Good in Bed (24 page)

“It's a little more than a theory at this point,” I said, but Maxi wasn't about to have her monologue interrupted.

“And I'm afraid that if I start eating things I like, I'll stop looking the way I look, and nobody will want me. Worse than that,” she said, glaring through the cigarette haze, “nobody will pay me. So I'm stuck,
too. But what we're really trapped by is perceptions. You think you need to lose weight for someone to love you. I think if I gain weight, no one will love me. What we really need,” she said, pounding the bar for emphasis, “is to just stop thinking of ourselves as bodies and start thinking of ourselves as people.”

I stared at her admiringly. “Thass very deep.”

Maxi took a deep swallow of beer. “Heard it on
Oprah
.”

I did another shot. “Oprah's deep. But I have to say that all things considered, I'd rather be trapped in your body than mine. At least I could wear bikinis.”

“But don't you see? We're both in prison. Prisons of Flesh.”

I giggled. Maxi looked offended. “What, you don't agree?”

“No,” I said, snorting, “I just think that Prisons of Flesh sounds like the name of a porno movie.”

“Fine,” Maxi said when she'd stopped laughing. “But I have a valid point.”

“Of course you do,” I told her. “I know that I shouldn't feel the way I do about how I look. I want to live in a world where people are judged by who they are instead of what size they wear.” I sighed. “But you know what I want even more than that?” Maxi looked at me expectantly. I hesitated, then took another tequila. “I want to forget about Bruce.”

“I have a theory about that, too,” Maxi announced triumphantly. “My theory,” she said, “is that hate works.” She clinked her glass against mine. We did the shot and upended the glasses on the sticky bar top, beneath the gently swaying clothesline of brassieres that had once cupped the breasts of the famous.

“I can't hate him,” I said sadly. Suddenly my lips felt as though they were forming words a good foot or two away from my face, like they'd decided to just detach themselves and head for greener pastures. It was a common side effect when I'd been enjoying too many libations. That, and a liquid sensation in my knees and wrists and elbows, like my joints were coming unhinged. When I got drunk, I started remembering things. And right now, because there was Grateful Dead on the jukebox (“Cassidy,” I thought), what I was
remembering was how we'd gone to pick up Bruce's friend George to go to a Dead show, and while we were waiting, we'd slipped into the study and I'd given him a very quick, extremely hot blow job underneath the stuffed deer's head mounted on the wall. Physically I was sitting at Hogs and Heifers, but in my head, I was on my knees in front of him, my hands cupping his ass, his knees pressing my chest as he trembled and gasped that he loved me, thinking that I was made for this, made for nothing but this.

“Sure you can,” Maxi urged, yanking me out of the basement and into the tequila-soaked present. “Tell me the worst thing about him.”

“He was really sloppy.”

She crinkled her nose adorably. “That's not that bad.”

“Oh, you have no idea! He had all this hair, see, and it would get in the shower drain, and he'd never clean his shower, but every once in a while he'd just, like, scoop up a clump of this disgusting, awful, soap-scummy hair and, like, park it in a corner of the tub. The first time I saw it, I screamed.”

We did another shot. Maxi's cheeks were flushed bright, her eyes were gleaming.

“Also,” I continued, “also he had disgusting toenails.” I burped, as delicately as I could, against the back of my hand. “They were all yellow and thick and raggedy …”

“Fungus,” said Maxi knowledgeably.

“And then there was his minibar,” I said, warming to the task. “Every time his parents went on a plane, they'd bring him those mini-bottles of vodka and scotch. He'd keep them in a shoebox, and whenever anyone would come over for a drink, he'd say, ‘Have something from the minibar.'” I paused, considering. “Actually, that was kind of cute.”

“I was going to say,” agreed Maxi.

“But it got annoying after a while. I mean, I'd come over, I'd have a terrible headache, I'd just want a vodka and tonic, and off he'd go to the minibar. I think he was just too cheap to shell out for an actual bottle of his own.”

“Tell me,” asked Maxi. “Was he really good in bed?”

I tried to prop my head in my hand, but my elbow wasn't doing its job, and I wound up almost bouncing my forehead off the bar. Maxi laughed at me. The bartender scowled. I asked for a glass of water. “You wanna know the truth?”

“No, I want you to lie to me. I'm a movie star. Everyone else does.”

“The truth,” I said, “the truth is that …”

Maxi was laughing, leaning in close. “C'mon, Cannie, let me have it.”

“Well, he was very willing to try new things, which I appreciated …”

“Come on. No editori … editorial …” She closed her eyes and her mouth. “No spin. I asked a simple question. Was he any good?”

“The truth …” I tried again. “The truth is that he was very … small.”

Her eyes widened. “Small, you mean … down there?”

“Small,” I repeated. “Tiny. Microscopic. Infinitesimal!” There. If I could say that word, I couldn't be as wasted as I thought I was. “I mean, not when it was hard. When it was hard, it was pretty normalsized. But when it was soft, it was like it telescoped back into his body, and it just looked like this little …” I tried to say it, but I was laughing too hard.

“What? C'mon, Cannie. Stop laughing. Sit up straight. Tell me!”

“Hairy acorn,” I finally managed. Maxi whooped. Tears came to her eyes, and somehow I was sideways, my head in her lap. “Hairy acorn!” she repeated.

“Shh!” I shushed her, trying to maneuver myself upright.

“Hairy acorn!”

“Maxi!”

“What? Do you think he's going to hear me?”

“He lives in New Jersey,” I said very seriously.

Maxi climbed onto the bar and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Attention, bar patrons,” she called. “Hairy Acorn resides in New Jersey.”

“If you're not gonna show us your tits, then get off the bar!” shouted a drunk guy in a cowboy hat. Maxi very elegantly gave him the finger, then climbed down.

“It could almost be a proper name,” she said. “Harry Acorn. Harry A. Corn.”

“You can't tell anynone. Anyone,” I slurred.

“Don't worry. I won't. And I seriously doubt that me and Mr. Corn travel in the same circles.”

“He lives in New Jersey,” I said again, and Maxi laughed until tequila came out of her nose.

“So basically,” she said, once she'd stopped spluttering, “you're pining for a guy with a small willy who treated you badly?”

“He didn't treat me badly,” I said. “He was very sweet … and attentive … and …”

But she wasn't listening. “Sweet and attentive are a dime a dozen. And so, I'm sorry to inform you, are small willies. You can do better.”

“I have to get over him.”

“So get over him! I insist!”

“What's the secret?”

“Hate!” said Maxi. “Like I said before.”

But I couldn't hate him. I wanted to, but I couldn't. Against my will, I remembered something tremendously tender. How once, around Christmas, I'd told him to pretend he was Santa Claus, and I pretended I had come to the mall to have my picture taken. How I'd perched on his lap, taking care to plant my feet firmly on the floor so I wouldn't rest all my weight on him, and whispered in his ear, “Is it true that Santa comes just once a year?” How he'd laughed, and how he'd gasped when I put one hand against his chest and shoved him flat back on the bed and snuggled against him while he performed an impromptu and doubtlessly off-key rendition of “All I Want for Christmas Is You.”

“Here,” said Maxi, shoving a shot of tequila into my hand. “Medicine.”

I gulped it down. She grabbed my chin and stared into my eyes. It looked like there were two of her—saucer-blue eyes, cascading hair, the geometrically perfect sprinkling of freckles, the chin just a shade too pointed, so that she wouldn't be perfect, but overwhelmingly endearing instead. I blinked, and she turned into one person again.
Maxi studied me carefully. “You still love him,” she said. I bowed my head. “Yes,” I whispered.

She let go of my chin. My head hit the bar. Maxi pulled me back upright by my barrettes. The bartender was looking concerned. “I think maybe she's had enough,” he said. Maxi ignored him.

“Maybe you should call him,” she said.

“I can't,” I told her, suddenly acutely aware that I was very, very drunk. “I'll make a fool of myself.”

“There are worse things than just looking foolish,” she said.

“Like what?”

“Losing someone you love, because you're too proud to call and lay it on the line,” she said. “That's worse. Now: What's his number?”

“Maxi …”

“Give me the number.”

“This is a really bad idea.”

“Why?

“Because …” I sighed, suddenly feeling all the tequila pressing against my skull. “Because what if he doesn't want me?”

“Then it's better that you know that, once and for all. We can go in like surgeons and cauterize the wound. And I'll teach you the restorative powers of hating his guts.” She held out the phone. “Now. The number.”

I took the phone. It was a tiny thing, a toy of a telephone, no longer than my thumb. I unfolded it clumsily and squinted, poking at the digits with my pinkie.

He picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, Bruce. It's Cannie.”

“Hi-ii,” he said slowly, sounding surprised.

“I know this is kinda weird, but I'm in New York, in this bar, and you'll never guess who I'm here with …”

I paused for a breath. He didn't say anything.

“I have to tell you something …”

“Um, Cannie …”

“No, I just want, I just need … you just have to lishen. Listen,” I finally managed. The words came in a rush. “Breaking up with you
was a mistake. I know that now. And Bruce, I'm so sorry … and I miss you so much, and it's just getting worse and worse every day, and I know I don't deserve it, but if you could gimme 'nother chance, I'd be so good to you …”

I could hear the springs creak as he shifted his weight on the bed. And someone else's voice in the background. A female voice.

I squinted at the clock on the wall, behind the dangling bras. It was one in the morning.

“But I'm innerupting,” I said dumbly.

“Hey, Cannie, this actually isn't such a good time …”

“I thought you needed space,” I said, “because of your father dying. But that's not it, is it? It's me. You don't want me.”

I heard a bumping sound, then a far-off, murmured conversation. He'd probably put his hand over the receiver.

“Who is she?” I yelled.

“Look, is there a good time when I can call you back?” Bruce asked.

“Are you gonna write about her?” I cried. “Does she get to be an initial in your wonderful, fabulous column? Is she good in bed?”

“Cannie,” Bruce said slowly, “let me call you back.”

“Don't. Don't worry. You don't have to,” I said, and started stabbing at buttons on the telephone until I found the one that switched it off.

I handed the phone back to Maxi, who was staring at me gravely.

“That didn't sound good,” she said.

I felt the room spinning. I felt like I was going to throw up. I felt like I'd never be able to smile again in my life, that somewhere in my heart it was always going to be one o'clock in the morning, and I'd be calling the man I loved, and there'd be another woman in his bed.

“Cannie? Can you hear me? Cannie, what should I do?”

I lifted my head from the bar. I rubbed my eyes with my fist. I drew a deep shuddering breath. “Get me more tequila,” I said, “and teach me how to hate.”

Later—much later—in the cab back to the hotel, I leaned my head on Maxi's shoulder, mostly because I couldn't hold it up. I knew that
this was it: the point where I had nothing left to lose, nothing left at all. Or maybe it was that I'd lost the most important thing already. And what did it matter? I thought. I reached into my purse, fumbling for the somewhat tequila-sticky copy of my screenplay that I'd tucked inside a million years ago, thinking that I'd revise the final scenes on the train ride home.

“Here,” I slurred, shoving the screenplay into Maxi's hands.

“Oh, really, for me?” Maxi cooed, going into what sounded like her standard accepting-a-gift-from-a-stranger spiel. “Really, Cannie, you shouldn't have.”

“No,” I said, as a brief ray of sense poked through the alcohol fog. “No, I probably shouldn't have, but I'm gonna.”

Maxi, meanwhile, was leafing drunkenly through the pages. “Whazzis?”

I hiccuped and figured, Since I've come this far, why lie? “It's a screenplay that I wrote. I thought maybe you would like to read it, like maybe on the plane if you get bored again.” I hiccuped some more. “I don't wanna impose …”

Maxi's eyelids had drooped to half-mast. She shoved the screenplay into her little black backpack, mangling the first thirty pages in the process. “Don' worry about it.”

“You don't have to read it if you don't want to,” I said. “And if you read it and you don't like it, you can tell me. Don't worry about hurting my feelings.” I sighed. “Nobody else does.”

Maxi leaned over and enfolded me in a clumsy hug. I could feel the bones of her elbows jabbing me as she gripped me tightly. “Poor Cannie,” she said. “Don't you worry. I'm gonna take care of you.”