Five
Scootie had plenty of theories about women, but only one
that actually worked. Women had an instinctual attraction to men who were
having sex with other women. It seemed to come from the reptilian, subconscious
mind, and it might have more to do with the air of confidence a freshly fucked
man puts out. Scootie would see the effect on Juliana Kross – but first, he had
to deal with the odd behavior of Jackie Simmer.
He dragged in through the Fetzle Mansion’s sixteenth-century
Spanish doors, bruised and battered from his adventures in the Big South. He
sat at his desk a full five minutes before gathering the momentum for his first
task: designing a print ad that was due at the end of the week. With a non-profit
arts group, this was more a political process than aesthetic. He had to balance
the shows themselves, the dozens of Fetzle donors who had been promised public
acknowledgement of their largesse, and Aggie’s ever-expanding box office
instructions. He had managed to ring up the graphics program and outline a box
the size of his ad when Jackie snuck up and began a rigorous nec-rub.
“Mornin’, honey. How you doin’?”
“Doin’ better now,” said Scootie. “If you keep that up, I’ll
have to take a nap.”
“You need caffeine. Whattya say we hit Cafe Bolero for a
steamin’ cuppa artificial intelligence?”
“Nope. Got to get at least a rough draft of this ad.”
“You sure?”
Scootie swiveled around in his chair. “How about this
afternoon? One o’clock?”
“Um, okay,” said Jackie, but she didn’t mean it. She chewed
on a fingernail, then grabbed Scootie’s shoulders befroe he could turn back to
the screen. “Um, no. It’s not okay. Scootie, I gotta tell someone or I’ll
burst. Come on, please? My treat.”
“Well, I...”
“And a poppyseed muffin. I know how much you like those
poppyseed muffins.”
“Well, I don’t...”
“Scootie! Are ya holdin’ out for a new car? Now get your
sorry butt out of that chair and let’s get goin’!”
She took his hand and yanked him from his seat, barely
giving him enough time to grab his jacket on the way out. Bouncing along in
Jackie’s pickup, Scootie pestered her with questions, but she wouldn’t budge.
“I can’t say a word till I’m sittin’ in that cafe with a steamin’ shit-brown
mocha. I’m shootin’ for production values!”
Five minutes later, Jackie returned from the counter,
unwrapping Scootie’s poppyseed muffin and arranging it just so on a plate.
Fortunately, there were no customers within hearing distance when she took a
sip from her mocha, wiped away a whipped-cream moustache and declared,
“I got laid!”
Scootie laughed for two minutes straight. It was Rex, of
course. She and God’s own cowboy had two-stepped the night away at a dance hall
in Gilroy, then driven all the way to Hallis so they could boink the weekend
away in her apartment.
“And goddamn could that cowpoke poke! I haven’t been this
saddlesore since that horseback trip up Half Moon Bay.”
“Jackie please!” said Scootie. The Western entendres are
killing me!”
“You ain’t shit till you’ve rode a cowboy, Scoots.” Besieged
by a sudden attack of modesty, she covered her mouth and laughed. “I can’t
believe I’m talkin’ like this to a co-worker!”
“Co-worker, Schmo-worker, I’m very happy for you.” Scootie
took his mug and gave Jackie’s a confirming clink. “When are you and the
Tyrannosaurus having at it again?”
She quickly deflated. “He’s going back to Montana for a
coupla weeks. Some kinda disease runnin’ through the herd.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Ah, it’s okay. Might actually be a good idea. I have this
bad habit of glommin’ on to guys when I find out they can fuck good, and I fail
to notice all their nasty little habits till six months out.” Jackie gave
Scootie an overlong look. “And my apologies for cuttin’ into your mornin’ routine.”
“Just don’t get laid too often, or we’ll both get laid...
off.”
Jackie laughed and took a chug from her mocha, continuing to
give Scootie the once-over. It wasn’t long before he broke under the scrutiny.
“What? What is it?”
Jackie folded her arms and stared him down like a
prosecuting attorney. “And just who you been messin’ with, Mister Jones?”
“I knew it! I knew you women could tell this stuff.”
“Yeah, that’s nice. So what’s her name.”
“Audrey LaBrea.”
“And just what do you and Audrey LaBrea do?”
“Pigeons,” said Scootie. “Pigeons and sex.”
“And in what order do you do them?”
“What makes you think we do them in order?” he asked. And
laughed, because he had succeeded in making Jackie Simmer blush.
Scootie surprised himself by watching the sun go down from
his office window. He was clearly wired, and he guessed he should take
advantage of it before he crashed. An hour after dark, he printed out a draft
of his ad design and left copies in Garth’s and Jackie’s boxes for approval.
But even with the job finished, he couldn’t conceive of going home.
He went to the library instead, and rambled around on the
piano for a good 45 minutes, seeking that grand combination of tones that would
bring him... what? He never knew. Giving up on Cagean freestyle, he settled
into a simple motif from some opera – Wagner, Tchaikovsky, he was never sure, a
repeated F-sharp echoed in double octaves. He played it three times, trying to
remember where it went next. But it wouldn’t come, so he let the F-sharp ring
out, overtones diving in like drunken swimmers, then closed the cover over the
keys.
“I like that.”
He turned to see Juliana, decked out like Dale Evans in blue
jeans and a white suede cowboy jacket.
“I’m guessing Tchaikovsky,” she said. “Piano Concerto Number
One?”
“Precisely,” said Scootie.
“I didn’t think you knew actual pieces.” She cultivated a
slow smile as she came to the piano, the black varnish sending off an
upside-down reflection.
“I do,” said Scootie. Juliana was putting out something of
the same aura as Jackie Simmer that morning, only... more assertive. “What
brings you down?” he asked.
“You.” She settled into the burgundy armchair, dangling her
legs over the side. “I heard you playing from my kitchen, and I thought I’d
come down for a talk.”
Scootie rose from the piano and settled on a footstool in
front of her. “What shall we talk about?”
“Well for instance,” she said. “Which one of your wide
circle of friends did you entertain this weekend? Cindy? Jackie?”
“Audrey,” said Scootie. He knew the next question before she
spoke it.
“And what is it you do with Audrey?”
“Pigeons. And what did you do this weekend, Juliana?”
“Oh, nothing. My husband’s off in Tokyo, and I am incredibly
bored.” She draped one buckskinned arm over the back of the chair. “You know,
my family donated this.”
“Really? How old is it?”
“Goes back to the orchard days, Santa Clara Valley. Do you
know what they called it? ‘The Valley of Heart’s Delight.’ Prunes, cherries,
apples – Great Grandpa and Grandma Lane.”
“So. You’re of pioneer stock.”
“Yes. Ain’t we lucky? Sometimes I think they donated this
chair just so I could come down here and feel at home.”
Noting the way she was breathing out her sentences, Scootie
was beginning to understand where Juliana had obtained her assertive aura. “So
where did you spend your afternoon, Juliana?”
“Wine tasting,” she said. “Down in Felton, with some
friends. You’d be surprised how many wineries they have down there. Very
impressive, very mom-and-pop. Very...” She ran a finger across her lips. “I’m
still a little drunk, aren’t I? That’s funny. I don’t feel drunk.”
“You don’t look drunk,” Scootie lied. “Just... relaxed.”
“Oh, Scootie. I am uptight so much of the time, aren’t I?
I’m like a wound-up clock. She extended her booted feet into Scootie’s lap. He
held them in his hands, avoiding any motion that might be misconstrued. “Being
a public figure does that to you,” she continued. “If it weren’t for all the
travel, and nice furniture, and jewelry, and beautiful houses... why, being
rich would really suck!”
Scootie laughed. Juliana ran back over her words and had to
join him. “My, I am a card.”
“The Queen of Diamonds,” said Scootie.
“Oh, you!” she scolded, and gave a playful kick to his ribcage.
Scootie forgot himself, and began to loosen one of Juliana’s boots.
Juliana ran a hand through her hair. “What are you doing,
young man?”
“I’m not a young man,” he said. “I’m older than you. And I
thought you might like to take off your shoes and stay a while.”
That was when the aura around Juliana vanished. She spoke
her next words without anger, but Scootie could tell he had crossed a line.
“I’m sorry, Scootie. I had better go.” She placed her feet on the floor, and
readjusted her boot. “My... husband gets back tomorrow, and I really should get
home and straighten things out.”
Juliana stood and walked to the door, propelled by the guilt
of actions already taken, thoughts already had. She stopped with a hand on the
doorframe, turning enough to speak to him but not look at him.
“I’m very sorry for intruding, Scootie. But thank you for
entertaining me. It’s very... comforting when I hear you play. I... Goodbye,
Scootie.”
Scootie looked up at the portrait of Harlan Fetzle as
Juliana’s footsteps faded down the hall. A moment later, he heard the Spanish
door open, then settle back on its hinges with a click.
Photo by MJV
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