Robert Lopez - Good People

What no one knows is that it doesn’t take much for me to fall in love and get married. With my new wife, it’s how she pronounces cheeps and the rest of her broken English and how she peeks down past those cheekbones at her hole cards, like she doesn’t want them to know she’s looking. How she looks devastated when I tell her something she doesn’t like and how after I say something nice a smile comes exploding from the bottom of her face and she kisses me hard on the cheek. She can go from inconsolable to affectionate in seconds and I don’t care if she’s just biding her time as long as she does this every so often. The others all had their own private wonders unique to them, too. I can’t help myself when it comes to women sometimes. This probably speaks to something fundamental about who I am as a person, but I try not to think about it. Or if I do, I only try to see how it might connect to poker.

I tell her we should keep driving around, that it’ll be dark soon. I ask if we can give it another hour, that if we can’t find my sister’s house in another hour, we’ll find a hotel and watch TV and eat chips. Then tomorrow we’ll go up to Vermont and live happily ever after. She tells me this is her dream. She says I should call my sister to see if she’s home, but I don’t have her new phone number. The last time I tried to call there was an automated voice saying the number I had dialed had been disconnected. I’m not sure when this was, if it was before or after I’d visited her last, the time she played the cello and we went for a walk. My sister hasn’t met any of my wives. I have a dim memory of calling her after I got married the first time with the intention of telling her the news, but all she could talk about were the drapes and how they were giving her all kinds of trouble.

THERE WERE TOO MANY PEOPLE there when it happened so I’ve decided to cut some of them. Arthur Wheeler was present but had nothing to do with it. Gil Figgitz was whittling with his fly open again, dementia worsening, so he’s out. All June Harrison does is occupy space and too much of it at that and this was no exception. Likewise husband, Bill. I know for a fact Judy Jakker wanted nothing to do with it — she said so in that ridiculous European accent of hers — so out of respect for Judy, I’ll say she wasn’t even there. Betty Lager is an easy cut, despite the jean shorts and pedicured toes. Frank Pugo shouldn’t have been mixed up in this in the first place and his role, from what I understand, was minimal. William Shedd doesn’t need this kind of recognition, given his situation. As far as Harriet Dovovich is concerned, it’s best to leave well enough alone. Diego Goldstein wasn’t there at all, but he’s my friend and he’d be excited to see his name included. Dottie Western was there, but only for a few minutes. She left her turquoise Indian bracelet so I have to remember to call her. Pugo’s mother was there — I remember seeing her — but I don’t think she was involved, although it wouldn’t surprise me. I’d like to say Bennie Mangine was there and responsible for the whole thing, but I’d be lying. Next door Jill probably had something to do with it, but I’ve been trying to get her to watch me from her bedroom window at night and we’re in the latter stages of negotiations. Considering what Jenn Untermeyer did for me the night of Bill Shedd’s going-away party, there’s no way I can put her in the middle of this. Along those same lines, Grace Heaney gets a pass, too. Of course, Sam Marichino was in it up to his ears, but given his condition. . Dale Sween has always known about discretion and valor. Fran Pollo was acting awfully strange. Maybe she’ll stay in, I’m not sure. She let me feel her up when we were sixteen so I’m sure I owe her something. Denise Livingston never seemed quite right to me. Her eyes are far apart and she is always bumping into things. It’s as if she can only muster an inconsequential peripheral vision. Sal Gonzalez saved my ass once. Maybe the train wouldn’t have killed me, but there’s no way of knowing. So regardless that all the evidence points to Sal, I could never name him. At any rate, those are the people I’m cutting. I’m not sure if it’ll make a difference. By the time the cops got there, it was out of our hands. I’m not sure who called them. I was contemplating Next-door Jill’s counteroffer when someone tapped me on the shoulder. There were two of them. The one with the mustache said, What’s the problem here? I said, There’s no problem, and looked him in the eye. It’s best if you look them in the eye. Then he said, Well, someone has a problem. I said nothing. It’s best if you can look them in the eye and say nothing at the same time. Then they both noticed what had happened in the living room. The other one said, Does it have something to do. . with. . I said, Yes, Officer, it does.

ONE OF THEM, the one who is driving, says, Pussy’s pussy, and looks at the other one, the one in the passenger seat. It’s a kind of challenge.

The other says, Pussy is not pussy.

The two work together and are considered good people. That’s how they were introduced. Their boss is the one who introduced them this way, palming each on the shoulder as the two shook hands, both uneasy about this particular introduction, the intimate and public nature of it, the informality, the three of them all touching one another in the middle of the office like that, neither of the two looking the other in the eye, both noting the other’s grip, one limp and ladylike, the other deliberately firm, like he was trying to inflict pain, like he had something to prove.

One is tall and the other short. They both have hair and eyes and wear suits and shoes. Although they both are good, they are not friends.

The one driving, the one who says that pussy’s pussy, is recently married. The woman he married works as a receptionist for a dentist. She is a good woman. She was born and raised in Wisconsin. She has alabaster skin. She is hoping to become pregnant soon and is unaware of her husband’s thoughts on the similarity of female genitalia.

The one driving turns the radio down and says, Then what is it, then?

The one in the passenger seat says, You have to open your eyes, man. The answer’s obvious.

The one in the passenger seat is not married, never has been, and probably never will be. He does not have any siblings or close friends. He considers himself average in every respect and most agree he is correct in this, as he is neither handsome nor unhandsome, bright nor dull, witty nor humorless. He talks to his mother on the phone every day, roughly the same time every day. He tries to eat vegetables every day. There are other things he does every day, but they aren’t worth noting.

The two of them are on their way to a meeting across town.

The one driving will buy his wife flowers once a month. Dendrobium orchids are her favorites, and he made an effort to remember this the first time she told him. They were at a restaurant when this conversation took place. It was their second encounter. Certainly there was wine, an appetizer, salads, entrées, dessert, premature emissions from both parties. At one point she said, Surely there has to be, and he agreed.

Later they retreated to separate corners. The following week nothing in the world happened for either. Rather, they both slept, showered, maintained personal hygiene. They worked, ordered lunch, and commuted home, checked mail, exercised, watched television, roamed and repeated daily, but not with each other or in consultation. Both thought of the other, alone at night, and periodically through the day, wondering this or that, wondering if the other was likewise alone at night, up beneath the blankets, not sleeping, maybe getting out of bed to turn on an air conditioner or a sound machine, something that would make noise, take up space, provide a distraction, still wondering what the other might be doing and with whom, both thinking ultimately it was none of their business, that there was no actual bond between them, spoken or unspoken, no implied covenant, but still there was something, though perhaps it wasn’t mutual, perhaps it was entirely one-sided, but even still, they wondered if the other was up wondering the same things, still curious, still uncertain but excited, still hopeful. Both considered calling the other but then reconsidered. One or the other maybe even picking up the telephone, maybe even dialing the first few numbers, but in the end doing nothing, putting the phone back down, thinking it inappropriate, too forward. Both consulted friends on the next best move throughout the week and were confused by what they heard, how they were counseled. Then, finally, one did call the other, deciding enough was enough, and after a few false starts and the requisite back-and-forth, they came to terms.