeled
L. Rivera
in messy black handwriting. Beneath her name is printed the number 1103-D. She's in Apartment D. I'm such a genius. I tug at the small metal door in the hopes I'll see what kind of catalogs she gets—as if I might figure something out about the woman by knowing whether she gets JC Penney or J.Crew. Maybe one of Dimitri's mom's leather-and-chains catalogs. No such luck. The mailbox is locked.

I walk back to Luz's building, climb the concrete steps, and peer through the window on the front door. A broken umbrella and a few plastic-wrapped phone books litter
the entryway. There's a door on the left marked with the letter A and a door on the right marked with the letter B. Both have brass knobs, deadbolts, and peepholes. A well-lit staircase leads upward.

I go back to my car and slide into the front seat. I eyeball the upper-right bay of windows, the side I figure must be Apartment D. The windows are dark, with the exception of a thin sliver of light between drawn curtains.

If only I had one of those microphone dishes and headphone getups they have on the sidelines at NFL games—the ones they use to snoop on the goings on in the huddle. That thing could probably hear every last sound in her apartment.

I consider snatching the CD swinging from Luz's rearview mirror and popping it into my player. I wonder if there are any songs on it.

I take a sip of my Slurpee. The seven alternating layers of Coca-Cola and cherry flavorings have melted into the perfect cherry Coke mix. The bottom half is syrupy liquid, while the top is all shaved ice. My stroon (straw/spoon hybrid) roams the depths of the cup for that elusive region that is the perfect Slurpee consistency—half icy slush, half syrup. I suck up too much ice too fast.

Crap! Brain freeze!

Pain stabs the deepest, most sensitive parts of my brain like thousands of ice picks. I clench my eyes and rub the roof of my mouth with my tongue in the hopes the friction might defrost my head. It doesn't help.

Finally, the peak of the pain subsides. I leave my eyes
shut until my gray matter thaws. Then I open them.

And that's when I see her.

Charging barefoot down her concrete steps.

Charging toward my car. Pointing toward me.

She's wearing an oversized pink US A
RMY
tee that reaches the tops of her thighs. No shorts. No shoes.

“You're that guy I saw hanging around here the other day,” she says to me. “You're that ‘Dueling Banjos' redneck. What are you doing out in front of my house? Are you stalking me?”

My pounding heart launches into my throat. I drop my Slurpee into my lap and shift my idling car into gear.

I'm pointing the wrong way and there's no exit at the back of the complex—only a bunch of garage bays, a shed, and a slew of Dumpsters against a retaining wall. I spin the wheel hard right and begin a frenzied three-point turn.

“Did Mr. Taggert send you down here? Are you from the workers' comp board?”

I have no idea what she's talking about, but I figure sticking around while Luz is out for blood isn't the wisest idea.

I throw the car into reverse and spin the wheel in the other direction to start the second part of my turn. My car lurches backward, and I pray I don't hit this woman. The police report flashes through my mind. I see my father's expression when he finds out I've backed the Red Scare over his mistress as though she were a speed bump.

The Slurpee seeps through my shorts and soaks my nuts with icy syrup. I'm not proud to say that I know “ball freeze”
is far worse than “brain freeze,” but it is. Nevertheless, I don't waste the second it would take to put my cup back in the cup holder.

Luz grabs my shoulder through the open window. She smacks the roof of my car with the other. “Get out, I want to talk to you!” I shift into drive and hit the accelerator. My car surges forward, and I'm terrified I'll run over Luz's toes. Her nails bite into my shoulder. Pain lances through my arm, but I keep the car moving. Finally, her grip slackens and she lets go. I stomp on the pedal and my Camry kicks up all kinds of gravel as I fire down the driveway.

“Yeah, keep going!” I hear her voice over the revving of my engine. “Coward!”

As I round the bend past the bushes, I sneak a glance in my rearview mirror. Luz is barefoot in the middle of the road. She's still yelling something at me, but I can't hear her over the engine. I pull out onto Northern Boulevard and head off into the night.

My left shoulder, the shoulder Luz grabbed, feels like someone swabbed it with kerosene and tossed a lit match. I pull up my sleeve and see four claw marks—like bloody colonel stripes—across my arm. Luz Rivera drew blood. She drew blood and made me soak my crotch in frozen cherry Coke Slurpee syrup.

Time to get home. I've got to clean my wounds. I've got to put on my headphones and get behind the microphone. Someone's got to hear about what happened tonight, and I sure as hell can't tell anyone I actually know.