Rafael Yglesias - Hot Properties

He got a phone machine.

His irritation at this left him baffled when the beep came. He hung up without speaking. Within moments he knew what his message should have been, but now he worried that if he called back immediately. Tom would know Fred had been the hang-up. He let two hours go by, assuming that the intervening messages after his hang-up would obscure any connection.

“Hello, Tom. This is Fred Tatter. I have two courtside tickets to the Knicks-Celtics playoff game tomorrow night. My fellow Knick fan can’t make it. I thought I remembered your saying you love basketball. I need to know by tonight — I don’t want the ticket to go to waste. Could you call me?” He rattled off his number casually, in a tone that implied Tom already had it but was being saved the trouble of looking it up. Fred laughed to himself afterward, thinking of the dilemma he had placed Tom in. Lear had gone on and on recently about how much he had loved the glory days of the Knicks and how he looked forward to their being in the playoffs this year. The game Fred had invited him to was scheduled for the night of the poker game.

Fred had done many pieces on the Knick management during their losing seasons, when they were widely criticized in the New York press. Fred’s interviews were soft, easy, and made them look good. He had earned the right to request good seats for any game. It pleased him that he had acquired this weapon in his battle to be liked by the writing boys through his own writing. He phoned the Knick office after calling Tom and arranged for the tickets, and then sat back at his typewriter, resuming work on his novel with renewed vigor, producing effortlessly for the first time in months.

He finished a chapter at five-thirty. Marion would be home soon. Tom Lear, if he had been out to lunch, would have come home by now and gotten his message. He read over the chapter, his mind distracted by waiting for a bell to ring. He thought about having sex with Marion. He’d have to ask, of course. He might get her to agree if he offered to give her a back rub. He tried to remember when he had last gone down on her and brought her to orgasm orally. Well, he told himself defensively, when was the last time she gave me a blow-job? The prospect of negotiating through all these preliminaries drained the desire for the ultimate goal. What he really wanted was for her to arrive, magically strip off her clothes, open her legs, and let him take her on the parquet foyer floor, pulling him to her with enthusiasm, moaning with joy. Fast, fast, fast, without all the garbage, the tentative shy touching. Why couldn’t she come home one night and say, “Fuck me,” and like it? Why couldn’t she slip under him and let his penis invade her throat? Why wouldn’t she get on her haunches, without being asked, without being seduced, and beg for it up the ass?

Because she doesn’t enjoy sex, he told himself with anger, a saddened, dissipating fury. She doesn’t really enjoy anything. Not work, or sex, or me.

Marion arrived shortly after this judgment. She rang the bell and Fred found her slumped against the hallway wall, her leather bag drooping at the end of a hand. She opened her fingers and let it drop. He said, “Hello!” valiantly, trying to discourage her performance of fatigue.

Marion closed her eyes and let her head rest against the wall.

“Come on!” Fred said, irritation erupting through his brief attempt at good cheer. “Wake up.”

She opened her eyes and walked into his arms, burying her head in his shoulder and sighing. He was home to her: a safe port whose criticisms and praise were equally familiar, and becalmed of harm or excitement.

This physical request, that he be her protector, secure and comforting, made him feel hopeless. He needed help: rescue from the battering storms of his constructions into the dangerous world; not a plea for shelter, a plea he was both unwilling and unable to answer.

She put her arms around him and squeezed, saying, “Mmmm.” But it was a sound of childish coziness, not a passionate preliminary. He eased her away, pulling her arms off. She kept her face on him, leaning forward, threatening to topple if he moved away.

“Come on,” he said, trying to keep irritated emphasis out of his tone.

Marion abruptly breathed in deeply and straightened, her face impassive, and returned to the doorway to get her bag.

“Rough day?” Fred asked.

“The worst.” She walked past him, taking off her trench coat and hanging it up. “Did you buy anything for dinner?”

“No,” Fred said. He rapidly calculated that if he hoped to get lucky with her, he’d better compensate for his oversight. “I thought we’d order Chinese,” he said casually, pretending to a carefully thought-out plan.

“Not again,” she moaned. “Why didn’t you buy some steaks? You never think of buying anything. What would you do if I weren’t living here?”

Fred guffawed. “Order Chinese,” he said, delighted by this witticism.

Marion, to his surprise, smiled. “You’d turn into a humongous dumpling.” she said, patting his flabby belly. “I can’t eat Chinese again.”

Fred beamed. “How about pizza?” And then guffawed at himself.

“What a diet,” Marion said, and walked into the kitchen, opening the freezer, only to frown at its contents. “You want hot dogs?” she asked doubtfully.

“Oh yeah. That’s much healthier than pizza.”

Marion laughed and looked at him affectionately. He walked over, putting his arms around her and kissing her, like he did when they dated in college, his tongue out, pushing into her mouth rudely, anxiously selling his desire to penetrate her. Marion welcomed this embrace without enthusiasm, but with a gentle touch on the back of his neck. He broke off at this response and looked in her eyes. “I love you,” he said almost in a tone of apology.

She smiled sweetly.

The phone rang. Marion sagged. “You get it,” she said, her eyes looking pained at the sound of the second ring.

“Hello,” Fred said cheerfully into the kitchen wall phone.

“Hello, Fred? It’s Tom Lear.”

“Oh.” A jolt went through him; a shock of transition. “Hello.”

“I got your message. Listen, thanks for thinking of me. I really appreciate it.”

He’s going to say no, Fred thought, and he felt the dark troubles of the world stir, a monster growling in the slime.

“It should be a great game,” Fred said, hoping to appease the beast, remind it of its self-interest. Could Tom be so disdainful that even to sit next to Fred would spoil a superb basketball game?

“Great? It’s the game of the year! Game of the century! At least — it’s the best game this week.”

Fred laughed, but feebly. Suddenly he was uncertain of defeat. Tom sounded natural, at ease. Maybe he was going to accept.

“Anyway,” Tom went on, “I do want to go to the game …”

Here it comes, Fred thought.

“… and I would have loved going with you, because you’re a real Knick fan, but I already accepted an invite from Sam Billings, the producer of my movie. He’s invited me into the studio’s box. I could beg off to do something else, but I think he’d be insulted if he spotted me there with you.”

“The tickets I have are courtside,” Fred pleaded. “Do you know where the private boxes are? They’re way up top. In fact, they’re built above the cheap seats.”

“Oh, I’ve been in the box before. You’re right, they’re terrible seats. Only good thing about it is the private bar. Most people end up watching the game on the TV in the box. Most ridiculous thing in the world. Go to Madison Square Garden to watch the Knicks on television.”

“I don’t think your producer would spot us.”