he needs me (chapter 27, part 1)

(image courtesy Jeff Soderquist)

It was Isabelle’s turn in writing group this week. She brought the final scene of her epic Greek erotic adventure in which all the characters come together for a final glorious orgy in the underworld, the penultimate happy ending. But Isabelle is isn’t just a dirty-talker; she’s an imaginative wordsmith with an original style and this scene included several surprising and detailed vignettes written with such an inventive technique and a gourmet appreciation that by the end of the meeting, every cheek was flushed. Kinko the teenager couldn’t stop giggling and even Karen squirmed in her seat.

After group, Drew and Wayne walk two blocks to a neighborhood cocktail bar for a drink. It has an old neon sign and bars over the windows and naughahyde booths. 9:30 on a Thursday night and the clientele consists of three old guys perched at the bar like greasy pigeons and a sleazy-looking couple slouched in a booth. This is not the kind of bar you go to if you’re looking to get laid.

That’s what Wayne whispers in Drew’s ear as they slide into the two seats at the foot of the L shaped bar. She laughs. They have seen so little of each other these last few months that they’re acting like strangers-smiling too hard, telling long stories about mundane events, insisting on paying for this round or the next one for sure and it takes about three drinks before Drew loosens up. She doesn’t even notice that he’s not keeping up with her, is still sipping his dry three-olived martini while she, who never knows what to order, has had a gin and tonic, one bourbon and coke, and now sips something the bartender recommended, pink stuff from a tall glass. The room is starting to buzz. Drew gapes at Wayne and grips the vinyl edge of the bar with both hands. “So what are you going to do? Is he going to live with you forever?”

Wayne shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“Where does he sleep?”

“On the sofa.”

“Is he cute?”

“If you like big eyes and soft skin.”

Drew narrows her eyes. “You do. You do like big eyes and soft skin.”

“Maybe. But Victor is different.” Wayne doodles in the condensation on the side of his glass. “He needs me.”

“You mean he needs your arms to hold him tight? He needs you to show him what it is to be a real man?” Drew laughs at her joke and takes another gulp of the saccharine stuff but Wayne doesn’t laugh. He pokes an olive with his little plastic skewer, stabs it and stabs it again, and she doesn’t know what to say to get him back. Patsy Cline has been singing a sad song for at least twenty minutes, maybe since they arrived, her voice catching a little on the low notes like a sob in her throat. Drew leans close and whispers, “Well you always do take real good care of me. What would I do without you?”

“That’s different. Victor really, really needs me.”

He doesn’t look up from his drink. He won’t look at her. This angle accentuates the delicacy of his features: his fine brow bone, straight jut of nose and high cheekbone. She thinks he looks like a daguerreotype of the stoic long-haired child-boy who never came back from the Civil war. No- a portrait of the artist as a young man or the final pencil sketch of the dandy aristocrat just before tuberculosis had its way. He has Rimbaud’s youth, Baudelaire’s dark eyes, Byron’s curls, and when he broods he sets his lower teeth set in front of his incisors like a kid playing tough guy. Everything about him looks fine- fine as in fine art or fine china or finery and Drew wants to touch him but he’s in another dimension, behind a pane of thick, wavery old glass.

Tears well up in her eyes. She wants to kiss him but she settles for tugging his cuff. “I need you, too, Wayne. Hell. If not for you I wouldn’t be a writer or a teacher or anything. I wouldn’t be here. Shit, I wouldn’t even know what to wear. You’re a wonderful friend.” He smiles with half his mouth and squeezes her knee. When she’s drunk, she cries and swears too much; it’s one of the things he used to like about her. “I’m serious. You’re the best.” She wipes her eyes and raises her glass. “To my best friend forever.” She downs the drink.

He orders another while she tries to reapply her lipstick, a $100 tube of lipstick Mae insisted she buy. She can’t seem to stay within the lines so Wayne uses a napkin to clean her up. He says, “Do you remember that beauty-pageant girl who was found dead in her home back in the 90s? I can’t remember her name. Something hyphenated?”

Drew nods. “The little blonde girl.”

“Yeah. Remember how she was everywhere? At the top of every news report and the cover of every magazine for months and months and everybody thought they knew who did it. We all knew her parents’ names and the layout of their house and the exact spot where she was found under a white sheet. We knew everything about her.”

“It was so sad.”

“Well I remember standing in Aunt Bea’s kitchen, watching t.v. and drinking milk straight from the carton (which was not cool but there wasn’t anyone there to see me, right? my big rebellion) and this six-year-old was on every channel and I realized, hey, this kid is famous, she’s bigger than Elvis, but me? I’m just an 18-year-old nobody drinking milk from the carton.”

“Your aunt was such a fucking bitch. She didn’t deserve to know you. If I ever meet her, I’ll beat her up. I’ll rip her fucking hair out.”

Wayne laughs. “Anyway, I guess that kid inspired me, you know? To do something with my life. So I staged my own death.”

”What?”

“I know, it makes no sense. But conceivably, it could work. Think about it. I set up the perfect crime scene in the basement: a window broken from the outside, evidence of a struggle, a roll of duct tape, scraps of nylon rope, a ransom note. It was quite well done, really. Very compelling. I had watched a lot of Perry Mason.”

“So what happened?”

“I went to Golden Gate Park. I slept on an island in the middle of Stowe Lake in an old cloth sleeping bag I bought at an army-navy store. I can’t believe I really did it.”

“But you were just a kid! Weren’t you scared?”

“It was scary at night. Strange animal noises in the bushes, homeless people having arguments. I’d just zip my sleeping bag over my head and wait for the sun to come up. The bag got soaking wet in the dew so during the day, I’d lay it out to dry in the sun and go buy myself a hot dog and an Eskimo pie from the snack bar. Then I’d chat with this ancient Chinese guy who liked to fish there right next to the sign that said ‘No Fishing Allowed.’ I’d sit on a bench feeding popcorn to the ducks and the seagulls while he caught catfish and some mutant eel things. He didn’t stop talking all day but I couldn’t understand a thing he said.”

“What happened?”

“I was cold and dirty and hungry and bored to death but I waited three days before going home.”

“And?” Her vision starts swirling clockwise but she grips the bar to steady her concentration.

“And nobody missed me.”

Drew’s mouth is as round as a doughnut hole.

Wayne laughs. “I don’t know what I was thinking to begin with. There was no reason for Aunt Bea to go down to the basement since the only thing down there was a washer/dryer. See, she sent everything to the dry cleaner. She never noticed I was gone.”

“Wow.” They both turn their attention to the drinks in front of them. “I can’t believe you never told me that story before.” Drew wants to throw her arms around him but knows it’s too late so instead, she grips the bar and shakes her head. “Mark my words, Wayne Webster, you’re gonna be famous. It’s only a matter of time. You’re the best writer I know. Seriously.” And it’s almost like old times until Wayne checks his watch. It’s 1:23. Did Victor find the take-out Wayne left in the refrigerator and would he remember to lock the front door? What if Victor was looking for something and went through Wayne’s drawers? What if he got worried?

Drew takes a gulp and misses. She dabs her shirt with a cocktail napkin and splutters, “I’m in love with Mae Beacon.”

Wayne stares at her but he’s a good friend and doesn’t laugh or point out the obvious, that almost everybody loves Mae Beacon, that loving her is as common and conventional as loving breakfast cereal or walks on the beach or Oprah or the color blue or movies by James Cameron. He wants to ask, do you mean you want to kiss her? Mouth open or closed? Do you want to get into her clothes or get under them, to get lost inside her body or inside her world? He really wants to ask her if this has anything to do with her mother and he wonders if anyone is immune to cliché. Maybe it was a mistake to bring her to Los Angeles. Instead he says, “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I just know that when I see her, everything is possible.”

Wayne doesn’t say a thing. He can’t even worry about how she’s going to get home. It’s late, he’s tired, and it’s time to go home.