I'm with Stupid (13 page)

I jump to William’s defense—or to my own defense. “He doesn’t do it all the time,” I say. “He told me he’s only had two girlfriends.”

Max, still amused, nods: “Maybe he slept with them at the same time. That shows emotional maturity.”

“He did not,” Libby objects, offended by the very idea.

He climbs off the bed. “So what else happened?” he asks. “Who made the first move to have sex?”

I give a little smile. I explain how sweetly it happened, that he said we don’t have to have sex, that he would have been fine just holding me. Max covers his grin with his hand.

“What’s the matter with you?” I ask.

He shakes his head: “I have to give it to the guy, he made some good moves on you, whether he meant to or not.”

“Like?” Libby asks.

“Well,” Max says, walking toward the door, “like the part about how you don’t have to have sex. It’s the oldest trick in the book. It gets women to have sex every time. It plays on their insecurities.” Libby asks how in the world he would know that. “I might be gay,” he answers, “but I’m still a man.”

Libby pats my shoulder: “Don’t listen to him, babe,” she says.

Of course I won’t listen. “You think he’s a pro?” I reluctantly ask Max.

“Noooooo,” he answers and chuckles again. “I’m just teasing you. Though he did agree to come back to your room fast. Maybe he’s used to fucking the customers. Could be part of the gig.”

“Max!” Libby protests.

“I’m kidding,” he says. “And besides, who really cares? You’re not going to see him again. Now get up and get dressed. I need to take my sexual frustration out on breakfast. What are the chances they’re serving a genetically modified cucumber with a pair of plump, vine-ripened tomatoes placed on either side?”

We sit around a table overlooking the pool, sipping mimosas. I am relishing my newfound fame, listening to Max inform me that I am the wind beneath everyone’s wings and that I will forever be considered an icon in both the straight and gay communities for bagging a supermodel. A memorial paying tribute to the event will be erected when I die—unless, of course, the act of sleeping with William gave me immortality, in which case a medium-size unframed painting, to be hung in a university library, will suffice. Max offers to stab me with his butter knife to see if I bleed. I look beyond his shoulder and grab the knife. Here comes Manuel. Manuel straightens his silk tie while standing over Libby. He plucks a pink flower peeking out from his breast pocket and rests it near her plate. “I have been looking for you,” he says. “I leave this afternoon for Mexico. There is a great deal of work to be done at the tube sock factory. I am overseeing the installation of a state-of-the-art sprinkler system. One can never be too careful. I am relieved that you have not yet departed; I worried that I would be denied an opportunity to say good-bye.”

“You won’t see her again,” says Max. “Buenas noches.”

“I will initiate a correspondence,” Manuel continues. “I will compose sensual poetry in an impeccable hand. It could very well result in a volume—a book of poetry for my lady. Tell me your home address. I have a photographic memory.” Max blurts that we’re all homeless. “I am not surprised that you are,” Manuel says to Max. He hands Libby a sheet of stationery filled with writing. “Here are my addresses in Mexico City and around the world. We have a number of residences. One home is made almost exclusively of mother-of-pearl. Send letters to all the addresses, especially this one”—he points to one of the addresses on the list—“I am there quite often soaking in the Jacuzzi while reading top secret documents. Phone as often as you like. My butler will likely answer. He is paid to do my bidding.” Lucky guy. He’s probably planning to hang himself before Manuel crosses the border. “It is important that we never lose touch,” he adds.

Libby takes a sip of her mimosa and examines the papers. “Nice knowing you,” Max says dismissively as Manuel pulls out his wallet, which he claims is made from dyed boa constrictor skins. He takes out some laminated photographs and waves them in front of Libby’s expressionless face: “Allow me one last indulgence before we part,” he says. “Here are several photographs of my thoroughbreds. They were taken by a famous Mexican artist whom I paid handsomely for the service.” Max informs him that Libby is allergic to donkeys. Keeping with tradition, Manuel ignores the comment: “Yesterday, in the safari truck, I could not help but overhear that you are next traveling to Cape Town. You must visit Boulders Beach while you are there. You can swim with the penguins while thinking of me.”

“Penguins on a beach?” I repeat in disbelief.

“Yes, of course, the beach is teeming with them,” he says, nodding. “They adore the sun.” What a sack of crap; Manuel is so full of it. “Meeting you was one of the great pleasures of my life,” he says to Libby. “Although we live far apart I cannot help but think we shall meet again. I am confident of it. My father often travels to New York on business. Perhaps I will accompany him on his next trip.” Max begins to say something but Manuel cuts him off: “As for you, laggard, good luck finding shelter. You are equal parts undignified and unseemly.”

“Oh yeah?” Max answers. “You really think so? Why don’t you challenge me to a duel then, ye royal highness?” Manuel calmly kisses Libby’s hand, then nods in Max’s direction: “Good day,” he says under his breath and begins walking away. Max gets up from his seat: “Make me,” he calls after him, “I’d like to see you try!” Easy does it. Don’t go so hard on him. Max snatches the pieces of paper: “I wouldn’t dry my ass with these,” he declares and crumbles them up.

We all lean back in our chairs. Libby asks if I’m going to stay in touch with William. I tell her I didn’t give him my address and don’t plan to. “Why wouldn’t you, babe?” she asks in disbelief.

“What’s the use?” I answer. “Are we going to have a love affair through the mail?” Libby thinks a love affair through the mail sounds sweet. I scoop up a forkful of her omelet and pop it into my mouth. I encourage her to be a bit more realistic. My chances of maintaining a love affair with William are as good as her chances of swimming with a bunch of penguins on an eighty-five-degree beach in Cape Town, South Africa. I pull out my chair. We need to get back to our rooms and pack.

Helga accosts us on the way to our rooms. She informs us that we must return to our rooms and pack. Is there an echo in here? A car has been arranged to take us to the airport; it will arrive momentarily and we cannot keep it waiting. I go back to my room and pack. Quickly. I don’t dare keep the car waiting. Helga might put my head in a vise or check my tonsils with a stun gun. I throw everything into my suitcase, take a final look around, and walk out.

Libby and Max are already waiting at the entrance of the lodge, arguing about something, when I get there. The staff, William included, have been lined up like a package of plastic toy soldiers. Helga tells us to shake everyone’s hand for the last time. What if we don’t want to? I shake everyone’s hand and thank them. When it’s my turn to shake William’s hand he gives me a sad smile.

We are ushered into the waiting van. I take a window seat and look at William. He must pretend, as I must pretend, that nothing happened between us last night. It’s like the ending of some melodramatic B-movie. And since when did romance become so unromantic that even a scene such as this gets dismissed—in my own mind—as a scripted TV moment, as sincere as a soap opera? Am I too pessimistic? I can’t even give him a parting hug. His skin will never touch my skin again. The driver loads our bags and gets behind the wheel. I want him to race off so we can get this part of my life over with. I look at William again. This is good-bye, you were wonderful.

Before the driver can pull away William risks Helga’s wrath and walks over to the open window. I catch my breath. He doesn’t say anything, just puts out his hand, palm-side up. I touch the center with two fingers. It’s not calloused. I have an irrational urge to jump out. I take in William the way newlyweds take in the setting sun on the last night of their Jamaican honeymoon. I am trying to memorize his face.

As we start to pull away I glimpse four porters standing off to the side, near a cluster of trees, smiling broadly. They look more relaxed than I’ve seen them since we arrived. As I stare at the group, one of the men glances my way, points—or does he wave? I can’t tell—then looks at the porter to his left and starts talking and laughing. Then someone in a white uniform identical to Helga’s—one of her minions looks like—runs out of the office waving a piece of paper. He says something to Helga, who looks at me and yells for the van to stop. She marches over and hands me a yellow Post-it note: “Call mother, emergency,” it reads. My parents’ number is written underneath it. Helga explains that she was just informed that my mother called. It is an emergency. I cringe; how embarrassing. Max and Libby appear worried; Max offers to let me use his phone. I fold the paper in half: That will not be necessary. I thank Helga and tell her I’ll take care of it. When she walks off I tell Max and Libby that my mother already called here once, about soup.

“She’s a character,” Libby says with a laugh.

Yeah, she is. “Well, I’m not calling back so we can discuss what kind of soup is better: minestrone or cheese and potato,” I tell them. “Everyone knows the superior choice is—”

“Minestrone,” Max and Libby say in unison. I told my mother cheese and potato. That’s too bad.

I tell the driver he can go now. I don’t need to make a call. He takes off. Just then, Max reaches over me and throws something out the window. It all happens so fast that I don’t have time to process it, much less react. The van is rounding a corner when I notice William bending down to pick up a scrap of paper. His ass is the last thing I see. Just like that a little world evaporates. Poof. I turn to Max: “What was that?” I ask. “What did you just throw?”

“Your e-mail address,” he reveals. “Made more sense than throwing mine. That, and I wanted to see him bend over one last time.”

We spend the rest of our vacation exploring Cape Town, a bustling city surrounded by lapping white waves. In the evenings, as we drink at bars, eat at restaurants, dance badly at clubs, Libby talks about William. “Did you see how he touched your hand?” she says about fifty times per hour. “What a gentleman,” she repeatedly sighs. Max recalls William, too, albeit in a slightly different way. During those next three days, whenever the mood strikes, he flips open his cell phone to show me the picture he took of William bending down to pick up my e-mail address. “What an ass!” he routinely chimes in with a laugh. Each time he does this I can’t help but chuckle—I can tell that Max is proud of me for letting loose and sleeping with William. I have to admit that it was one of the better decisions I’ve made, and from now on I’m going to defer to Max in all matters of love. While standing among the penguins at Boulders Beach on our last day in Cape Town—it turns out Manuel was not making that up—I find myself hoping that the world is hiding men who are just as sweet, if not nearly as good looking, as William. At least one of them will be the guy for me. All I have to do is open my heart.

When our plane finally touches down at New York’s Kennedy International Airport, officially signaling the end of our romp, Libby turns to me. “You should go back to visit him this summer,” she suggests. I lean across her for a look out the window. There are traces of snow on the ground. Libby tugs at my arm when I don’t answer. “Did you hear me, babe?” she asks. I nod without turning away from the window. I do wish I were still on vacation. Perhaps someday I will go back to South Africa. Optimism! And what would William think if I showed up for an unannounced visit, just to check in and say hi? He’d be thrilled to see me again. Wouldn’t he?

Part Two

W
hen we get off the plane Max calls his father’s driver, who is picking us up. After pulling our bags off the luggage carousel we follow Max outside to a black Town Car and get into the leather-upholstered backseat. When we finally enter Manhattan I stare out the window thinking how weird it is to be back. I liked being abroad. True, 99 percent of the enjoyment came from the fact that we were staying in fabulous places I could never afford.

We are heading up Fifth Avenue, driving parallel to Central Park, when Max shouts to the driver. “Stop the car! Pull over to the curb!” The driver swerves to the curb without objection and parks. “Kas, duck down!” he orders. “I don’t want him to see you!”

I duck down. “You don’t want who to see me?” I ask startled. I have my hands around the sides of the driver’s seat, my face pressed against the cold leather.

“Richard,” he says in a whisper.

Richard! I slowly lift my head so just my eyes are visible through the car window, then duck back down. Max unzips his carry-on and removes binoculars. I peek again. That’s him all right. Richard is sitting on a park bench across the street, at an entrance to Central Park, his arm around a girl. I tell Max that Richard has evidently moved on: that girl is not his fiancée Noreen. “That little asshole,” Max marvels. “He’s still at it. And after all I’ve done. This calls for Phase Two.”

“What’s Phase Two?” Libby asks in wonderment. She takes out her own binoculars. “I like that girl’s shoes,” she adds, peering through them. “Wonder where she shops.”

Max orders her to focus. “Phase Two comes after Phase One,” he explains, “and it’s worse.” He tells the driver to pull up a few yards to a row of hedges and drop us off, then wait for us on the next block. I take the opportunity to grab my binoculars. The driver nods and smiles. “Mr. Max, you are crazy,” he says. Max pats him on the shoulder. “Thanks, George,” he responds.

We jump out of the car and beeline it for a row of hedges as the Town Car pulls away. We do an army crawl through the dead grass and squat down behind the bare bushes. It’s still technically winter and they have not yet turned green, but the branches are dense enough to provide cover. We pull them apart and stare at Richard through our binoculars as he continues flirting with the girl. It’s kinda like being on safari. Maybe an elephant will walk by. “I want to give him a hotfoot,” Max whispers. And then I hear a voice behind us. It’s mousy. “Hey, aren’t you that girl?” it says. I turn around. It’s fucking Noreen, the crypt keeper, still wearing way too much makeup. Oh shit. She is moving toward me on all fours. I quickly stand up then squat back down. Max turns. “Hey! Get your own bushes,” he says to her, annoyed. “We’re busy here.” I tell him to shut up and explain that this is Noreen, Richard’s fiancée. She continues staring at me. “Are you the one who’s been playing all those tricks on Richard?” she asks, pointing a Lee press-on finger.