What a Shame
***
by Jim Walter
A short story inspired by “What a Shame About Me”,
music and lyrics by Donald Fagen and Walter Becker
***
As I laid her carefully to the floor on top of the others, Franny looked up at me with those eyes--the same liquid blue pools that I fell into so easily back when we were freshmen. She was a goddess then, too, with long, tawny brown hair that hung straight down her back, over strong, even shoulders and down the front of her faded blue workshirt.

We were part of the same crew that formed in our first few days at the university. Social, not romantic. Just some boys and girls clinging to each other for support and identity as we faced the new world of college and being on our own. There was no pairing off or cliquishness--just dinners in the dining hall, hanging out and going to a few parties. As classes began and the weeks progressed, we started to go our own ways and “The Crew” dissolved into the background.

But there was something about Franny that I wanted to explore, and now that we were free from the crew, I called her up for a movie at the student union and again for a free concert in the quad. We seemed to enjoy each other’s company and talking over things we were doing and learning and experiencing. I loved being seen with her and the idea that I finally had a girl I could call my own.

One night, we spent a couple of hours in her room running through some chapters of Psych 101 and Western Civ before we finished the bottles of wine I had brought, one apple and one strawberry. Shortly afterward, with my head in an unfamiliar whirl, I approached her as if I were Charles Boyer in some movie from the ‘40’s, looked deeply into her blue eyes and started a kiss that changed romance as I knew it.

Starting at the top, I carefully began to unbutton her shirt and then waited for a let up in pressure against my lips or any other sign of resistance. There was none. Within a few minutes we had helped each other out of our clothing one article a time, staying glued at the lips as if determined to win some face-sucking marathon. Finally we stood facing each other with only our loins still protected. “God, you are lovely”, I declared breathlessly as I looked her over from head to toe, still cupping her love handles in my palms. “That’s as far as we go tonight, babe”, she warned. The thud I heard inside my head was my hope collapsing. “That’s okay”, I conceded as I keeled onto her bed, taking her with me. “I just want to be here with you”. We cuddled and nuzzled until the wine finally overpowered us.

We awoke, still wrapped up in each other’s arms, just in time to watch the deep orange of the sunrise give way to a yellow that projected a bright diffuse square on the far wall. The next thing I knew, a strange loud buzzer was going off right in my ear. With my head pounding and my mouth so dry I could spit bolls of cotton, I struggled to my feet. It was 8:55. I recovered my jeans and shirt and then yanked them on as dutifully as a fireman. “I’ll see you later, Franny. I’ve got to get to class.” “Okay, later”, she said sleepily as I grabbed my books and shuffled out the door. “I can’t believe this is happening to me!” I said to myself as I bounded toward English Comp on the other side of campus.

Yep, we were quite an item back then. I was ready to write home to tell my parents to set aside the first weekend in December because I was going to be bringing home a surprise for them: a girl of my own. Right. About two weeks later, Franny was over at my place to hang out one night. At exactly five minutes to nine, she announced that she had to go see someone. Before I could even get “Uh, okay, bye” from my lips, she was out the door throwing me a quick “see ya later” over her left shoulder. I heard her trot down the set of stairs not far from my room.

I flopped over onto the end of my bed and looked out the window down to the sidewalk bathed in the glow of a streetlight. Right then it dawned on me that I hadn’t heard the door downstairs bang shut as Franny left the building. I realized why a minute later when she strode out the front door and into the light on the arm of Big Tom, the six-foot-seven music major from the first floor. A couple of days later, I asked her about her “double date” that night and she complained, “I can’t be pinned down to just one guy right now, you know? And you shouldn’t be either. I mean... You know what I mean”.

I knew what she meant all right. It was back to weekends of beer chugging contests downtown with the guys and hitching home at the end of the night in time to throw up in the bushes and flop into bed with my clothes still on. Sophomore year we heard that Franny had split to California with her friend Janis and that was the last any of us heard from her for a good while.

A loud bark then filled my ears. “Hey, get those Tuscan Memoir cutouts off the floor and into the storeroom before somebody trips over them! We’ve got to get the new ones for Fahrenheit 911 up for tonight.” That was Morrie, my boss. For the past few years he’s been running the Strand just like the Coast Guard cutter he says he commanded before some female recruit got an assault charge on him and made it stick. I grabbed up all seven copies of life-size Frannies and danced them across the lobby and around to the back.

We heard from Franny again when we saw the ads in the movie section of the newspaper a few years later. There she was, in Massacre at Midnight as “second girl thrown into wood chipper” or something like that. We all went just for laughs. Then, there were a couple more low-budget fright flicks before she got on board with the Beckmann Studios. From there it was Fran Landres in Us and then People and on “Entertainment Tonight” and “Inside Edition”. The girl made good. And she didn’t even have to change her name.

The way I got into the movie business was just a little different. After getting a few stories published in the campus literary magazine, The Enchanted Quill, I think it was, I was flush with desire and potential and took the advice of Dave, the guy I worked with in the bookstore while I was finishing out my M.A. in English. An ostensive playwright, Dave had a sister who had gained some fame as a personal assistant to Ann Reinking. He said, “You gotta go to New York, man. For a writer, that’s the only place worth being.” I came to New York to write my novel, live like a Bohemian and get discovered. So I’m one for three.

Early on, I found work at a small ad agency, pitching everything from matzo mix to fur coats. The money was okay, but I just couldn’t get into “selling the sizzle”. I was stuck on the steak. The steak was real; the rest was a hoodwink, a scam. It didn’t take long for them to introduce me to my replacement and my spot in the unemployment line downtown. When I wasn’t waiting to explain to the counselor there why I hadn’t been hired that week, I made furtive little pilgrimages in the city. To the entrance of McGraw-Hill with its classic gold lettered name over the doors and even down to Englewood Cliffs to Prentice-Hall. I would just stand outside the door looking up at the building, conjuring a picture of myself inside arguing with my editor over some minor passage. Other excursions got me stomping down the avenue to Radio City, to absently stroking the crossbar of the iron fence surrounding Gramercy Park and then sitting at the bar where Dylan Thomas had entered his good night. That would have been a good time to start my novel, but I initiated a fondness for bourbon instead.

A graphic artist named Mel Lewin from my old agency must have taken pity on me because he called out of the blue one day. “Hey Jerry, how’re ya doin’?” “I guess I’m doing fine, Mel. You know, lots of free time,” I told him. “Well, I don’ know if you’re in’erested, but there’s a sales job open at Fletcher/Fowler and I thought about you.” “That’s nice of you, man. What’s the number? Maybe I’ll give ‘em a call,” I said. “And thanks. I owe ya one. Let’s get coffee some time.” “Sure,” he promised. “I’ll call ya.” The receiver never left my hand before I started to dial. This was the door to opportunity and I was knocking. If I get in, I’m halfway there. I start with selling some books, rub shoulders with other writers, soak up the publishing world and then--bam--it’ll be hefty advances, book tours, and autographs. Hello, fame and fortune.

I got the job all right. Or, I should say I got the business. I was meeting clients, doing demos and how-to seminars, and making respectable commissions. But when were they going to let me write? I was better than at least half of the authors in their stable. Where’s the opportunity? Six months later I was on the carpet in the sales manager’s office getting an earful about what a great job I was doing. At the same time, she explained how I didn’t fit into the new marketing strategy the company was launching for the new fiscal year. Before I could turn to leave, I finally heard their offer: the chance “to compete for any open job here you’re qualified for--up to one pay level below where you are now.” What a deal! I didn’t let the door hit me in the ass as I walked out.

So, I started my novel. It’s about a guy who sails into New York full of dreams and talent and potential, ready to hit it big. But our hero soon runs into trouble because he lacks patience, can’t stomach criticism and hates taking orders from anybody. But, that’s as far as I’ve gotten.

Still, like a lot of other novelists and most everyone else, I guess, I had to eat. So one day as I was going to see The Last Metro for the third or fourth time, I noticed the “help wanted” sign in the lobby at the Strand. Just like in the movies, I snatched the sign out of the window without hesitating, strolled over to the refreshments counter and asked to see the manager. I started that night. Some luck, huh? I had forgotten to stay for the feature.

I bent over to cut the binding on four or five replicas of Michael Moore to stand up around the lobby before I could go home. Reaching over for a roll of masking tape, I felt a tap on my right shoulder. A low-pitched woman’s voice asked, “Jerry, is that really you?” I turned and almost dropped the box cutter from my hand. Instead I retracted the blade, shoved the cutter into my pocket and croaked, “Yeah, it’s me,” clearing my throat a couple of times. “Franny?” There she was. Just as tall and lean as she was in her posters. And her eyes were just as blue. She wrapped her arms around me and softly breathed “It’s great to see you” into my ear, finishing with a peck on my cheek.

“What on earth are you doing...here?” I queried, looking from side to side. “I knew I’d be in town for a few days. For my movie, you know. So I gave Dave a call. Did you know he lives here, too? His new play opened in New Haven last night and he invited me to see it. Anyway, he told me that the last he knew, you were here,” she explained. “Good old Dave,” I sighed, shaking my head. Then, she said it: “Somebody told me in the early eighties, you were going to be The Next Big Thing.” I told her, “Now, that was just a rumor, but I guess I’m doing fine.” “How about your novel?” she asked, shifting her hips from right to left. I confided, “I’m still working on it, but I’m just about to quit. For me, the endings have always been hard to get down just right.” She counseled me cheerily, recalling the wall poster she loved so much at college: “Well, hang in there, baby.”

Changing the subject, I blurted out, “Hey, I get off in about ten minutes. Do you want to go get a coffee or something? There’s a great cafe right around the corner. “I’ve got a better idea,” she countered, with a little mischief in her voice. “Why don’t we grab a cab to my hotel and make believe we’re back at our old school?” Stunned and a little queasy at the thought, I told her, “Sure. That could be very cool.” I punched out and we stepped out to the curb, hands raised. The first cab we saw on the street broke off from the herd and almost brushed us back to the sidewalk. Holding the door open, I watched her bend forward to get in and thought to myself: I can’t believe this is happening to me! I’m with a movie star for chrissakes. She lives in L.A. and signs autographs and probably has her own people to talk to other people’s people--just to do lunch.

On the way uptown, Franny turned to me and said, “This’ll be fun. Just like the time we saw Commander Cody in Miller Hall. Remember?” We were chattering excitedly about this and that when she asked, “Hey, do you ever hear from anybody else from our old crew?” I responded, “Well, I’m sure you know about Alan the restaurant mogul and Barry, the software giant. “Yeah.” she said, looking up at the roof liner and smiling vacantly, “My agent uses his data bases.” I went on, as if some zealous archaeologist had swung open the door to my brain, “Harry’s a success consultant now and Jennie finally got her Ph.D. And everybody knows about ‘The Duck’... and Bob and Harvey. But lately I’ve lost touch with them and most of the others, of course.” “Those were some good times,” she said dreamily at the thought. “And you were so cute...”

Turning onto 44th Street, we rolled up right in front of the Algonquin. “This is incredible,” I exclaimed, “How did you pick this hotel?” “Oh, I always stay here. I love it! Dorothy Parker used to hang out here, you know.” I knew, I knew. This was one mecca from many of my little pilgrimages in New York. I’ve spent hours here in the lobby drinking coffee and scribbling abstract notes to myself just to soak up some of the atmosphere and scan the corners for any ghosts of the Round Table. As I was gazing around, I heard a distant bell. “Our ride’s here,” she chirped, and took my hand to pull me in. We lurched upward and, as the elevator stopped, my stomach filled with a squadron of happy butterflies. In seconds, the doors obligingly parted and we stepped out onto her floor.

She opened the door to the room and ushered me in with a flourish. “Here’s my place, at least till tomorrow. How do you like it?” she asked modestly. “I believe you’ve chosen well, my dear,” I answered, believing my tone fit the scene I was hoping to construct. As I looked about the room, Franny gently, but firmly thrust a glass of claret into my hand. “I assume our taste in wine has matured since college,” she remarked as she gracefully spun around and strode toward the other side of the room. She raised the large window that opened to the fire escape and announced casually to the room at large, “Excuse me for a couple of minutes. I’ve been in this stupid dress all day.” I stared deeply into the scarlet liquid I was mindlessly swirling into a little whirlpool in my hand. I raised it to my lips and took two healthy gulps.

As she stepped behind the ornate dressing panel, she raised her voice a little, “So, talk to me, what have you been doing all this time? Surely not standing up movie displays all day long.” Watching her dress, slip and brassiere flop over the top of the panel, I felt a rush of excited contentment carry me away like a rip tide. It was twenty-five years ago, back in her dorm--with my heart beating like a rabbit’s. I drained the rest of the glass just to slow myself down. “I’m not talking to myself here, am I?” she asked sharply. Coming back to my senses, I told her, “No, no. I’ve done a little of this and a little of that. You know, advertising and publishing and whatnot. Nothing really seemed to fit, though. I just couldn’t stick with it. Know what I mean?”

She emerged in a long white sheer nightgown that flowed behind like a fine curtain in the breeze she created as she walked toward me. “How can we toast if your wine is all gone?” she asked playfully, taking my glass to refill it. “There now. To life. To our goals...and to our memories,” she said. “Yes, to our memories,” I returned. There was the delicate ting of fine crystal as we lightly tapped our glasses together. We smiled into each other’s eyes. I took a short sip since my head was starting to spin like a playground carousel. Putting my glass down carefully on the small lamp table, I took Franny into my arms and brought my lips firmly to hers. My hands explored the silkiness of the sheer fabric over her ribs, down to the small of her back and around to cup her marvelously shaped hips. For a few fleeting moments, we were freshmen again.

Just as before, I paused to sense her commitment to our delicious embrace, but nothing was coming back to me. I suddenly felt as if I were holding my sister or cousin--who happened to be dressed for bed. Unconsciously, I loosened myself from her a bit. Then, I started to shiver. “What’s the matter, babe?” she asked softly, looking out over my shoulder, “You’re trembling like a kitten.” Like a reflex I said, “Probably because I’m so excited to see you, to be with you again.” I lied. “That’s sweet,” she said in a lilting voice.

We then held each other at arm’s length, caught in a web of deep eye contact. “And how come you went lifeless on me just now?” I inquired somewhat angrily, and started to shake more noticeably. “I guess I should tell you...” Her voice trailed off as she looked to the floor. Annoyed with the suspense, I shot back, “Tell me? Tell me what?”

Looking back up, she continued, “Well, when I moved out to California, something happened between Janis and me--up in Berkeley,” she confided. “I think it had been brewing for a long time, but we weren’t completely sure until we saw the other women doing it.” “Doing what?” I asked, “Protesting the war?” “No, silly,” she explained calmly, “Making love.” I stared at her. “I’m lesbian, you know.” Then, with some disappointment in her voice, she went on, “And I thought, just for old times’ sake, I could be ‘bi’ for a little while--with you. But I guess I really can’t.” Hardly able to control my hands, I dropped them away from her. Then I clumsily picked up my glass of wine with both hands, draining it while my mind raced between that shock and a bit of dread of my own. “And what about you?” she inquired, starting to pace the floor slightly. “You’re shaking like it’s a hundred below.”

“As long as it’s time to come clean, I’ve got a little news for you, too,” I began. Three weeks ago, I left rehab.” “My name is Jerry Warner and I...am an alcoholic,” I recited in mock solemnity. “Since then, it’s been one day at a time for me. Until today.” “You were stupid to take that wine from me,” she chided, “Why did you do it?” Calming down a little, I told her straight, “When I saw you in that theater today, something snapped. I forgot who I was and what I was. Or maybe I remembered. And when you invited me up here, I just thought that this could be so great, so perfect, just like a dream. Just like before.”

With a mild groan of exasperation, she moved out through the open window and planted one foot on the second step of the fire escape. Through the nightgown, her perfect body was silhouetted exquisitely in the back light of a late evening sun. My own body was responding naturally again, until she spoke: “You know, that’s always been your problem, Jerry. You need to have everything now and everything just the way you want it. I mean right after we met, you were in such a hurry to tie me down as your girlfriend. We were just eighteen!” she almost screamed.

Then, just as suddenly, she came away from the window and approached me slowly, but deliberately, “We had lives to live and experiences to gain. How could we do that as some kind of post-adolescent Siamese twins in college? That’s why you’ve never finished your novel. And probably why you could never hold onto a decent job. You don’t know how to take something as it is now and build on it and let it grow naturally over time, with a plan in mind.” Then, she backed off her rant a little. I had started shaking again and she took me gently into her arms. Tears came down her eyes once she saw the ones that had already formed in my own. She gave me a loving hug and ended it with two condescending pats on my back.

Turning away, I said, “Thanks for the moment we had, but I don’t think this is gonna work out.” Nodding in agreement, she said with a sad smile, “Yeah, I’m afraid you’re right.” “Listen,” I said, “I’ve got to go down and make a phone call...to a buddy. You know, my sponsor from AA. He’s gonna want to hear from me.” Franny looked at me with a tilted head that meant sincerity, “Sure. You’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do.” Backing away, she announced, “I’m going to start packing. I have to catch an early flight back to the coast.”

I opened the door and stepped into the hall, turning back right away. Soon Franny’s face was framed in the space between the door and the wall. I looked into her blue eyes once more and told her, “Hey, have a nice life.” “You too, she said, “And take care of yourself, okay?” Her face narrowed down to nothing and I heard a final click.

I plodded down the stairs back into the lobby and found a pay phone in the bar. Dropping in two quarters, I punched seven numbers, in precise sequence, from memory. One ring and then another pulsated on the other end. “Strand Theater,” a familiar voice said. “Hello, Deb, this is Jerry. Would you please tell Morrie I won’t be in tomorrow. I’ve got some kind of flu or something,” I told her, coughing a couple of times to make it sound legit. “Oh, what a shame. Okay, I’ll tell him. And you be sure to get what you need for that flu,” she said warmly. “I will. Don’t worry...and thanks. See you Wednesday,” I reassured her and put the receiver back into its cradle.

I ambled over to a stool and climbed aboard. Reaching outward, I harpooned an olive out of the small tray, stuck it between my lips and pulled out the bare toothpick. As I chewed, the briny taste made me wince. In a few seconds, the barkeep stepped in front of me, wiping his hands. “What can I get you, sir?” “Double bourbon. Neat. And make it the good stuff,” I commanded. “Coming up”, he said in a compliant tone. But then, he hunkered down with his elbows on the bar in front of me and inquired sotto voce, “Excuse me, but was that Fran Landres I saw you with in the lobby just a while ago? The Fran Landres?” I answered back, nodding, “Yes, it was. It was indeed.”

-- ©2004 Jim Walter


Lunch at Nino’s
***
by Jim Walter
A short story inspired by “Lunch with Gina”,
music and lyrics by Donald Fagen and Walter Becker

***
The doorbell thundered through the apartment and rattled me right to the bone. It’s Gina. Again. I don’t know how she got the address, but since she found out where I live, I haven’t had a minute of peace. Now she’s back. Bing bong. Bing bong. Bing bong. I feel like an idiot crouched here behind the sofa. In my own home, no less. Knock, knock, knock. Why? Why can’t she just go away? She knows that it’s over. I’ve made that clear, dammit. I told her the night it happened. And then when she called the first time. And the eleventh. I don’t want you. I don’t love you. It’ll never work. Bing bong.

This is all I need. With my divorce from Paula in the homestretch, I’ve already been kicked out of the house. I thought it would be easier this way. You know, not having each other underfoot, facing in one another the constant reminder that our eight-year marriage has been a total failure. How could this happen? The goals were laid out. We were on the road to success. We went to the right schools, made the right friends and contacts, and formed the perfect team. We’d made plans together, but Paula had her own agenda--and the item dropped for this particular meeting was me, I guess. Old business that doesn’t get discussed if you don’t have the time.

If you asked her, I just wasn’t getting the job done. Whether it was my investment strategies, the car I drove, our house, or the neighborhood we lived in. Nothing came out right. It wasn’t like we didn’t make money. We have plenty. but there was never enough of the right stuff. Know what I mean? To us, image was everything. The kind that said to the world, “We’ve made it. So, what’s your problem?” It’s no wonder we never had a kid. Who could perform in the old sackeroo with that kind of pressure? And who had time? Funny, Paula had plenty of time for Jason. That dick. How long had they been stepping out? She said he was such a genius at coding and uploading--he made working late fun. Maybe it just takes me a while to catch on.

It’s been two months since Gina and I had our night together. I’ve printed a lot of proposals at the copy shop where she works, down First Avenue from my office building. She was younger than I thought, but she was always courteous and friendly. And the jobs were always ready and done right the first time. The way I like to do business. She was always so cheerful and lovely; it was fun to flirt. I looked forward to bringing in the work. Our conversation usually centered around her job and how the world was treating her. I learned that she had wanted to go to college after high school, but because her mother suffered from multiple sclerosis, Gina had been working since she was sixteen just to keep them off welfare and in their small apartment. No time for a boyfriend or much of a social life. Her attitude was that her time would come when it was right.

I came in one morning, loaded with an important proposal, not long after another blowout with Paula--the one that got me packing and moved into my studio apartment. Maybe I wasn’t in the mood for banter or maybe it was my back against the wall, but I asked Gina if she’d like to have dinner that night. The way she accepted still floors me. She said she’d thought I would never ask. We had sushi at Miki San since she didn’t have time to go home after work. We talked about how beautifully Japanese cuisine is prepared and how it doesn’t make you fat. A little about her mom and how Gina herself would love eventually to get a degree and then a real job or maybe even open her own gift shop.

After a cup of some perfectly brewed green tea, we left Miki San, strolled back to my car and got in. Starting the engine, I leaned over to show her the power window control and we connected like door latch magnets. Palates cleansed by the tea, we found each other delicious. We started making out like rabid teenagers, my hands all over her and, to my surprise, hers clutching me like I was a fireman who had just saved her life. After a few minutes of this, I pulled myself out of the embrace and, almost panting, turned the engine off. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around my neck and drew me back to her lips. My desire turning to alarm after a few more minutes, I pulled back again, embarrassed at my lack of self-control. “I’m sorry.” I said, catching my breath and starting the car up. “We’ve got to get you home.” I was backing out of the parking space when she observed, “You are such a gentleman. Just like I knew you’d be.” Then, she added, “I’m not a slut. Really. In fact, this is my first date in over a year. Why don’t we just stay in the moment a little longer?” With that, she leaned over, cupped her palm around my face and leaned her head on my neck and shoulder. Still dubious, but loving the togetherness, I drove on a little farther--with no clear destination in mind. “Okay, just a little longer,” I agreed, startled at how paternal I must have sounded. When the EconoLodge sign appeared ahead in the darkness, I turned in, guided by some strange remote control.

Room 117 was dark when we entered; we kept the lights off. Picking up where we had left off in the parking lot, she whispered softly in my ear, “Don’t worry. We’re safe. I mean, I’m protected.” I finally took my foot off the brake. As our moment progressed, I unloaded just about everything I wanted to keep secret: all my frustrations, my pain at finding out about Paula, my vision of a perfect life. Gina listened and held me. And said she understood.

As I drove her back home, though, my tune had changed. I was all about how this was it. A trice. A lark. Just a spasm. I panicked at what this could become and wasn’t ready to add to my problems, or to hers. Our voices were hushed as we stood outside her apartment. Probably tired of my protestations, she said, “Okay, all right. I’ll see ya,” and disappeared through the doorway. Since then, I haven’t been able to shake her off.

The knocking starts again. Bam bam. A voice on the other side of the door shouts, “Peter. If you’re in there, open up. Please.” There’s silence for about ten seconds and then she goes on, with a tinge of chagrin in her voice, “Okay, so you’re not home, but you’ve got to talk to me sometime.” Then, somewhat wistfully, she continued, “I really miss you at the shop. Why don’t you come in any more? I have some exciting news. Important news… All right, then. I’ll just try to get you on the phone again.” I heard a raspy shuffle, and then footsteps that faded into a welcome stillness. Totally spent, I leaned hard against the back of the sofa, sliding down till my shoulders touched the floor.

What could be so important? Especially after I have tried to give her every reason to despise me. I’ve been so rude on the phone; it makes me wince to think about it. Hey, she deserves it. I didn’t ask her to stalk me and make my life even more miserable than it is already. Why doesn’t she lay off? She can just drop dead. Or, maybe I brought this on myself. What was I thinking? Asking a girl at least twelve years younger than I am to go out to dinner and then... Did I think she could just shrug something like that off the way I did? Have I lost my mind? No, she’s just a confused little girl caught up in an infatuation and she’s got to learn to take “no” for an answer.

The very next day, I was sneaking down First Avenue to get to my office when I caught a glimpse of Gina as she entered the copy shop. I stopped, did a quick one-eighty and started off in the opposite direction. In seconds, she was in front of me, a little out of breath and walking backward. “So there you are!” she exclaimed. Making a sudden stop, she continued excitedly, “I’m glad I finally caught you. Peter, I love you. I want to be together with you.” “Shhh. Stop it!” I reproached her. Calming a little, I went on, “I can’t be seen with you. I don’t want you around. Don’t you understand that we had just a one-night stand?” “Peter, I’m pregnant,” she informed me with a strange smile. “You what? Come on,” I blurted. Looking around for any witnesses, I grabbed Gina’s hand and pulled her all the way into the Starbucks on the next corner.

I sat her down at a table in the back and asked, “So, what do you want?” “I wanted you to know that you’re a father,” she answered innocently. “No! Jesus. What do you want to drink?” I barked impatiently. “Get me a fruit smoothie,” she said. Still irritated, I left to order and returned to the table with our drinks, praying not to see a familiar face. “How do you know it’s mine?” I asked through my now-clenched teeth. “It’s yours, Peter. I’ve only been with one other guy and I made him finish outside of me, she answered. I told you I’m not a slut.” I shot back, “You told me you couldn’t get pregnant.” “I told you I was protected,” she returned. “I thought I was anyway,” she added, slumping back in her seat. I put my face in my hands and breathed out slowly. She took a drag from her smoothie and continued, “I wanted to let you know because you have a right...” “Listen,” I told her, “This is what we’re going to do. We’re going to get it taken care of. We’ll find the best clinic with the best doctor in town. Very clean and very professional. It’ll be over in no time. I’ll pay for everything.” “No!” she interrupted sharply. “I don’t want that. And you can’t force me to do it. I’m going to have this baby. Your baby.” She went on, “I want to be a mother. I’m not afraid of being one. I can do it by myself if I need to. But a baby should have a father.”

“You just don’t understand,” I hissed, trying to keep my voice down. “I can’t have this happening right now. I’m in the middle of a divorce. If this gets out, I’ll lose everything. I’m trying to hang onto some of what I have so I can get past all this and still have a life. You don’t have any idea how aggressive these lawyers can be and you sure as hell don’t know how vindictive Paula could get if she smells money. They’ll dig and they’ll dig until they’ve found everything. I’d be lucky if I ended up with a change of clothes.”

“Peter,” she said soothingly, tilting her head. “You’re not all about money. You told me that much at the motel.” I retorted, “Don’t mention that night to me now. It’s over and done. Besides, it’s not just the money. You don’t know the pressure I’m under. I have a position to maintain. I’ve got a business to run and a board of directors to face. And sometime down the line, I might run for city council or something. If any of this gets out, I can kiss that all goodbye. It’s just too risky.”

“Asking me out for a date was pretty risky,” she countered. “In fact, the reason I decided to go out with you was how brave you were--even to think I would. That, plus you’d always been so sweet and kind when you came into the shop and then again in your car. That’s why it hurts so much that you’re so angry right now when I am so happy. And you’ve been running away from me for the past two months. Two months! Do you know what it’s like to...to...” She broke into a pathetic fit of sobbing that ran my train of thought right off its tracks.

I looked around nervously and said, “Shh...shh...okay. Take it easy. Take it easy.” She settled down and buried her face in the handful of paper napkins I offered. “Just think about what this means to me,” I said sternly, “...and to you. We’ll talk about this another time.” “Promise?” she inquired between sniffles. Then, she took a breath to compose herself. “Look, I’ve got to go,” I said. “Just let me leave first, okay?” I stood up from the table and stepped away stiffly, trying not to turn my head in either direction for fear of eye contact. As I got to the door, I didn’t turn back to see if Gina was still there.

After that, the whole day was pretty much scrap, so I skulked out of the office and got home early. I closed all the blinds and turned on the TV, but hit the mute button. Collapsing on the couch, I lay back on the soft cushions--just to relax a little, I told myself. You just need some Peter time. No thoughts, no worries. Just for you...

“That’s my good boy,” I heard as I hunched over my algebra homework with a chewed pencil in one hand and the fingers of my other hand stuffed into the short tousled hair on the top of my head. “One day, you’re going to make me very proud,” she declared. “Because you are a smart one, you are. You’re going to go to college and study and be a great big success. Not like your father, that bum. How did he expect me to stay around while he dragged himself home from that machine shop day after day, exhausted and with all that dirt under his nails? And that paltry paycheck. You call that money? I make more selling Avon than he ever brought home in a month! He just didn’t understand people. The right people. The ones who can help you. Open doors for you. That’s the key. You keep studying, Peter, and one day I’ll show you how to be a success.”

I woke up with a start, catching my breath. With a cold sweat rolling down my face, I started to turn the situation over in my mind again: Why is this happening? It was bad enough when Gina was just calling me constantly. Don’t I have enough to worry about? She’s gutsy to think about raising a kid on her own, I’ll give her that. But she’s got to give up on this “being together” idea. The faster I erase her--them--from my life, the better off I’ll be. I’ve got my own problems to solve. I’ve come too far to lose it all now.

The phone rang and sent me almost straight up in the air. Don’t answer it. Just let it ring. Twenty rings later, I begged God to make it stop. At fifty rings, I was ready to fly out the door. For some reason, I grabbed the phone instead. “Hello?” “Peter, it’s me. Gina. I’m sorry I broke up on you earlier today. That’s not usually my style. When can we get together to talk, uh, like you said?” she inquired. “Are you still going to have this baby?” I asked, already knowing the answer. “Of course, I am. I told you,” she replied. Instantly, I said, ”Then there isn’t much for us to talk about, is there?” and sat down on the sofa. “But I love you, Peter, and I want you to share this beautiful experience with me. It’s the most natural part of life that there is,” she reminded me.

Raising my voice again, I bellowed, “I told you I don’t want to be a father and I don’t want to get involved in this.” My neighbor was banging on the wall for quiet, so I continued, in a lowered voice, “Look, in the first place, you’re much too young. I’m at least twelve years older than you are and we have nothing in common. What would we talk about? We don’t share any past experiences or any of the same interests.” I started to pace the room. “Being with you would mean giving up everything I have. Everything I’ve worked for. Besides, you don’t know anything about business and you wouldn’t fit in well with my social activities...if I have anything left after this divorce, that is. We’d be making a huge mistake,” I argued, proud of my bulletproof logic.

“All I know is this,” she explained calmly. “Peter, you are a good man but you’ve just gotten off your path. Don’t you remember what you told me the night we were together? About what you really want out of life. And your dreams? You’re a real human being, caught up in an unreal world. All that materialism, the phony social gatherings and all the keeping up appearances. That’s not you. I’ve seen, and felt, the real you and I love that. Your only problem is...” I stood up again, raising my pointed finger in the air. “Don’t you go off telling me what my problem is. I know what it is,” I snarled. “It’s having a crazy, knocked up girl calling me all the time, driving me insane with stories about how she loves me and that she knows how I ought to run my life. That’s my problem!”

Unruffled, she continued, “Your problem is that you can’t be honest with yourself--or anyone else.” “That’s enough!” I yelled. “Listen, I’ll give you five thousand dollars if you just have this baby and forget who I am and never, ever try to get in touch with me again.” “But, Peter, that’s not the poi...” “Ten thousand!” I countered. “Nowadays, I could get you arrested for stalking me, you know.”

“Okay, Peter,” she relented. “If that’s what you want. I’m going to have this child with you or without you. If taking your money and denying your existence is what you want from me, I’ll do it. I’m all out of reasons, all out of comebacks. I just can’t fight about it any more.” Relieved that it was finally over and confident that I had won, I sat back down and said, “Good. Meet me at Nino’s tomorrow at one. We’ll have lunch and I’ll have a check waiting for you. You’ve made the right decision.” “Okay,” she said resignedly. “Nino’s. One o’clock. Bye bye.”

Nino’s is a nice little place, contemporary, with beige table covers and mauve carpeting with teal accents. To look at it, you’d never know they served some of the best damned Italian food in the city. I got there at about quarter to one. I sure don’t want to miss this. I ordered a Tanqueray and tonic. We’ll wait for the lady to arrive before we get to the main course.

So, everything’s coming together nicely. I’m finally getting a break. I slept like a log last night for the first time in I can’t remember how long. Pretty soon now--no more Paula. No more Gina and no more baby talk. And I get my life back. So I lay low for a while. You know, just go through the motions. The lawyers have no idea about the offshore accounts. And Paula never has to know. Hell, if I can’t get the money back here, I’ll just move in next to it. Just the two of us, on Grand Cayman. Or was it Andros? Whatever. The weather sure will be better. I wonder if they speak English there...

I pulled out my checkbook. Another Tanqueray, please. Let’s see now, August...twenty-fourth. Pay to the order of: Gina Evans...ten thousand dollars. And now just a signature: Peter F. Spencer. There, it’s done. She’ll probably faint, at her age, to see this much money all in one check. Flipping the corner back and forth with my fingertip, I thought to myself: Ah, I wish I were that young again. And that I hadn’t listened to the others who all said Paula was perfect for me. You’ll grow to love her, they said. I kind of envy Gina in a way. So bright. So young. As feisty and strong as she is, she’ll get along just fine. As she says, she’ll do okay with that baby without me. What could I add to the picture? My angst? My paranoia? I envy that baby, too. With a mother like Gina, so selfless and so generous, the kid’ll get everything Gina has to give. The attention it needs, the love and comfort and support I sure never had at home. She’ll raise that kid to stand up for himself. To think for himself. To follow his own way. Yep, that kid is going to be all right.

Where the hell is Gina? It’s ten after one. I don’t know, maybe my watch is fast. I’ll give her till twenty after before I start getting too worked up. I looked up from my wrist and over at the entrance. There she was, smiling sweetly at the hostess as they talked and then started looking around for our booth. God, has Gina always been such a knockout? I don’t remember her ever looking like that before. Maybe it’s just because she’s dolled up for our lunch. Or maybe she’s already started spending the money. I raised my hand to get her attention.

She crossed the room as serene and as graceful as a monk after deep meditation, smiling and meeting the eyes on all the heads that turned to watch her pass. How can she be so composed? I’m finally chilled out, but that’s after two cocktails. I stood up to receive her.

“Hello, Peter,” she said cheerfully. “Hi,” I said. “Sit down...please.” I ordered coffee for myself and a tall glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice for Gina. “Sorry I’m late, but I’ve just lost track of time today,” she confessed, then went on, “I’ve been thinking about this and I just want to try one more time to get you to...” “If,” I interrupted, “you’re going to try to talk me out of this or raise the stakes again, you can save your breath. This is settled.” Her face now more serious, she continued, “Oh, Peter, just listen to me for a minute. I never had a dad around when I was growing up and I know you didn’t either. I felt we owe it to this baby to love it and take care of it...together. Like a real family. I know you would like that.”

I shifted uneasily in my chair and took in a breath to speak, but it caught in my throat coming back out. Gina went on, “ You say you wanted support from your wife, but never got any. You say you wanted a partner in your life, to share your true thoughts and your ideas and your moments, but you never had one. You told me you wished you had had a more traditional family, one with more love and sharing and that you wanted to grow as a respected member of a real community, not some fancy gated development. If you leave us behind now, you’ll spend your whole life in some unfamiliar place hiding out or trying to fit in. Don’t you see? You could have everything you’ve wanted with me and our baby, if you’d just forget about the difference in our ages and forget about the money. Don’t fight this opportunity. You’ll still have your talent. And you’ve still got your dreams. For you, it could be like going back in time. Like a second chance. You can get it right this time. Doesn’t that make more sense?” she said, her eyes pleading with mine.

I sat silent for a few seconds, a little awestruck with her eloquent speech and how it cut right to the heart. Picking up the check in my hand and holding it toward her, I asked, “Are you finished with your rosy, little pie-in-the-sky version of the future?” “Yes, but doesn’t it make sense?” she asked in reply. Pausing again, I yanked the check back, tore it into pieces and dropped them onto the table. I took her hand in mine, leaned over to kiss her on the cheek and told her with a big smile, “Yes, it does. To me, it makes all the sense in the world.” She squealed and jumped up from the table. Then, beaming, she sat back dreamily in her chair.

Finally, I asked, “Now, where is that waiter?”


©2004 Jim Walter