Sol Stein - Other people

"It wouldn't be routine," I protested.

"You'd get restless quickly, I can see that, you'd want to move on and up. Ambition is commendable, but without a cooperative attitude on your part… where are you going?"

I had stood up without realizing it.

"Mr. Straws," I said, "I am going to make it my business to find out who is the biggest competitor you have, and get a job with him paying nothing if I have to, and work my way up so fast you'll never know what happened to you when I'm on opposite your highest-rated show. I do thank you for this interview."

And I was gone. I did not slam the door. Oh George Thomassy, you would have been proud of my exit, you jealous son of a bitch.

You make a mistake. You know you've made a mistake. You don't rectify it. You compound it by making something remediable drag until it is too late.

I wasn't about to let George Thomassy escape my life without giving it one more chance. I wanted to find a way to apologize for the stupidity of our argument. I wanted him to make love to me so I could make love to him.

I didn't think I could handle it in a phone call. And I didn't want to call for an appointment. Saturday, he would be home. I drove there from my parents' house. He wasn't home. I went to a nearby coffee shop and gave it forty minutes, figuring he was out getting something or other. I could feel my courage ebbing. I went back to his place. No answer.

It was easy to decipher. He had reacted to our quarrel by spending Friday night with Jane or one of the others. He didn't spend nights with women, he said. Then why wasn't he here Saturday morning?

Perhaps spending a night with a woman — he had with me — now interested Mr. Privacy. I drove part way back home, turned around and went back to his place.

No luck. I'd leave a note. What to say?

I tore up three versions. What I left was an unsigned piece of paper wedged in the door that said I was here. You weren't.

That sounded like an accusation. I got out of my car and went back to the house and added to the note Sorry .

Maybe he won't even recognize my handwriting!

I called Bill. A date with Bill wouldn't be absolute neutrality. He would comfort me. He would compliment me and mean it. Seeing Bill wasn't a step forward in any direction for me, but would Bill understand that, or would he seize on this overture from me as a promise?

It turned out that Bill had a date for Saturday night. Succor was needed, but someone was protecting Bill from me.

Bill called back. He'd been able to get out of his Saturday-night date gracefully.

"Why?"

"You come first, Francine."

I couldn't respect his dialogue, Just his decency and friendship. Be careful, Bill , I wanted to say, this is a different league . He suggested he'd pick me up at my parents' house and we'd go to an early dinner and a movie.

As expected, Father Widmer's pleasure showed when it turned out to be Bill Acton at the door.

After the amenities, I took Bill by the elbow and steered him toward the door. "We'll be late," I said for the others to hear.

When we were outside, he said, "Late for what?"

"Late for getting the hell out of the house, dummy."

"I didn't make reservations. I didn't know where you'd want to go."

"The first place I want to go is my apartment, which I wouldn't dream of going near without an escort." I put my arm through his.

"Isn't that guy still around?"

"I guess. I think he's out on bail, something like that. He's shorter than you are."

Bill looked all Adam's apple at that moment.

"I'm not worried about him, if you're not worried about him."

"Well, then," I said, "let's go."

When we got there, before we got out of the car, I looked up at the windows above mine. Dark. The whole apartment dark.

"They must have gone somewhere," I said.

"I hope to hell."

I laughed.

"You know what I meant," said Bill. "Francine, I'm not as dumb as you sometimes think I am."

"I never think that!" I lied.

"What I'm trying to say is that I sometimes actually wish you weren't as smart or as attractive as you are."

I guess I looked puzzled, because he went on, "Maybe I'd have more of a chance."

Well, what does a woman do? I liked Bill. I trusted him. I wondered if the girl he'd broken his date with went to bed with him. He preferred me, the sweet idiot.

We didn't get to dinner or the movie. I took some booze from the cupboard, made us each a light drink, put a record on, lit up a joint, caressed his head, kissed his cheek, let him kiss me on the mouth.

I took a drag — it'd been a long time, it seemed — and passed the joint to him. I could feel the desperation of his longing. He wasn't a horny guy looking to get his rocks off. It was my friend Bill, close to being my ex-friend Bill if Thomassy would have me, wanting a woman he thought himself not interesting enough for. Some people would call what happened a mercy fuck. God I hate that term, mercy for whom? For both of us! Bill made love to me instead of dinner, instead of the movies, and my urging him to stay the night after I had called home and said Bill had dropped me off at my apartment and it was okay, and then agreeing when he woke me during the night, and even letting him when what was in my mind was the note in Thomassy's door, imagining Thomassy's expression when he saw it, and why oh why wasn't he phoning?

The plane bumped around on the flight back from Syracuse Saturday, but my thoughts bumped around more. One moment I was thinking of the old man, we had displayed our first affection as adults, after all these years, and the next moment I was thinking of that bitch Francine, berating me for being what I was at a time when I was beginning to think I might lead a different kind of life, with another person in it. I couldn't change my age. I couldn't change into a Wasp. I wouldn't change my vocation an inch. And I wouldn't be jealous of hers if she had one. But I might learn to share what? A bed, we'd done that. A kitchen? A home? It seemed too drastic to contemplate, too important not to contemplate.

At LaGuardia I found myself loping to the cabstand only to find an impossible line. What was I doing? I'd parked my own car at the airport. I was breathless by the time I got to the lot — I couldn't remember which section I had parked in — and couldn't find my car keys in my pockets. I turned them all inside out one at a time. Had I misplaced them up in Oswego? I'd had the keys for the rented car. I'd turned that in. What had I done with my own keys? Being in love was a state of madness.

I used the key I had hidden in a magnetized metal container under the hood. I couldn't go to her now, in this state, I had to get a hold of myself, calm down, think what I would say to her.

I don't know what would have happened if I had driven straight to her parents' house from the airport. I went home, found Francine's note, took a hot bath, thought of the old man, glad I had gone, thought of Francine, knew that in the morning, my best hours, I would phone, drive over, and welcome Sunday with her. I had a crazy idea we'd drive to the city and do Central Park if the sun came out.

I had a deep sleep, not a long one. I was up at 6:00 A.M., eager to go. I put on a turtleneck and a sporty jacket I thought she'd like. Was I dressing younger? I had to put ideas like that out of my head. I breakfasted on fried eggs over and bacon and four pieces of buttered toast with my favorite dark orange marmalade. I brushed my teeth a second time that morning. I took time to stop in the self-service car wash. Crazy to wash the car when it was raining. It's only a sunshower, what the hell! I even vacuumed the inside. From a phone booth I dialed her parents' number, hoping she would answer. When it rang the fourth and fifth time I got jumpy. Then a drowsy-voiced Ned Widmer answered, "Yes?"