Faking Life (12 page)

“I have a 91 average.”

“Alright then, watch your television show.”

“It's not a show Dad, it's a tape.”

“Well, watch your tape.”

“I will.” Nico watched as a wrestler took an open-handed slap like he'd been hit with a Sherman Tank.

“How can such a smart boy like you enjoy watching this drek?” Nico asked with a playful smile. He nudged Pietro with his elbow. His son scowled.

“Come on Dad, we've been through this already. I don't bug you about that crappy Pava-snotti music you listen to.”

“As you may or may not know,” Nico said with a grin, “Pavarotti is one of the greatest singers in the history of Italian opera. It would do you well to listen to him every now and then.” Pietro made a
hmph
ing noise and returned to the tube. “Didn't I read somewhere that all the matches are decided beforehand?”

“Yes
Dad
, that's true,” Pietro said with a groan, like he was revealing classified information his father couldn't possibly comprehend.

“So why do you like it so much if you know who's going to win?”

“You don't know who's going to win Dad, that's the whole point.”

“I see,” Nico said, though he still didn't understand. After a moment, Pietro turned around, embarrassed that his father was unable to grasp such a simple concept.

“It's like this, Dad. You know action movies?”

“Do I know action movies?”

“Yeah, you know, like
Die Hard
and them.”

“Yes, I know action movies.”

“Well it's kind of like an action movie. I mean the movie isn't really real, right? I mean there's a script and a bad guy and a good guy and the people root for the good guy and boo the bad guy, and a lot of times the bad guy wins a few fights before the good guy finally beats him in the end.”

“Alright…”

“And when you watch
Die Hard
, do you ever say 'Wait a minute, Bruce Willis didn't
really
just get punched in the face', do you? I mean it looks like he did and he acts like he did, so you kind of go along with it.” Nico listened intently. “It's like whaddayacallit, suspension of misbelief.”

“Disbelief.”

“Whatever. Disbelief. Anyway, if you don't tell yourself that they're not really punching and kicking each other, you have a lot more fun than if you sat there and said 'Hey, that's not real'.
They
know what's going to happen, but the people watching don't.”

Nico remained silent.

“Just 'cause it's not really real doesn't mean you can't have fun watching it. Just like a movie. Plus, some of these guys are really good athletes. One guy won a gold medal in the Olympics and a whole bunch of them played pro football. Their arms are bigger than your head.”

Nico nodded, watching as one of the men picked up a not-so fake looking steel chair and hit the other man in the head, eliciting a not-so fake sounding
clang
. When the other man got up, there was a steady stream of not-so fake looking blood streaming from a deep gash on his forehead. Pietro grinned and looked at his father.

“And sometimes Dad, sometimes they get hurt even.” Nico nodded. “Any more questions?”

Nico shook his head. For some reason, that statement made the most sense of all.

Sometimes, they get hurt even.

J
ohn sprinted past the New York Pop souvenir stand on West 4th street, the very store he'd bought his first fake ID at back in 1990. And his second in 1991 after that one was confiscated trying to buy a six-pack at a Korean deli. He passed it every day on his way to work, and as he breathlessly chugged along, weaving in and out of pedestrian traffic, John thought about all the times he and his friends had gotten tossed out of bars just like Slappy's for claiming they were from places like “Main Street, New Hampshire” and “Ten Oak Drive, San Francisco”.

He apologized to the old woman with a bag of groceries he accidentally clipped rounding the corner and passed the movie theater with the 1950's marquee. He sprinted down Sixth Avenue and flung open the door to Slappy's, trying to act calm, but his lungs were ready to burst. He needed to start running again

As soon as John opened the door he saw Artie waiting for him, sipping a martini and sporting a grimace like he'd sucked a tub full of lemons. Artie tapped his watch and put it to his ear.

“Hey John, this thing doesn't seem to be working. Would you be a pal and tell me what time it is?”

“Artie, I'm sorry, I just…”

“No seriously, take a look at your watch and tell me what time it is.” John reluctantly pulled up his sleeve.

“It's seven fifteen.”

“Seven fifteen, that's odd. I was pretty sure your shift started at six. Maybe your watch is fast.”

“Artie, it'll never happen again. I just got caught up.”

Artie laid a chubby hand on John's shoulder and leaned in. “Kid, I'm not trying to break your balls, but you've been slacking off here like it's nobody's business. I see lines at the bar that never used to be there. I hear people complaining that they're not getting served, or getting served the wrong drinks. This place is no busier than it was six months ago. Bottom line, receipts are down. I can't ignore it anymore.”

Artie reached over and opened up John's jacket. He sighed when he saw the baggy red sweater with a saucer-shaped grape juice stain above the navel.

“And you don't dress like you used to. I'm not running a fashion show here, but if the bartenders look like shit then we look like shit.”

“I don't look like shit Artie.”

“You
do
look like shit,” Artie said, spittle landing in the middle of the stain. “I've half a mind to ask you to bartend topless tonight, but I don't want to get sick. But you keep pulling this crap and you'll be bartending in your skivvies.” Artie smiled. John took a breath. Everything was going to be o.k. “Seriously kid, I'm not an asshole and I'm not your daddy. But I do own this place, and I need to see improvement or we're gonna have a problem. A serious one.”

“You got it Art. Never happen again.” Artie nodded and went back to the black podium that posed as a maitre'd stand. John slid behind the bar, nodded to Enzo who nodded back as he dumped a tub of ice over a bucket of Coronas. Empty except for a few drinkers and a guy in a Yankees hat working on a plate of wings. Stacy walked over, an angry look on her face. She folded her arms across her chest and made a
huff
noise. John took a breath and prepared to be berated.

“You're late asshole. I've had to man this place by myself over an hour. The fuck've you been?”

“Hey Stace,” John said sheepishly. “Can I get you a beer or something?” Her eyes widened.

“Hey Stace? That's all you have to say? You try waiting tables and serving drinks at the same time, then you can say 'Hey Stace' to me.”

“I'm sorry Stace, really,” he said with a foolish grin. He instantly knew he was forgiven. Stacy took a seat on a stool across from him. She was wearing a tight red sleeveless top that showed off her toned arms. She looked good tonight, her hair in one of those French braids deals. She looked classy, almost too good for a place like Slappy's. Sometimes John wished a classy guy would come in and take her away, a nice businessman or a passionate artist. Someone who'd treat her well. Sometimes he caught her looking at him and wondered.

“So what kept you? Hot date?” John shook his head. Stacy was always needling him about his love life. Ever since she'd given him her phone number, she assumed the reason he hadn't called was because he was either married or asexual. She certainly fended off enough drunk hooligans every night to know it was irregular for someone to be uninterested, single or not.

“Nope, no date. Unless you count a bottle of Andre.” She scrunched her eyebrows, looked confused.

“So what was it then? You
have
been acting a weird lately, subdued if I didn't know you better. But you're not usually late, let alone by over an hour. So what gives?”

“Nothing gives, I…” he stopped, decided to have some fun with her. “I lied. I do have a new love in my life.” Stacy's jaw dropped. She quickly closed it.

“Something new? I thought you said…you mean…” She quickly put on a smile and tried to act cool. It didn't work.

“I'm not going to go into details—you don't want to hear it, trust me. We just stay in my room for hours at a time. She was the reason I was late.” He had to keep himself from laughing. Like sailors called their boats “she”, he supposed referring to his creation as “she” was appropriate.

“Hmph,” Stacy mumbled, as if expecting John to clarify. “Well she's a lucky girl, you can tell her I said that.”

“Oh, it's not a woman,” he said. “Just a project. Like the
Jolly Roger
or something.”

“Jolly Roger?”

“Yeah, the ship? Haven't you read up on your pirate lore?”

“No, sorry.” He smiled, leaned over, and gently patted her hand.

“That's alright.”

John noticed the man in the Yankees hat waving an empty beer glass towards them. “I think there's a customer about to have coronary. Better get on it before he complains to Artie about the shitty service.” He winked. “We'll talk more later.”

“Yeah, I guess I'd better go then,” she said distractedly. Stacy strode off, looking back over her shoulder. He could see in her eyes that she was still trying to figure him out. He gave a little wave with his fingers and settled in behind the bar.

He was mixing a trio of green demons for three guys with Greek letters on their caps when he saw Esther walk in the front door. He stopped pouring for a moment, drawing ire from the burly one with an indistinguishable blue stain on his sweatshirt.

“Uh, buddy, you wanna top that off?” John apologized and filled the glasses. He watched them toast, then trot off to play darts.

Esther gave a wave and a
funny to see you here
look. She slid into a stool, put her purse on the bar and asked him for a whiskey sour.

“One whiskey sour for the lady,” he said. He took a bottle of Seagram's 7, added lemon and sugar and topped the drink with a maraschino cherry and a slice of orange.

“Lady,” she said. “Now there's a phrase I haven't heard since the 1800's. You must have been transported through time from a period when chivalry was still on life support.”

John laughed and shook his head. His heart began to beat faster He was thrilled she'd come back. After their first meeting, he'd been nervous for two reasons: First that she might never come back, and second that she would. He didn't know if he could take either one.

“So what brings you back here? You miss my company?” He hoped she might say yes, but knew a yes could mean a real yes, or that she knew he was bucking for a compliment. Or maybe he was just overanalyzing everything.

“Actually, I did miss the conversation.” John blinked. He didn't know
what
to make of that answer.

The bar was slowly filling up, a few drinkers, the man in the Yankees hat now hunched over his plate like he'd lost a contact in the mild sauce. The frat boys were yelling and cursing and spilling beer all over the floor. Dart holes puckered the wall around the target.

“You meeting someone here?” John asked.

“No, I was just looking for your writer friend,” she said. “Will he be joining us tonight?” John's breath caught in his throat.

“My writer friend? How did you…”

“Come on, I knew you guys were together the whole time. Do you really think a bartender is going to have a copy of
West Marion Quarterly
just sitting behind the bar?”

“I don't know, depends on the bartender.”

“Please. So tell me, does that trick ever work?”

“Actually, it works more than you'd think. Well,
works
isn't the right word. Let's just say it's a good enough icebreaker to make up for Paul's lack of a snappy pickup line. Anyway, what's the harm in starting up a conversation? It's not like he's an axe murderer and we're trying to lure someone into his rusty old van. He actually is a writer, just one who's not good with women.”

Esther took a sip of her drink. “Whoo, pretty strong.”

“Sorry, I forgot to count.”

“It's ok. I bet you don't hear people complain too often that you made a drink too strong.”

“It depends. When the place is quiet like it is now, people are generally here to sit and sip. They're here to hang out, not to get plastered.” Esther nodded and took another sip.

“Scuse me, you still working?” said an older man seated at the end of the bar. “I'd like another Tom Collins.” John gave Esther a look, as though frustrated a customer was inconsiderate enough to interrupt them. He made the man his drink, got stiffed on the tip, and returned.

He said, “I wish we could take this somewhere else. Sucks that I'm on till three.” As soon as he said it, his eyes leapt to meet hers. He wasn't sure if he'd just awkwardly asked for a date, or merely made an offhand remark that would be taken as such.

She blinked twice. “You must not get much conversation during working hours.”

“Actually, you'd be surprised how many drunk I-bankers want to shoot the shit after their third Long Island Iced Tea.” They both smiled. Then silence set in.

John began to feel an itch on the inside wall of his head. It wasn't a physical feeling, but a feeling that there was an errand he suddenly needed to run. A string tied around his mind he'd forgotten about. He could see Esther's lips moving but nothing registered.

Finally his mind snapped back and he refocused as Esther said, “You know what I'm saying?”

“Sorry, I tuned out for a minute.” Esther frowned.

“
What I
was saying was is that you and your friend need to have more respect for women, playing that lame gag. It's tacky and if you weren't giving me that smile you're giving me right now I'd be a lot more pissed off.” He didn't realize he was smiling.

“Actually you were the first person to ever catch us on it. And can I tell you something?” She said yes. He leaned in. “It felt kind of good to get caught.”

What followed was the most deliciously awkward silence John had ever experienced. Esther quietly drank her whiskey sour. John wiped down the bar to the point where he'd nearly bore a hole in the wood. It must have been some sort of divine intervention, John thought, because for what seemed like ten minutes, nobody asked for a single drink. And the itch he felt, the one boring into his head, it was getting stronger, deeper, throbbing against his skull. Yet still he couldn't place it. Finally he looked up when he heard Esther slurping her empty glass. He took it and got ready to prepare another.