Brad Parks - Faces of the Gone

“No.”

I nodded, feeling like a life-sized bobble-head doll, my skull wobbling on top of my shoulders. Tina clapped her hands together and laughed. It was a delightful laugh. We boarded the elevator together.

“Well, then you must be hungry by now,” she said.

“I’m favished.”

“What the hell is ‘favished’?”

“I don’t know. I think it’s a combination of ‘famished’ and ‘ravenous.’ ”

“Then you’re definitely not driving. I’m taking you to dinner.”

She quickly slid her arm through mine and pressed against me, allowing me to feel the firmness of her breast against my triceps. Before I knew it, I was being escorted through the parking lot, to her car, which would take us. . on a date? How exactly had this happened again? The executive editor had congratulated me for getting stoned on company time and now I was going out on a date with the city editor.

We hopped in her new Volvo-the perfect car for a safety-conscious mother-to-be-and I was soon being treated to the spectacular natural beauty of one of New Jersey’s most scenic roadways, the Pulaski Skyway. That was the way to Hoboken, which is where Tina lived. It was not especially near Nutley. I was starting to get that feeling this might turn into a sleepover.

Tina was quiet. Which meant I wasn’t the only one contemplating the very adult act that might be taking place by the end of the evening.

“So how did this happen to you?” I asked as we made a left turn away from the Holland Tunnel traffic, toward Hoboken.

“How did what happen?” Tina said.

“This whole biological clock thing. You used to take your birth control pills in the break room. Now you wear a watch on your wrist that tells you the exact hour when you’re ovulating.”

“Oh, you noticed that, huh?”

“Hey, I have to know when to keep my guard up,” I said.

She laughed and playfully patted my thigh. My upper thigh.

“Well, first of all, the whole biological clock thing is a load of crap.”

“Oh, come on,” I said. “You turn thirty-eight and you start picking up brochures for birthing centers just like that?”

“Well, yeah, but I don’t think it’s an age thing. I think I just reached the point where I was tired of being the most important person in my life. I’ve been so selfish for so long. I’m sick of focusing on myself. I want to put someone else’s needs first.”

It was as good a reason as I’ve heard for wanting to have a child. It was also about as far from my own experience as I could imagine. I had enough problems just taking care of myself.

At the same time, I had this vague feeling that Tina’s life was heading in a more meaningful direction than mine. And the truth was, this career-minded, hard-running, yoga-disciplined woman was going to make a great mother-the kind of mother I’d want my own kid to have. I could suddenly imagine a tiny little Tina: the curly brown hair, the twinkling eyes, the mischievous laugh. And in that moment I resigned myself to allow whatever was about to happen between us.

It’s not that I had suddenly given myself over to believing in fate or destiny or any of that malarkey. Because that quickly leads you to a place where free will doesn’t exist, and that’s no fun whatsoever. I did, however, feel that previous decisions had put me in a circumstance where my next action had become a foregone conclusion. So I might as well stop fighting it.

Or maybe that was the pot talking.

Either way, when Tina got us a romantic table in the back corner, I didn’t protest. And when she ordered a bottle of red wine, I nodded in approval. And when her leg brushed against mine under the table, I enjoyed the sensation. And when a second bottle of red wine appeared, I didn’t let it go to waste. And when Tina announced at the end of the meal she was in no shape to drive me back to Nutley-so I had to come over to her place-I complied.

We walked arm in arm back to her condo, a one-bedroom with a view of Manhattan, leaning on each other the whole way. It was closing in on midnight and I had been buzzing constantly since about five in the afternoon, with the red wine taking over where the pot left off. I was ready for love.

As we rode up the elevator, she nestled against me. I enjoyed the smell of her hair and the faint note of her perfume. I had half a mind to pin that lithe body of hers against the wall as soon as we walked in her front door.

But no. This was her seduction scene. I was going to let it unfold her way. She unlocked the door and pointed me toward the couch.

“I’ll be right back,” she whispered.

“I’m looking forward to it,” I said in a deep, lusty growl.

I did a quick survey of the landscape. Tina’s pad was filled with sturdy, sensible furnishings-and no shortage of potential landings for two adventurous lovers. The chair. The sofa. The coffee table. They’d all hold just fine. I was beginning to toy with the possible combinations when Tina returned, still dressed in the same clothes, carrying a blanket.

She immediately interpreted my confused look.

“We’re both far too drunk,” she said, handing me the blanket and pushing me down on the couch. “It’s not right.”

She bent over and kissed me on the cheek.

“Besides,” she whispered in my ear, “I don’t reach peak fertility until Friday.”

My only wish that next morning was that I be allowed to file a motion for clemency in the Court of Hangover Appeals. Hangovers are supposed to be punishment for wicked behavior. My argument, therefore, was that I didn’t deserve this hangover-especially not a red wine hangover, known to be among the most vicious in nature.

After all, I had merely been acting in self-defense. In their infinite wisdom, the judges would surely see the logic: the reason I drank wine was because I had smoked pot; I had smoked pot because I didn’t want to get shot by gang members; therefore, I drank wine because I didn’t want to get shot by gang members. Self-defense.

Alas, there was no court in the land with the benevolence to hold such proceedings nor the power to commute my sentence. So I awoke with a skull full of broken glass, a stomach full of bile, and a mouth full of squirrel excrement.

“How was I last night?” I said as I wandered into Tina’s kitchen, squinting at the brilliance of her track lighting.

“Since I didn’t have to fake anything before I fell asleep? I’d say you were just fine.”

Tina was wearing Lycra leggings, a windbreaker, and running shoes.

“Don’t tell me you’ve already been jogging,” I said.

“It’s the best way to get over a hangover. Blows the whole thing right out of your system.”

“I’ll stick with water and aspirin, thanks.”

“Suit yourself. Want some eggs?” she asked, pointing to a fry pan full of them. I have a general rule about eggs: I will eat a chicken’s leg, wing, or breast, but I draw the line at eating its embryonic fluid.

“Thanks, no,” I said. “But a toothbrush might be nice.”

“There’s a new one in the medicine cabinet. I had been hoping the baby’s father would use it the morning after we conceived. But I suppose you can have it.”

I laughed. “So, let me get it straight: in exchange for some random guy’s sperm, you’re planning to give him a toothbrush?”

“Hey, I’m going to feed him breakfast, too,” Tina said.

I wandered into Tina’s bathroom, and instantly wished it hadn’t been mirrored. I know most folks don’t think thirty-one is old. But thirty-one never looks more decrepit than when it’s been smoking weed, drinking wine, eating salty food, and sleeping in its clothes. It was like I went to bed as Carter Ross and woke up as Yoda.

I brushed, rinsed, brushed again, rinsed again, and still felt like I hadn’t rid my mouth of the squirrel turds. Only time, and the proper amount of penitence in the Church of the Throbbing Headache, would do that.