Edward Lee - The Chosen

Now she knew beyond doubt that he wasn’t putting moves on her. If this was merely some sexual interest, why acknowledge her engagement?

“Thank you,” she eventually muttered. She had to visibly blink to get her mind back on track. What could it be about Feldspar that distracted her so?

“There’s a little tavern a block down the street,” she said. “The Undercroft. It’s quiet and quite nice.”

“Excellent. The Undercroft it is.” Feldspar rose and strayly straightened a lapel. “I’ll see you there at midnight. And thank you very much for giving me the opportunity to talk to you.”

Vera didn’t think to rise herself. She remained sitting there, looking up at this finely dressed, and strange, man.

She squinted. “But what exactly is it you want to talk to me about, Mr. Feldspar?”

“A job,” he said. “I’d like to offer you a job.”

— | — | —

CHAPTER TWO

Research, Paul thought. Yeah, that’s what this is.

I’m simply an observer.

It wasn’t that Paul didn’t trust himself—he was just bothered by conventions, by ideas. He knew he wasn’t going to do anything he shouldn’t do, but that did not fully legitimize the fact that he was an engaged man sitting in a singles bar.

Paul was a freelance journalist. Thus far he’d done over two hundred pieces for the area papers. Both the Sun and the Capital had offered him staff jobs, but Paul had turned them down. He liked to write about what he wanted, not some editor. It had been tough at first, real tough—when you were freelance, you were a man without a country. Yet, now, after five years, good writing and good ideas had made not only a name for himself but also a decent living. He liked social pieces, with a twist to give them some zing, some uniqueness. Apparently the papers liked them too; Paul hadn’t had anything rejected in several years. In fact, now they were actually paying him before his articles were finished, which was rare in freelance. It was an equally rare complacency: Paul Kirby had beaten the odds and was mak ing it.

The Singles Scene: An Existential View. Paul liked the title. There’d been plenty of pieces on the area singles scene, but they were all fluff. The Sun had answered his query by commissioning it as a four-week series. Paul would investigate all of the local singles bars, describe each one, and then make a sociological comment. He didn’t just want to see the face, he wanted to look be hind the face of this notorious chess match between the sexes.

So far he was not impressed.

Maybe he was too philosophical. Was he trying to philosophize something that was really barren of philosophy? Or maybe I’m too cynical, he considered. Before his involvement with Vera, he’d dated regularly, but never like this. If you were looking for love, a bar seemed the least likely place to find it. It was like trying to find health food at McDonald’s. Paul wanted to categorize the difference in perceptions—between single men and single women. Here, the men all seemed phony, and the women oblivious. It was a show of veneers of false faces and lust. It depressed him.

Kaggie’s, the place was called. It was starting to fill up. Big place. Two long bars, front and back, snazzy decor. The huge sunken dance floor stretched before a giant projection video screen. Above the pit the obligatory glitterball spun slowly, darting lancets of multicolored light. The air beat with music—some technopop bit by New Order, upbeat yet bleak if you listened to the lyrics. Paul felt buried in light, sound, and the motion of busy bodies.

This dump must’ve cost millions, he reflected. He ordered a Heineken but the keep brought him a Corona out of habit. Paul preferred not to drink beer that had the same name as the end of a penis. Subliminal adver tising? he wondered and laughed. This place wasn’t selling beer—it was selling sex.

Lines: he jotted in his notepad. He’d heard some doozies already tonight. “Excuse me,” a glittery-dressed brunette had asked some tall guy with a black whitewall. “What’s a stuck-up, stone-faced asshole like you doing in a place like this?” “Looking to get laid,” the guy’d answered without a flinch. Paul had seen them leaving together after a few dances. Here were a few other winners: “Pardon me, but haven’t we never met before?” And, “Hey, baby, what’s the difference between a blow job and a Big Mac?” “What?” “Go out to dinner with me and you’ll find out.” And the best one of the night—a guy in a blue suit had walked up cold to a girl at the bar: “Hi, my name’s Dan Quayle. Can my father buy you a drink?”

But levity aside, Paul felt glum in disillusionment. These places were packed every night; plus, he’d seen many of the same people in a lot of the bars he scouted already. It seemed a way of life for them. How could anyone expect to find a true relationship in one of these dance catacombs?

Now the dj put on The Cure, a song called “Give Me It,” which about said it all. The crowd danced happily under the shroud of grim lyrics. Paul considered the dichotomy.

Then he considered himself.

I’m free of all this.

He was. It seemed an absolving realization. What made him more complete than anything else was Vera; his love for her was the last piece of his life fit firmly into place. He looked around him in this den of falsehoods, this den of lies, and knew how lucky he was. Paul had something real; these people didn’t.

I’m in love, he thought.

This realization, too, dazzled him. It seemed to purge him of mankind’s flaws. Love. Real love. Could there be any greater or more complete truth? He proposed to her only a week ago; she’d said yes immediately. It had been murder waiting, though: they’d been involved for two years but Paul knew in the first week that she was the one. Sometimes you just knew. You knew at a glance, you knew in a heartbeat—the essence of real love. It made him feel very grateful, to God, or fate, or whatever.

No relationship was perfect; too often couples failed because one side was left holding the bag of responsibility—one person making all the effort, the other making none. But Paul and Vera had grown into each other. They’d each made the effort to overcome life’s obstacles. It was almost too easy. That was how he knew it was real—the manner in which their bond had developed. Sometimes he could melt just thinking about her, seeing her in his mind: her beauty, her kindness, her ideals. He could not imagine being with anyone else in the world.

Paul’s love made him feel exalted.

“Excuse me. Aren’t you Paul Kirby? The writer?”

Paul glanced up. Two women stood to his right, a redhead and a blonde. “That’s right,” he said. “How did you know?”

“I saw your picture in the Capital once,” explained the redhead. “I’ve read a lot of your stuff.”

Paul felt distantly flattered; he was not used to being picked out of a crowd, especially in a bar crowd. He tried to think of an erudite reply, but some distraction pecked at him. Dots of light from the glitterball roved the redhead’s bare shoulders. She wore a short strapless black dress with a sash, black nylons, black heels. A knockout. The blonde looked less formal: a shiny blue blouse and designer jeans. She was slim, wan. Straight white-blond hair had been cut straight just below the bottom of her earlobes. She smiled meekly and said, “The City Paper said you were doing some articles on singles bars.”

“And that you’d be here tonight,” the redhead finished.