Rafael Yglesias - Hot Properties

“You want me to cancel? We’ll go out to dinner.”

She sneered. Looked away and sighed with irritation. Then turned back to him and said, “Yes! Call Tom and cancel.”

Fred had done a good job while making the offer to cancel — spoke as though the matter was insignificant. That he’d be happy either way. And even though Fred suspected she was merely testing him, that all he’d have to do was go to the phone with a similar easy manner and start dialing Tom’s number, he couldn’t. The slight chance that she wouldn’t tell him to hang up worried him so much it showed on his face.

Marion snorted. “Forget it. Go ahead and enjoy yourself.” She spoke with hopeless disgust, the despairing resignation of a disappointed mother faced with a favorite son’s betrayal.

“You can join us later,” Fred said, relieved. “I’ll call—”

Marion got up, walking to the coat closet. It was time for her to leave for work. “Forget it. You don’t want me to.”

“Come on!” Fred whined. “That’s not true! I’ll call you from the rest—”

“Forget it,” she said, grabbing her coat, opening the front door, and going, letting the metal door swing shut behind her.

Its slam emptied the apartment. He listened to the refrigerator hum, sorrow vibrating into his crass manipulation. He didn’t feel guilt — or rather, shame at his own behavior and motives was too constant a companion for it to be noticed. He felt tragic, awesome despair at the hopelessness of things ever being carefree between him and Marion. They were like siblings, thrown together involuntarily by fate, personalities that clashed, but were somehow stuck to each other with a glue that never dried to fasten them, and also never evaporated to free them.

Tom Lear, Tom Lear, Tom Lear. The name played in his mind like a pretty song. Everything the guy did seemed so perfect. He even dressed well. He had it all over someone like Tony Winters. He had Tony’s connections (and he got them by merit, not by birth), he had Tony’s quick wit, but he also had the common touch. There was always something snobbish in Tony’s manner — he let you know he thought he was smarter than you. Not Tom. He had a frank, almost childlike innocence when he’d disagree over a book or movie with people. An earnest desire to hear the other point of view. Tony always seemed to want to win the fight, make the other person seem stupid. And Tom had a broader experience and interest in the world. He liked sports. He played poker. He pointed out women with great tits, just like a regular guy.

Tom had asked to read his novel. That was something Tony Winters would never do. Tony couldn’t care less about someone else’s work. Tom was really eager to see Fred’s stuff. He asked about it every time they got together. Two nights ago Fred had given him the first third of the book, a hundred and fifty pages. And because Tom was such a great person, Fred felt no anxiety over Tom’s possible reaction. He was confident that if Tom didn’t like the pages, he would say so, make helpful comments, and continue to be as friendly as ever. That more than anything else was what made Tom different from the rest of the New York cultural scene. He was a real friend.

Fred had to deliver the first one hundred pages of The Locker Room soon. Both Bart and Bob Holder had been asking for them. Therefore, having someone like Tom as a first reader was lucky. Fred happily spent the morning reading over his work. Just the substantial size of his manuscript pleased him. Soon he would have a published book, a small enough achievement in the world in which he now moved, but a climax for him of six years of struggle.

He felt a slight disappointment when Tom Lear called to confirm their date and made no mention of his pages. Probably hasn’t read them yet, Fred told himself, and made up excuses for Tom, not wanting to feel critical of him. He spoke to Marion at work in the late afternoon. He had given little thought to their argument so he surprised himself by saying, after hearing a sullen, clipped hello from her, “Hi. Listen, Tom called. We’ll be at Elaine’s at nine-thirty. Want to meet us there?”

Long pause. As though she were looking for a trick. There wasn’t one, however. Fred had realized there was no reason for her not to come. Her presence wouldn’t change anything for him. In fact, he now wanted her to come. To see how seriously everybody took him. Maybe she would become more respectful. “That’s kind of late …” she said. “What is this? You hocked me about coming and—” “I didn’t hock you. Jesus! Nine-thirty’s late—” “You can leave when you’re tired. I’ll put you in a cab.” “Okay,” she said, suddenly. “Great. I’ll see you there.” Fred thought maybe Tom had read the hundred and fifty pages and wanted to wait until he was with him in the flesh to talk about them, but when they met outside the Gulf & Western Building a few minutes before the screening, Tom said, “Fred. I haven’t had a chance to read your stuff. I’m sorry, things have been crazy—”

“That’s okay,” Fred said. “But do you think you could by the weekend? I’ve got—”

“Definitely. I’ll read ’em tonight.” I’ll read ’em tonight. That sentence interfered with the fortunes of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom throughout the screening. Instead of groaning at the cave with insects, Fred heard Tom’s casual voice, imbued with confidence. I’ll read ’em tonight. While around him people squirmed and moaned uncomfortably as a heart was removed with bare hands from someone’s chest, Fred envied Tom’s situation. He hoped one day another writer would sit next to famous author Fred Tatter before the lights came down and be thrilled to hear that Fred would “read ’em tonight.” He watched impassively as the beating heart was held high into a close-up. While the rest of the room turned to each other with disgust on their faces, he found the image peculiarly normal. Somehow a just expression of the state of his life. Beating and bleeding for everyone to see.

When the picture was over he felt constrained, back to discomfort as usual. It was a mistake giving Tom the pages, Fred said to himself. I can’t take it. He thought it would be different with Tom Lear, but as they took a cab to Elaine’s and entered, greeting the crowd, kissing cheeks, pumping hands, glancing about to see who was there, he knew it wasn’t. He needed Tom’s good opinion. Things wouldn’t be the same if Tom hated the manuscript. After all. Tom might have forged the friendship, assuming Fred was a good writer — discovering otherwise could change everything. Isn’t a big part of the reason I like Tom because I think he’s a terrific writer? Fred asked himself.

Fred copied Tom’s drink orders. By the time Marion arrived, he had had two Scotches and soda. Her appearance surprised him. It wasn’t simply that he had forgotten she was coming — he stared at her amazed, as though her very existence startled him. “Hi, Marion,” he said, kissing her on the cheek and sitting down. She remained standing (she looked flushed with excitement at being there. Fred noticed, but the observation meant nothing to him in his gloomy mood) behind a chair, and stared at Tom. Why is she doing that? Fred wondered.

“I’m Tom Lear,” Tom finally said.

“Thanks,” she said, laughing. “I’m Fred’s wife, Marion.”

“You haven’t met!” Fred said, genuinely surprised.

“How many drinks has he had?” Marion asked Tom, and laughed.

Tom smiled at her. “He is out of it tonight. What’s the matter with him?”

“No, really,” Fred said, making it worse. “You haven’t met?”

“Of course we haven’t met, Freddy,” Marion said. She called him Freddy when she was most contemptuous of him. “You know that. I complained about it enough, for Chris-sake.”