World Gone Water (12 page)

Jon puts his arm on the back of Alisha's chair and Alisha is visibly uncomfortable. I reach for the envelope in my pocket as a way to distract Jon, to stop his assault, but Alisha doesn't look to me for help, and I am confused as to whether or not she wants any.

I pull out the photo of Talie and slide it across the table to Jon.

“What's this?” he asks.

“A local girl,” I say. “I thought we might consider her.”

“We've got enough models for the ad,” Jon tells me. “Besides, I'm not allowed to use unagented girls.”

Belinda and Alisha glance at the envelope, at me, and then back toward the crowding men.

“You should at least take a look,” I say. Jon drinks his vodka tonic down to the ice and looks at me. “JSB wants you to consider her,” I say. I know if I can get her this one thing, it might project her in another direction, away from Dale and Frank and even me.

Alisha catches the photo as it falls from Jon's indifferent grasp. “She looks nice.”

“Her features are too far apart on her face,” Belinda says. “Who is she?”

“I suppose your features are perfect,” I snap.

“Well …,” Belinda says.

“Give it back,” I say, reaching for the photo.

“Excuse me,” a voice says. We all turn.

The guy Kyle pouted at stands in front of our table, trying not to lose his nerve.

“What?” Jon scowls.

The guy looks at Jon and then leans in over Kyle's shoulder, whispering something in her ear.

Kyle puts her hand on his cheek, turning his head, and whispers something back.

The guy smiles faintly and leaves.

Belinda laughs. “What did he want?”

“He wanted to dance,” Kyle says.

“Why didn't you?” I ask, everyone turning to look at me.

Kyle glares at me and winces. “I don't want his hands all over me.”

“Definitely a groper,” Belinda says.

“This place is getting crowded,” Jon says without looking around.

“Yeah, let's go,” Belinda agrees.

“Where to?” Kyle asks, finishing her wine cooler.

“Caveat Emptor has a back room,” Jon says, standing up.

“I'll meet you,” I say, having no intention of letting this night drag on.

I toss the photo of Talie in the trash can in the men's room, knowing I could never look at it again without hearing Belinda's criticism. The bathroom attendant retrieves the photo as I push out of the bathroom, and I don't look back as I rush through a throng of people coming in the door.

It has only recently occurred to me that I open more doors than are opened for me.

I am keeping count.

Previously, I would hold doors instinctively, a natural reflex. And I believed that this was a form of common courtesy, that it was all about fellowship and kindness. But of course it has to be about much more.

I learned this as I listened to a woman, a peer, someone I don't really know, but someone I have held the door for, vehemently arguing that holding doors is an “undue exertion of influence by men over women.” There were others who chimed in, talking in cool, clinical terms about things like “equality” and “empowerment.” I could not fathom the implications of this conversation. Was common courtesy really an exertion of influence, a favor to be repaid, a debt? Does this mean that a smile or a look can suggest possibilities, make promises, imply?

There is a clear inequality between the sexes.

I have been privy to the secret conversations of men, the in-between comments, the raised eyebrows that telepathically communicate low whistles. There is nothing in these conversations or in this behavior that makes me think these things will ever change.

But I understand why things need to change.

I am on the side of progress.

To prove this to myself, I laughed out loud at a pair of city workers who slowed their truck as they passed a young woman striding along the sidewalk, yelling “Hey, baby” to her and bravely speeding up before she could respond. I laughed out loud at their pathetic existence. And as they passed me (I was just sitting at a bus stop, drinking a cherry Slurpee), the one in the passenger seat nodded to me as if we had an understanding. He thought I was smiling, approving of his behavior.

And I'm not sure I wasn't.

I mean, I saw the young woman first, before the truck came rolling down the street, before the catcall. I looked up and there she was in front of me. I did not say, “Hey, baby,” either out loud or to myself, but I did make note of her appearance. That's all: I simply registered whether or not I liked how she was dressed.

But I know not to tell a woman that she looks nice, even though I am thinking that she does.

I've learned my lesson on this one.

I shouldn't even be thinking it, I know.

Because I know that by evaluating her appearance, I am objectifying her, making her an art piece in a museum of other women, and everyone knows that the objectification of women is the cornerstone of pornography and all this leads to the fact that I am considering her, rating her, telling her that I am willing to have sex with her. And I know that if a woman tells me that I look nice, that she likes my new haircut, that she likes the color of my eyes, she is really, subtly, telling me that she would like to sleep with me.

Of course Dr. Hatch disagrees.

I'm learning not to look directly at women I don't know. I understand that this is an invasion of their right to walk down the street unmolested. By looking at them, by trying to catch their
attention with a smile or a look, I am frightening them, making them feel uncomfortable, demanding something in return.

Like a smile.

Or a hello.

Or a look.

I understand this completely.

I mean, I really do understand this. I understand that living among an enormously anonymous population can bring out the worst in people. It is very easy to hurt someone. Women have cause to be afraid. But most people are kind and treat people with the kindness and respect they deserve.

There are aberrations, of course.

The two girls we find in a club in Tempe—whose names neither of us can remember—promise they'll do a good job. Jason asks them several times if they've ever done a bachelor party and it's the blonde who says, “Of course not.”

I am unamused by this blonde's cuteness, but Jason's panic at not reconfirming with the call girls we finally decided on after a night of endless interviews and evaluations is just now starting to subside. I give Jason the look I've been giving him all night, and he says, “I know, dude, I know.”

The gathering of men in the suite at the Pointe South Mountain Resort hushes when the girls walk in. I think the blonde is named Tammy. The girls get back to back in the middle of the tightly mowed tan carpet. Ross MacDonald and Steve Speerman from the accounting department at Buckley jump out of the hot tub on the patio and come inside.

JSB is at the little bar in the corner with his back turned, but Peters from legal turns him around and they both fill their eyes with the two girls.

Everyone is waiting for someone to put the girls in motion, and I tell Jason, “Make them work.”

Jason introduces the girls to everyone.

“This is Kiki and Cherry,” Jason says.

“Hi, Kiki. Hi, Cherry,” a unison chorus greets them.

The girls, whose real names aren't Kiki and Cherry, ask if there's any music, and Jason produces a boom box, which thumps to life. A couple lamps are switched off as the curtains sweep across the wall of windows looking out onto west Phoenix.

The couches and love seat are pushed back into a crooked circle, and any chair available fills the gaps until everyone is seated, JSB on the couch in the middle.

Kiki and Cherry dance the entire song without taking any of their clothes off. Their feeling that suggestive grinding and head rolling will put everyone in the mood fails to take into account that everyone was in the mood when they heard there would be a bachelor party.

Sensing the room's impatience, Jason yells, “Take it off, for chrissake.”

Kiki and Cherry try to hide their panic as they lift their shirts off over their heads, buying them another thirty to sixty seconds of dancing before the crowd will want another sacrifice.

There's a knock at the door that no one hears but me. A fat man—two men, it seems—in matching Arizona State University sweatpants and sweatshirt shifts his weight in his maroon and gold flip-flops. The two call girls from the night before are behind him, leaning on the rail.

I step out into the hot night air and close the door.

“You didn't call, so we just came over,” one of the girls says. She was the driver of the Lexus in the parking lot of the Circle K where we'd conducted our interview.

“You booked these girls,” the man says. “I don't know what you've got going on in there now, but you'll have to pay for these girls.” He nods in the girls' direction and his unshaven chin multiplies.

“Look,” I say. “Somebody fucked up.”

Everyone waits for further explanation, but I cross my arms and the four of us just stand there, waiting.

“We don't have to go in, but we have to get paid,” the man says.

The master thespian would be good at this point and I tell everyone to stay where they are.

Inside, the music has stopped and Kiki and Cherry are on their knees naked in the middle of the circle, which has now collapsed in around them. Peters and MacDonald have their shirts off and JSB is on the couch in his boxers.

“Can I have my clothes back?” Kiki asks.

“We want to go,” Cherry says, looking up at me.

“If you want to go, you can go,” I say. A groan travels around the room. “The
real
girls are here,” I tell the room, smirking at Jason.

A chorus of hurrahs chases Kiki and Cherry into the bedroom, their clothes thrown after them. The master thespian lets himself into the bedroom where they're changing, and I bring on the call girls, who you immediately know are going to give you your money's worth when they strip down and start fisting each other in the center of a newly formed circle.

“I'll let you know when we're finished,” I tell the fat man, who stands post outside.

I look around to see if JSB is having a good time, wanting to see the satisfaction on his face, a look I single-handedly deserve for saving the fucking day here, but JSB has for the moment disappeared.

I check the bedroom and find Kiki and Cherry sobbing, half clothed, the trauma preventing them from getting fully dressed. The master thespian is sitting between them on the bed, and I'm about to say, “You're still going to get paid,” when JSB comes out of the bathroom, still in his boxers, and walks past me without acknowledging me, then sits down on the other side of Kiki.

The master thespian looks up at me, smiles, and turns his attention back to Cherry, whose sobs are becoming less insistent. JSB puts his hand on Kiki's leg and she doesn't push it away. JSB says something in Kiki's ear and she laughs, two tears dripping from her chin onto his hand.

Cherry nuzzles Jason and he looks up at me and winks in a way that sends me to the moon.

“Never let another man take anything from you,” JSB used to tell me.

“You have to reach out and take what you want,” he'd say.

“Remember that you're the better man,” he'd say.

“You'd be surprised who gets what they want,” he'd say. “It isn't the one with the most talent or the most brains, but the one who perseveres. You have to be the last man standing,” he'd say.

“Excuse me,” I say, going into the bathroom, shutting the door.

I sit on the closed toilet and consider.

They were here first, it isn't that big of a deal, probably nothing's going to happen. You have to be the last man standing.

You're the better man.

None of them looks up when I open the bathroom door.

“Listen,” I say.

Kiki and Cherry look up at me again.

“I'm sorry about tonight,” I begin. “We really appreciate you making the effort you did—”

“It's okay, dude,” the master thespian says, holding up his hand. “Everything's cool now.”

MacDonald opens the door and I can clearly hear Peters's whooping. “JSB, you've got to see this,” MacDonald says.

JSB, who I notice for the first time is drunk, slides off the bed, and MacDonald pulls him into the front room.

I close the door behind him and twist the lock. Kiki is staring
blankly at the white light coming from the bathroom, and I slip in next to her. She may not even know what has just happened.

I overhear the master thespian say something about a shower and he and Cherry are gone just like that.

How to get from here to there: “Are you okay?” I ask.

It's the wrong thing to say.

“I'm fine,” Kiki says.

“Wild night, right?” I ask.

She doesn't even look at me.

I can feel myself blowing it with Kiki. What I learned is that you have to just reach out and take something if you want it. Whether or not Kiki wants it is, for now, at this moment, a lost point. There is no indication that she
doesn't
want it.

There's a knock at the door and I hear JSB's voice.

“Charlie. Unlock the door.”

The shower in the bathroom is running and I hear giggling.

Kiki looks at me, at the door, back at me, and I put my hand on her leg and decide what I'm going to do.

The last ice cube free-falls into the watery ice bucket. The ice machine rumbles angrily and then sighs, sputtering the last of anything it has, a spray of water coating the miniature glacier at the bottom of the bucket. I touch my wet fingertips to the corners of my dry eyes, blinking until the Aztec-patterned carpet comes into focus, my bare feet blending with the browns and greens, so that I'm convinced my toes are disappearing. I blink again and put one foot in front of the other.