Thirty
Indian summer was over, and the rains weren’t going to leave
till they damn well felt like it. The weather had no effect on Villa Califa –
Scootie had long since patched up the leak over the bed – but they began to
weary of the wet, slippery trail.
They developed a system. On wet days, it was back to the
Shorefront Motel. On dry, the Villa. One days in between, the decision fell to
Scootie. If he chose the Villa, he hung the gold banner outside his window; if
the Shorefront, a blue windsock he bought on a trip to Stinson Beach.
The weather was not all that had changed. Thanks to Carney
Lankmann, a vacation designed to relax Juliana’s tension had served to increase
it. She was taking extra peeks through the blinds, and an extra hour to loosen
up to Scootie’s touch and remember that this was not a chore. If she could only
forget Wyoming.
A day in mid-November, decidedly wet. The goose-husband had
flown to Beijing, a billion new customers upon whom to fling cash. And another
Saturday night of espionage.
Scootie and Geoffrey had re-initiated their cigar-swap, and
this time out were competing for the cheesiest American model. Scootie
submitted a 29-cent Swisher Sweet, not much more than a cigarette with a
plastic tip and cherry flavoring. Geoffrey handed up a Tennessee Mountain
Hickory Twist that looked all the world like a shredded Slim Jim, strands of
tobacco bursting from its flared tip. As usual, Scootie had been outdone. He
thanked Geoffrey with profuse irony and entered the closet to Room 14.
Joyous at the return of his lovebirds, Geoffrey had rigged
up the place like San Simeon North. The bad was bracketed by antique lava
lamps, placed on pedestals from the recently closed Hallis Art Gallery. The
dresser hosted a 50-gallon salt-water aquarium, ribboned with exotic fishies.
The entertainment center now included two dozen novels, a 12-disc CD player,
and a 43-inch TV with DVD player and two dozen classic films on disk. Scootie
was beginning to wonder if Geoffrey was living a little bit too vicariously.
That day, however, he needed the distractions, because
Juliana was late. He got 50 pages into Hemingway’s short stories before tiring
of the style-style-style, flipped the CD to La
Traviata, then tried out a DVD of The
Graduate. A frightfully nervous Dustin Hoffman sneaks up on Mrs. Robinson
in the hotel room for a kiss, and as he holds his lips to hers, her eyes grow
increasingly large. When he finally releases her, she blows out the lungful of
cigarette smoke that she’s been holding in. The timing of it was thrilling, and
Scootie rewound it eleven times before pressing the mute button and letting
them continue their affair in silence. He considered one of the more adult
selections, but didn’t want to get too worked up before his own Mrs. Robinson
appeared.
He snuck back through the bathroom, knocking politely lest
he interrupt Geoffrey and Flora in some similar engagement. Geoffrey shouted
“Come on in!” from the kitchen. Scootie found him over the sink, doing the
dishes in a frilly floral apron.
“Nice outfit, babe.”
Geoffrey flashed a smile. “Not too garish? I was considering
something more subtle for the winter season.”
Scootie crooked a thumb under his chin. “Stripes. I’m
thinking stripes. Black and white. Kind of... retro.”
Geoffrey called an end to the gag by saying, “Donde esta su
novia, compadre?”
“No se,” answered Scootie. “I’ve been consoling myself with
Geoffrey’s Film-O-Rama.”
“All this time?”
“Two hours now.”
“Heavens to Betsy!” said Geoffrey, in a way that only a man
in a frilly apron could say it. “There’s only one answer to female desertion,
and that’s Scrabble. I’ll get the board.” He headed for the closet shelf, but
quickly reappeared. “Someone knocking for you, Master Jones.”
Scootie knew that Juliana refused to set foot in Geoffrey’s
apartment – whether from embarrassment or propriety – and intended to use this
knowledge to full advantage. He entered the closet and squatted next to the
still-closed panel.
“Yes?”
“Scootie, it’s Juliana.”
“I’ve told you Girl Scouts to leave me the hell alone. I’ve
already eaten enough thin mints to choke and elephant.”
“Scootie, come on. Get over here.”
“I’m not kidding! My cholesterol has jumped thirty points.
Now go away!”
“Scootie, this is not funny.”
Scootie cracked open the panel. “No, what wasn’t funny was
making me wait two hours.”
“Scootie, I have news.”
“So tell me.”
“I am not going to tell you while I’m squatting next to a
toilet!”
“Fine, fine. Let me at least say goodbye to Geoffrey.” He
turned and yelled “Goodbye Geoffrey!” then crawled into the bathroom and walked
past Juliana.
“Don’t I get a kiss?”
“I’m not feeling particularly amorous,” he said, pulling a
volume of French photographs from the bookcase.
Juliana took a breath to calm her irritation, then proceeded
to her defense. “They had a special meeting of the board. I couldn’t get out of
it, I couldn’t get a hold of you, and the meeting ran late. And then I had to
go out for... well...”
Scootie slapped the book shut. “What?”
“For drinks. To celebrate. I wanted to tell you in a better
way than this, when you were in a better mood.”
“Well, I’m sorry. Moods are not easily trained. And why
couldn’t you call me? This grassy-knoll CIA paranoia is getting old. I wish you
would...”
“All right! All right already. Just be quiet a minute and
I’ll tell you.” She put a hand on his arm, requiring at least this minor
contact. “Rolf Vanderbecken was supposed to be the next president of the board,
but he’s been diagnosed with prostate cancer and decided to step down. And
so... they elected me!”
“You’re... president?”
“President of the Board of Trustees for the Fetzle Theater
Center,” she said, and beamed. She was hoping he would come along for the ride.
Bless his heart, the boy had perspective. His grimace turned slowly to a smile.
“That’s... that’s wonderful, Juli. And at your age...”
“The youngest in Fetzle history.”
“Wow! Juliana Kross, executive.”
“And I have an executive order.”
“Yes?”
“Kiss me, dammit!”
Scootie gave her much more, and it fell to his credit that
he could consider Juliana’s victory the equivalent of his own. It was only
later, deep in Juliana’s slumber, that the forces of self-interest would
reassert themselves. Scootie sat before the aquarium, studying the S-shaped
wriggle of a tiger shark, and wondered when Mrs. Robinson would come up for
air, spit out the smoke and dismiss the young boy from her hotel room.
Photo by MJV
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