Adam Levin - Hot Pink

The funny thing about Kelly’s body was the way it appeared to weirdly bulge above the puss area whenever she wore clothes, but then was fine (flat, smooth) once she got naked. (This might more accurately be described as the funny thing about Kelly’s pants , seeing as it had to be the pants that caused the bulge. And yet the pants were normal, Levi’s five-oh-whatevers, so it wouldn’t be the way the pants were made that was funny, but the way the pants fit her body. Unless it was a funny way she wore the pants, i.e., maybe they would have fit just fine if she didn’t pull the waist so high or low, or — it didn’t matter. What mattered was that the way her overpuss area bulged or seemed to bulge when she was clothed, but then didn’t bulge or seem to when she was naked, was… funny.) Cort didn’t know whether to think of this as a gift or a curse, though. On the one hand, the bulging overpuss area was off-putting, and that kept, he assumed, any number of other dudes from hitting on Kelly, which, for Cort, meant (most likely) a more grateful girlfriend in terms of how she fucked, not to mention less competition. But on the other hand, was Kelly THE ONE? Because if Kelly was THE ONE, then hey, great: no downside to a seemingly bulging overpuss whatsoever. If Kelly was not THE ONE, though, and Cort would, eventually, be moving on, then couldn’t dating her hurt his chances with other girls later? Might not other girls, later, remember him as the guy who’d settled for that girl with the overpuss out to there, and thereby fail to feel flattered enough by his interest in them to give him a shot? And even if, with his native charm (he had a way with words), Cort could overcome that particular hurdle, might not a longer-term girlfriend, at some point further along in their relationship, find herself incapable — upon recalling Kelly’s (seemingly) bulging overpuss — of accepting Cort’s assurances that she was as attractive as she wanted to be? (“He says I’m not fat, but what does he know? His last girlfriend weirdly bulged above the puss area!”) Or, worse, might not the new girlfriend choose to let herself go (split ends, rough knees, dimpled cellulite, etc.), believing that Cort, who had, after all, dated someone with a (seemingly) bulging overpuss, wouldn’t mind ? Well… sure. Of course. Sure. All kinds of retarded stuff could happen, thought Cort, but that was only the scratched-up lousy side of a coin whose shiny nice side was all the cred he’d get from girls for going out with Kelly despite her unfortunate overpuss bulge. And if it did turn out that Kelly wasn’t THE ONE, and that Cort had been suffering the overpuss bulge for a smaller payout than real true love, not only would that land him in the black, karmically, but these cred-giving girls would be all over him, knowing he would never say anything, or even think anything, about their bodies to cause them any feelings of insecurity, because, as he’d have demonstrated by dating that girl with the weird bulge above the puss area, Cort wasn’t shallow.

As he approached me on the sidewalk, I noticed the important man had the kind of face that would look exactly the same with or without a mustache. He was carrying a black-lacquered cane with a diamond-studded handle and I envied him his cane. I imagined thumping my fingertips against it, the sound that would make, and flipping it upside-down to make believe it was the letter L . If the cane were mine, I would pretend it was a long-barreled pistol with a diamond-studded grip. I would holster it in the elastic of my jockey shorts and have friends. When I came across a friend, I would pull the cane out of the holster and point it, say: “Gotcha.” I could do that as many times as I wanted, and it would never stop being a good joke. I would be what they call “a character.” People would want to see more of me. They would say of me, “That character! Always with the cane he pretends is a pistol!” and exchange intimate glances with one another, then wave the whole thing off with both hands and decide to lunch together. “Lunch?” one would say. “Let’s,” would say another.

The important man continued in my direction, until he was right in front of me. I made myself sideways so he could pass. My fingernails grazed the button on his epaulet. “Pardon,” he said, and he was walking away.

Just like the last one.

“Come back,” I said.

He waved me off and sped his pace. I went after him. I walked beside him. The heat was unbearable that day. I was sweating.

“I have something to ask you,” I said.

He said, “ What’s that?” but he kept walking, like he was scared of me, like I had done something wrong or something dangerous. I was going to ask him if he ever imagined his cane was a pistol, and then say, “Me too,” and we would have something in common. But I knew that would scare him and I didn’t want that to scare him so I said something I thought was scary so we could both be scared together. I said, “The voice of your brother’s blood cries out to me from the ground!” and made a movement with my shoulders like I would hit him, and he flinched. That was when another man (bearded) came along. This second man owned the hat shop that we were standing in front of, but he was not wearing a hat and he said to me, “What the fuck? Who the fuck?”

“I don’t know,” I said. I was ashamed to look at him. I looked at the display window. It was full of breastless, earth-tone mannequins in bowlers and derby hats sitting in folding chairs around a square table, one on each side. There were playing cards affixed to their hands by means of an invisible adhesive, probably the quick-dry liquid variety. There wasn’t a single thumb between the four of them and this second man expected me to pretend they were playing poker.

“Who the fuck ?” the second man said again.

I imagined he knew I didn’t understand him and that was why he said it the second time. I think he gave up on me after that.

Still watching the mannequins, I made a thinking face to appease him. Then I started thinking. I thought: They do not have ears and they do not have hair, yet their hats do not fall over their eyes — there must be adhesive. I thought: But a liquid adhesive of the kind affixing the cards to the hands would, if used on the heads, irreparably gum up the fibers in the hats and ruin their potential to be sold well. No, I thought, a liquid adhesive would not be appropriate at all, and therefore the mannequins must have strips of adhesive tape between their heads and their hats, and these strips must be looped into O-shapes. Oh, you’re stupid. You thought you were smart, but you’re stupid, I hate you. There is double-sided tape for sale at stores. There is the law of parsimony. Nothing need be looped into O-shapes — not when both sides adhere with equal potency. You should have thought of that first, but you are not elegant.

The second man said, “Go,” and pointed me across the street.

I crossed the street and straddled a construction horse. I watched the second man talk to the first. They spoke like friends. The second man set his hand on the shoulder of the first man and the first man leaned on his cane toward the second man and soon they were laughing. When they laughed, I could see the steam of their gasps converging. I thought: Maybe they don’t know each other at all and the second man is the greatest salesman who ever lived, is selling the first man a hat without the first man even knowing that he is being sold a hat. I thought: I wonder if they notice the way their steam is converging. I wonder if the second man does but the first man doesn’t, if knowing how to foment this convergence is one of the secrets to being as great a salesman as the second man. Convinced of it, and convinced that the second man, despite his canelessness, was important, possibly even more important than the first, I set out to find someone to mingle steam with. This is not as easy for me as it is for others. It is not as easy as it should be.