Jowita Bydlowska - Guy

I do make her into a star.

I line up behind a Seven and a maybe-Four and a solid Three.

There’s some problem with the smoothie machine. Panicked bustling behind the counter.

“She was so sad when I saw her in that video,” says the Three.

“How do you know she was sad? Oh my god, it’s all just for show,” says maybe-Four. She’s got a look that’s all wrong. Her hair is wild and curly. There’s a lot of it, uncombed. Glasses, too. She’s either a lesbian-in-training or this is a pretty-girl-trying-to-be-ugly thing. Some men consider that cute. I don’t. I consider it tiresome.

The Seven says, “I read on Perez that she, like, had a big breakup, but she won’t talk about it because she’s, like, becoming media-smart , so she’s just giving hints and stuff to the press.”

“Please,” the maybe-Four says.

“I don’t know, I just read it online.”

“Yeah, when I saw her in the video, she really seemed totally genuine,” says the Three. In the same moment she looks up and sees me. She blinks. Looks down.

The maybe-Four says, “Dolly, look at me, look, look. Guess if I’m sad or not, come on, look.” She relaxes her forehead, her dark eyes suddenly turning softer, bigger, bushy eyebrows going up a little above the glasses.

The Three shakes her head, “Very mature.” She looks behind the Seven. Looks at me again. She does this quickly, nervously. It’s like a tick, that quick glance.

I take in her face. It’s perfect. It’s round and a little flat with zero cheekbones. The chin is round, but already propped up by a promise of a second fold. She’s not fat. She’s well nourished. For now. Her eyes are the best feature. Round, doll-like eyes with supremely white whites, sugar whites, baby eyes.

It’s almost always in the eyes. The hope and belief and freshness that nothing can recreate as a girl gets older. Sometimes you see it in celebrities, the baby-bright eyes. But that’s all artificial, mechanics at work. Armies of professionals and products: the liquids and lights that hide the yellowness of spray tan, the paleness of heroin, tiredness and heartbreak.

“This is so annoying,” the maybe-Four says to no one in particular. She says it loudly enough to get one of the women behind the counter to look up in our direction. The woman’s eyebrows knot and unknot.

“Em, be quiet,” the Seven hisses.

The Three looks at me again. This time I invite her eyes into mine. I don’t look away. I don’t smile yet either. I just let the eyes do the talking – mine pulling and hers coming forward. Closer and closer until it’s pupil to pupil, my eyes engulfing hers in the sort of promise that she’s just started to look for in life. Open wide. My engorged dick in your mouth , I say with my eyes.

I can sense the internal squirm: she wants to blink. But she doesn’t blink.

Let me fuck you. Let me show you, teach you. Let me free you from your dumb, sad life for at least a few moments. Turn you over on all fours. Tell you I love your breasts, your ass. Pull your hair a little, make you gasp.

Her head twitches, eyes down.

There’s more noise behind the counter, near the smoothie machine. Someone shouts that it’s working. The girls in front of me stop talking. The line moves forward and they move with it.

The Three looks one more time, and now I smile: Put your hand right here. See how hard you’re making me?

Outside the shack, the dog is panting in the sun. An aggressively serious woman with yoga gear enveloping her flat, athletic body walks by and stops abruptly. Her face softens when the dog jumps with a stifled bark as I come out with my smoothie. A former Six, now a Four; she’s slowly turning into a thoroughbred horse; you can see her youth falling off her.

I go up to the dog to make a show of petting him. I tell him he’s a good dog.

I praise my dog for things like sitting and shitting and eating. If he could sing, I could make him a pop star. Same IQs.

I check out my Facebook page to see if anyone’s commented on the rockfish with tomato sauté and brown rice. No one. When I look up, the woman is walking away. Her ass is nice, but she probably hates its plumpness that refuses to be processed by the gym equipment.

The three girls come out and start to push patio chairs around one of the tables. They’re talking in whispers. I can feel the excitement.Without looking, I know they’re looking at us, my dog and me.

I check my Facebook again. Homemade ravioli, one comment: “nice!” Someone named Cassandra. I have a vague memory of armpit stubble scraping my nose.

There’s a scrunch of sand and clacking of flip-flops behind me. “What’s your dog’s name?”

I turn around. It’s the Seven. Her face is a triangle of well-arranged cheekbones. Pointy chin, full lips. There’s hardness in her eyes that only comes from knowing that you’re pretty.

“Dog. The dog’s name is Dog,” I say and her hard, clear eyes widen for a second and then squint.

She says in a flat voice, “That’s funny.”

“It’s very funny.”

“Actually, my friend wants to know. She’s obsessed with dogs,” she says.

“Well, it’s Dog. It’s easy to remember.”

“Dolores, come over here,” she shouts.

Dolores, the sweet, well-nourished Three, blushes a big blush that comes right through her sunburned cheeks. She gets up from the table.

Who names a girl Dolores ? It’s mean, like naming her Gladys or Bertie . It’s like naming a girl after her grandmother who was courageous because she survived the Nazis. Or had many children on the prairie somewhere and once amputated her own leg in the dead of winter, while running. But Dolores it is, and it’s perfect. It’s perfect that she’s stuck with the name of an old lady, more humiliating somehow.

I watch Dolores walk. She’s got the barely-lifting-her-feet walk. In her flip-flops, she shuffles. It’s the walk of weekends in pajamas, evenings in front of the TV – a bowl of Lucky Charms and a glass of warm milk – the walk of slouching from class to class, panting runs around the gymnasium and moving side to side if forced to dance at the school prom, where she went with her gay best friend. It’s the walk of a girl who doesn’t want to be noticed, and I notice every single thing about it.

“Hi,” she says, to me or to the dog. She sits down on the wet sand, facing the dog and stroking his stupid, happy face.

“Hi. He likes you,” I tell her, and she looks up. Our eyes do their thing – mine telling hers that I like her . Hers unsure, but already rushing in, getting swallowed.

“Dolores used to have a dog but it got hit by a car, right?” the Seven says. Dolores blinks and nods solemnly and says, “His name was Punky. It was my dad’s dog. An Akita.”

I’m impressed. I know enough about dogs to know that an Akita is not an easy dog. It’s a large animal. Bigger than mine, with muscular though slim shoulders and paws twice the size of Dog’s. It’s a dog of single guys or couples – never couples with children. I wonder if Dolores’ parents are divorced. My dad’s dog clearly suggests that.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

The Seven says, “Dolores was pretty bummed out, right?”

“It’s okay,” Dolores says. “This is Kelly,” meaning the Seven, who looks a little startled by suddenly being introduced. She thrusts a little pink-nailed paw at me.

I say, “Hi, Kelly. I’m Guy, nice to meet you.”

“Guy’s your name?”

“Yes.”

Ready? One, two, three!

“That’s funny. So you have a dog named Dog , and you’re a guy named Guy?” Kelly says.