Dana Spiotta - Lightning Field

Mina’s favorite establishment of Lorene’s and the true gem and heart of Pleasure Model Enterprises, at least in Mina’s view, was the Gentleman’s Club, which opened a year and a half after Food Baroque. It was the place both of them spent most of their time, Mina working the floor nearly every night the first year, and Lorene nearly always starting or ending her days there. The place was conceived, initially, as a men’s club, a forties serviceman’s-style club, though ersatz even as such: a serviceman’s club but as imagined in fifties movies about wartime serviceman’s clubs. Gentlemanly recreation with the opposite gender — that sort of thing. The idea was hire pretty girls and dress them in slightly undersized forties vintage dresses. Give them names like Shirley and Annette. Lorene required them to be about fifteen pounds over the standard L.A. beauty — she wanted hips and curves, retro bodies. Initially it worked that way, only men allowed, and lots of girls to wait on them and have bright conversation, ordering them sidecars and Manhattans and old-fashioneds, Harvey Wallbangers and salty dogs. No boutique bourbons or single-batch tequilas or single malts. It was quite a successful place, but Lorene had to compromise and allow women customers, finally. Women, then, ironically, became the most loyal customers (or, actually, members— everyone who entered had to join for ten dollars to enjoy the recreation and refreshments of the club — this also allowed Lorene to skirt the smoking laws, as it was a private club, and members could smoke and eat and talk in peace). Womenloved to chat up the “girls”—this had a quaint, faintly outré sort of kink to it, women as fifties-stylized forties servicemen, missing the company of the sweet and lovely chubby woman. Thus the Gentleman’s Club sprung its own cooler opposite, as “Gentleman’s Club,” with more women members than men. It was there they were to meet, the following evening, at the long bar, when Mina again turned up several hours late.

Lorene was waiting, smoking at the bar. Mina sat on the stool next to her. The bar was packed, and Lorene shook her head.

“I thought you only saw Scott one weekend a month.”

“Well, Scott, yes. Sorry.”

“David did call and I did cover for you.”

“Great. Cover. You’re top shelf,” Mina said. “Drink?”

“Ray.” Lorene gestured at Ray (real name Brandon, or Brendan, or was it Branden? — but Lorene couldn’t have that).

Ray hand-polished his glasses. “What’ll it be today, girls?” Lorene also specified that staff refer to women (even in the vocative) as “girls,” never as “ladies,” “miss,” or (God forbid!) “women.”

“I’ll have a Norman Maine on the rocks,” Mina said.

“I’ll have a Holly Martins,” Lorene said. Ray filled two glasses with club soda and placed them on the bar in front of them, as he always did, no matter what they ordered.

“Look, I don’t mind covering for you, just let me know ahead of time.”

“Sorry, I meant to get here sooner, but I ended up walking home and then I couldn’t bring myself to go in,” Mina said.

“It’s gone on a bit, this Scott thing. Really, it’s your business.”

“Yes, Scott. A bit. My business.”

“I’m not even going to address this walking business.”

“I like to walk.”

“Someone might say you are scared to drive.”

“I’m not. I prefer walking.”

“I think someone might say that anyone with as complicated a personal life as you have might not be able to afford the luxury of preferring to walk places.”

“Lorene.”

“But I’m not even going to mention it.”

Mina had been seeing Scott regularly for about six months. Lorene was the only one who knew. She told her one day, “I need you to cover me one weekend a month.” Lorene said, “Yes?” And Mina said, “His name is Scott.” Lorene just said, “Scott. Scott. Well, with a name like Scott, he must be lonely.” So Mina would let her think it was still Scott. Not tell her about Max. She had secrets now within her secrets. Secrets from her secrets.

“Poor Scott,” Lorene said.

Yes, poor Scott. Mina had met him in a hotel bar that seemed to have been there forever and was always deserted, her sort of place. It was in walking distance of the Gentleman’s Club, and one of those places she meandered by in the early stages of her “walking places.” She sat there, taking a break from the restaurant to get a real drink. A three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon drink, something shadowed and filmish and seductive, the perversion of the sun outside. She needed a cigarette, and a man, obviously. One day after another of working, and she couldn’t bear it. She walked in and ordered an Irish whisky, neat.

A young man was sitting at the bar. When her sweater slipped off her stool, he picked it up for her. He had on a suit, an actual suit, with a tie and cuff links and a jacket. He smiled and handed her her sweater.

“Thank you,” she said, and smiled at him.

It seemed such an archaic, nice thing to do.

He smiled and nodded and went back to his stool. She felt warm from the drink and wanted another. The young man in the suit gestured at the bartender, pointing at his glass and hers. The bartender probably had a real name, like Sam, because he was so old. It occurred to Mina that she liked bartenders to be a lot older than she. She had to make a note of this for Gentleman’s Club. She smiled at the young man and gestured him over. He was drinking a gold-hued liquid in a highball glass filled with ice that certainly had to be scotch.

“May I join you?” he said and she nodded. They sat there saying nothing, sipping, staring at the bartender. She could discern the unmistakable peaty-grassy scotch smell from his glass and his mouth when he spoke. She wanted to hear him talk.

“You’re visiting?” she said.

He explained he was visiting his daughter, two years old. His wife had left him several months earlier, and now he came to L.A. once a month to visit his kid.

“You’re from New York?” she asked. He was. But not originally. He was from Georgia. His name was Scott Winter. Married his sweetheart. Became an investment banker. Worked long hours. She left him. He was in a suit, postvisit to the indifferent kid, hapless and having a few.

“A banker,” she said, “in a suit.”

“Is that bad?” he asked with complete earnestness. “I ask because I don’t know. It must seem odd, here in Los Angeles.”

He was very slender, nearly petite. He was not greatlooking, but handsome in an inoffensive, smooth-cheeked, high-school kind of way, nice-shaped face, sort of ridiculouspink cheeks and voluptuous mouth, all a bit disconcerting combined with the dark circles under the eyes. He was one of those guys who would go from looking twenty-five to forty-five overnight.

“Were you very popular in high school?” she asked.

“Well, high school was a long time ago,” he said.

“Yeah, you were. That’s okay. You really work for a bank. Sort of get up and go to work every day in a suit. How about that.” He looked at her oddly.

“I’m sorry, I’m bothering you,” he said, and his face was blank and sad.

“You’re not, Scott. Really not. I’m just talking. It’s my way, I’m sorry, I don’t mean anything I say,” Mina said. “I’m not making fun of you. I’m making fun of me.” He again looked at her oddly. She realized he was a bit struck, and it was amazingly attractive to Mina.

They sat quietly, mid-distance staring. Two people drinking in a dark bar while the sun burned brightly outside. He didn’t leave. They sipped their drinks. She leaned her head in close to him.

“Scott,” she said. He looked at her.

“Scott, I love the way a man’s mouth tastes after he’s been drinking scotch.