Thomas Pierce - Hall of Small Mammals - Stories

When Susan begs for his signature, Simon asks for her T-shirt. “This one?” she asks. “The one I’m wearing?” She looks around uneasily but strips down to her black bra.

Simon smears his blood across the picture of his face on the shirt. “Better than a signature,” he says. She takes the bloodied shirt between her thumb and index finger. A long time ago Simon decided not to sleep with fans, but with this woman, he would make an exception. Her deep blue eyes are wide-set, her face heart-shaped. She seems kind. He can imagine waking up with her and not feeling bad about himself.

“Thanks for this.” She doesn’t seem to know what to do with the bloody shirt: put it on or continue the conversation half naked.

“Here,” he says, and grabs her a tour shirt from a box down the hall. “Sorry, I didn’t really think that through. It seemed cooler in my head. I’m on my way to this after-party around the corner. Might be fun. You should come. All the chairs at this club are apparently Fisher-Price.”

“As in, the little kids’ toys?” The baggy tour shirt swallows her whole.

“Yeah, exactly. A club decorated for kids that’s really for adults.”

“Sure,” she says, smiling. “Count me in.”

They leave the concert venue through the back door and walk down an alley wet with rain and full of dumpster-stink. Her high heels echo ahead of them. Outside the club, she digs inside her purse.

“Hold on, sorry,” she says. “My sister’s calling for like the millionth time. I have to take this real fast, okay?”

BlackBerry flat against one ear and hand cupping the other to block out the traffic noise, Susan walks ahead up the sidewalk, though he can still hear bits of the conversation. “Fine,” she says. “I’ll call him in a minute. From inside. But you do realize this will only make it worse.” She seems upset but, incongruously, turns back to smile at Simon with perfect teeth. “No, of course,” she says to her sister. “I’m not trying to make you the go-between.” She nods her head quickly. “Okay, yes, love you too. Don’t stay up.” She drops the phone in her purse and slides her arm through Simon’s. “Ready?”

Raindrops clinging to a high gutter splatter down on Simon’s neck. A taxi zooms by at the end of the block, sweeping water across the curb. Briefly, he considers running after it. He could go back to the hotel, take a hot shower, stick an ugly Band-Aid on his brow, and fall asleep in front of the television. The night could end here.

The bouncer waves them into the club, and they shove their way to a low plastic table decorated with a plastic flower in a plastic pot and an Easy-Bake Oven. The first round of drinks arrives, in little sippy cups, and then the second and third, and Simon realizes his hand has somehow found its way to Susan’s back. His hand is under her loose shirt: warm skin, the soft knobs of her spine. Later, he knows, they will wind up at his hotel — or at her house. He doesn’t care which. He downs his drink and opens his phone. She props her chin on his shoulder, asks who it is he’s calling. Sometimes he likes to leave himself voice mails — for later, like a diary.

“Hey,” he says after the beep. “It’s me. It’s you. You’re with Susan, and she says she wants to paint your naked — what was it, my naked knees?” He laughs. “God, can you hear this?” Susan grabs the phone. “You have beautiful knees,” she says, and squeezes his right knee and then passes the phone back to him. “You hear that? Things are going to get weird tonight, man. Oh, shit.” He laughs again. “Susan? Okay, Susan just fell over. I repeat, Susan just fell over. It’s these stupid chairs. She’s all right. Listen, Simon, here’s the truth: You’re smitten. That’s what I called to say. You’re smitten. God, what a word. You’re smitten with Susan and you’re, like, a thousand feet off the ground right now. You’ve never felt like this. Hey, so I’m booking you a flight, okay? For next week. You’re coming back to town. You’re taking Susan out.” She presses her face to his and shouts into the receiver, “You promised.” Her lips so close to his, he kisses her. “This is for real,” he says. “Check your email. One-way ticket. You’re smitten with Susan, and I just needed you to know it. Also, you’re sitting in the world’s tiniest chair. That is all. Good night.”

People are always asking her if she’s the F. O. Betts. She’s not.

“Then who am I talking to?” The man on the other end of the phone line asks her this.

She shouldn’t have answered the phone. She doesn’t know why she did. She could have locked the doors and been gone an hour ago. Her boyfriend is probably waiting for her downtown with an apple martini and a basket of garlic bread.

“I’m the other F.O.,” she says. “His daughter. Fiona Orlean. My father was the real F.O.” The F was for Frank. The O was for Oliver. He taught French and Latin at the high school for twelve years, piloting trips on the side for extra cash before starting the F. O. Betts Hot Air Balloon Company. Unfortunately he was also a sucker for online poker. Fiona officially took over the business five years ago when they discovered the extent of his debts.

“Is it safe?” the man on the phone asks. “Does it sway a lot?”

“I’ve been up a thousand times and not one accident,” she says. “And no, it doesn’t really sway.”

The man says he wants to book a trip for one, please.

“For one?”

“Yes, for one.”

“Usually we send larger groups up. Seven. Eight. Twelve. It’ll cost extra for just one person,” she says.

“I’ve got money.”

“That makes one of us.”

“How much for a solo trip tomorrow morning?” he asks.

She names an exorbitant sum, more than she’d usually charge, but he says okay, and she gives him the exact address where they can meet. The next morning, there they are, together in a hazy field at dawn, her tennis shoes and jean shorts wet from the tall grass and morning dew, the hulking balloon taking shape behind her. The passenger watches from a safe distance with his arms crossed. He doesn’t like the look of the basket. He asks if he should be hooked in somehow.

“To what?”

He points at the red metal crossbar that keeps the propane tanks in place.

“You’ll be fine,” she says. “Really.”

When they’re ready to go, she motions for him, but first he wants to get something out of his car. He digs around in the backseat and produces a boom box and a small black metal cage. Inside the cage is a green-and-yellow bird.

“What’s this about?” she asks.

“This is Magnificent,” he says. “The parakeet. I thought she might enjoy the ride.”

“We don’t usually do this sort of thing,” she says, though in truth she has seen and permitted much stranger. She makes good money off the eccentrics. This one time a couple wanted to go up naked and Fiona tried to be funny by asking if she needed to go up naked too, but the couple didn’t laugh. They said, sure, if she wanted to, but Fiona stayed clothed and did her best not to look. This other time Fiona let a woman take up her easel and paints and Fiona had expected the woman to produce a beautiful landscape painting but when she snuck a glance at the work-inprogress, in fact it was a bowl of cherries. The high mountain air, the woman explained when Fiona inquired, was full of good ions and encouraged creativity.

And so, looking at the parakeet, Fiona sees a new business opportunity. The bird will cost extra. Nothing personal, she says. It’s an issue of liability, of insurance.

“That’s fine.” He doesn’t even ask how much. He hands her the cage and then the boom box, and then he swings his long legs up and over the lip of the basket even though there’s a door that can open. He’s in jeans, and his shirtsleeves are rolled up tight around the elbows. He could be an accountant. Small wire glasses hover at the end of his thin, ruddy nose.