Marrying Up (18 page)

First Dates and Second Honeymoons

T
he three stacks of laser copy sitting on my desk are each about six inches taller than the Webster’s Unabridged English Dictionary right beside them.

You really do learn something new every day.

Wow.

Double wow.

I glance at the clock on my desk. 9:15 a.m. Although Kitty’s station is around the corner and down the hall from my office, I can hear her snoring.

Though similar to South American anteaters and Australian bandicoots, aardvarks are in fact distinct from those animals, mostly due to their unusual dentition.

We’ll see about that. I click to connect to the Internet….

And click again…

And again…

I pick up the phone and dial Cinda’s extension.

“Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Holly.”

“Holly! You settling in okay? Did my mother show you where the coffee machine is?”

“Yes, she did. Thank you.”

“We also have tea. Earl Grey, I believe.”

“I know. Thanks.”

“If you prefer something else, like Orange Pekoe or Darjeeling, just let her know and she can pop over to the Safe-way and fetch some.”

“No, Earl Grey is fine.”

“Oh—and did you notice I put a nice fresh box of red pens in your drawer? I figure you’ll be going through a lot of them!”

“Yeah, I saw those. Thanks. Actually, what I wanted to ask you was—”

“And there’s a new package of Post-its in there, too. The medium-size ones. I know they’re handy to have around in case you want to remind yourself of something, like when you need to check something later. Or you can write
me
a quick little note and stick it right there on the copy, in case you want to point something out to
me.
That way, later on, when I go through the changes you’ve made and input them onto my master copy…”

Is she actually trying to explain how Post-its work? “I know, Cinda. Thanks. But, um, the reason I’m calling is that I seem to be having trouble getting online. The connection isn’t working.”

“Oh! Well, I suppose that’s because I’m on now. I’m
obsessed
with online Boggle! I can’t get enough of it!”

“Oh. So, you mean I don’t have my own connection?”

“No, silly! We all
share
a line. What they charge for just one is a crime, don’t you think? Plus there was the extra phone line I had to spring for, so I decided this would be best.”

“Uh, okay. So how should I…check things, then?”

“Well, there’s the dictionary.”

“Yes, but for fact-checking I naturally assumed I would have access…”

“Hmmm. Since it’s just the three of us here, and my mother’s not quite up to speed yet with this whole Internet thing, you and I could just work out some sort of system when you need to use it. Mind you, it’s probably best you don’t get too dependent on it anyway, since it’s dial-up service. I understand that means it’s very slow. But I’m used to it, so I don’t mind!”

Dial-up?
What’s next—a teletype machine? I pull open my desk drawer and check to make sure the red pens don’t require ink cartridges.

“Also, there’s a Public Library not too far from here,” she continues. “Do you have a MUNI pass? The 44 stops just outside and it’ll take you right there.”

“Oh.”

Cinda must sense my disappointment (which I’m not trying too hard to hide) so she begins extolling the virtues of simpler times.

“Since this whole Internet thing started, I feel libraries are horribly underused, don’t you?”

“I guess so.”

“It’s a modern tragedy,” she sighs. “But you’ll see—the kids will come back to them one day. In the meantime, it’s a great time for encyclopedias!”

I suspect she’s unaware that there is more to the Internet than online Boggle. “So you’re saying I can work at the library?”

“Well, the membership is free and it’s a nice bright space, so I think it would be just fine if you needed to do that from time to time. That’s where I do most of my research, too. Oh, wait a second, now—there might be a charge to laminate the card when you join. But I’ll tell you what—you just bring me a receipt and I’ll reimburse you!” she offers brightly.

Working on my own there could definitely have its advantages. “Okay. Thanks, Cinda.”

I hang up and flip through to the last page of the first stack of copy.

Adler, Alfred
(1870–1937). In the annals of psychology, Alfred Adler was a giant. His ground-breaking work alongside Sigmund Freud marked him as one of the founding fathers of psychoanalysis, although he later broke from Freud and put forth his own school
of individual psychology. His most important contributions to the field were his theories on dream analysis, archetypes and synchronicity.

Adler was born in 1870 in Venice to a successful grain merchant…

Oh my God.
Not only was she confusing Adler’s contributions with Jung’s, but if I remember my
Lives of the Shrinks
correctly, the guy was from Vienna, not Venice. This was going to take months. Years, maybe.

All of a sudden, I miss Sandeep terribly. My old Ayurvedic mental health practitioner is just the person I need to inspire me. The value of extreme monotony was one of his favorite refrains; indeed, his entire program of meditation, chanting, diet and yoga revolved around it.

I scour my brain for my Calming and Focusing mantra….

Umbumbum? Bumbledybum? Umbalabumbum? That was it! Umbalabumbum… Umbalabumbum… Umbalabumbum…Umbalabumbum…

Around lunchtime, my phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Holly. I’m off the Internet, if you need it.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

An hour and a half later, after six grueling reboots and countless minutes spent watching aardvark pictures upload onto a twelve-inch monitor that possibly dates back to the Reagan years, I have finally confirmed that the toothsome earth pig does indeed have unusual dentition.

“It’s official!”
I scribble on a Post-it.
“This job sucks.”

I peel it off the pad and stick it to the last page of the third stack of copy, right next to the final line:

Alas, the Spanish conquistadors carried with them more than just a devastating smallpox epidemic—their greed for gold had all but destroyed the mighty Aztec civilization by the early 1500s.

Then I say a silent prayer, hoping never to see that Post-it again.

George and I decide it would be best if we meet Quentin and Vale somewhere nice and public, just in case they’re de-ranged psychos. Vale half-jokingly suggests Fisherman’s Wharf—he knows we’ve been in San Francisco for more than two months and haven’t actually managed to get down there yet (mostly because Remy ranted and raved about how locals never go there). At first we were reluctant to admit that we wanted to go, but our mysterious suitors promised they would protect us from the crowds of nasty tourists.

We meet at Pier 39, out by the sea lions. As soon as I see our dates, I realize of course that I do remember them. Vale is wearing a navy blue peacoat and jeans that look like they’ve been ironed, but he’s cuteish in a preppy sort of way—clean-shaven, short dark hair, collared shirt. He reminds me a bit of a young Warren Beatty (or, since I’ve never actually seen Warren Beatty in anything besides
Dick Tracy,
what I imagine he must have looked like in his younger and hotter days).

George gives Quentin the once-over and partially relaxes. Her guy is almost bordering on handsome, with a straight, narrow nose; a strong, square jaw and dark blond hair just long enough to suggest he probably doesn’t have an office job.

After the usual awkward fifteen-minute getting-to-know-you conversation, during which we learn absolutely nothing about each other (though it’s mercifully eased by the fact that there are four of us), we begin to walk.

“So, what do you guys have planned for us today?” I ask. “Something good, I hope.”

Vale takes four tickets out of his pockets and flashes them at us. “There’s nothing like Alcatraz in the springtime!”

“Great!” George says.

“It was my idea,” Quentin says and takes a tentative step toward her. “But it can get wicked cold and windy on the boat out… We might have to use bahdy heat to keep wahm.”

George quickly retreats. “Or…we could just sit inside.”

Vale shakes his head and laughs.

“But then we wouldn’t get to see the sea lions!” Quentin says. “They fahllow the boat.”

“We’ll take our chances,” I say. “Maybe on the way back.”

“Awesome!” Quentin turns to give a high-five to Vale, who reluctantly accepts.

“Don’t mind him,” Vale tells us. “He just really likes sea lions.”

“I’m sure,” George says. I can tell by her reluctance to make eye contact with me that she isn’t quite sure yet about this Quentin character, and neither am I. His looks are in the plus column, but the Boston drawl is over-the-top and the jury is still out on his personality.

As we walk around, I try to get as much background information as I can without being impolite.

“So how do you guys know each other?”

“He’s my brother-in-law,” Vale says.

“Oh. So which one of you’s married?” George asks, her eyes narrowing.

They laugh.

“Neither of us,” Quentin says. “Our sisters are married.”

“Legally, now, too!” Vale adds.

George perks up immediately. “Hey! My mothers are married!”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yup,” she says proudly.

Vale nods his approval. “Second generation—that carries a lot of weight in this city, you know.”

“Really?”

“Well, I guess it sort of depends on what circles you run in, but generally, yeah. It’s pretty cool.”

“Hmmm.” George has never considered herself cool for any reason, least of all because she is, as she puts it, “Sapphic progeny.” “I’m the only person I know whose parents are both gay, I think…. Holly and I know one guy back home whose dad came out, but that was, like, after he’d already been married for twenty years.”

“My sistah has a friend who’s third-generation lesbian,” Quentin says. “It’s like some sort of dyke dynasty over there or something.”

Vale nods. “They’re virtually royalty in the Castro.”

We walk a few blocks west, over to the heart of the action. It’s the first really nice Saturday of spring and the Wharf is thrumming with tourists and buskers and street vendors.

“Mmmm… What smells so good?” George asks.

“Bread baking, I think,” Quentin says, glad for an excuse to talk to her. “We have time for a quick bite, if you like.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Me, too! Come on…” Vale leads us through the long lineups of people ordering chowder and fried seafood at various concessions. “The best place is this way.”

Despite the crowds and midday heat, we manage to snag a table with an umbrella just off the street. Vale and Quentin go off and return a few minutes later with four giant bread bowls full of soup, four lemonades and a huge box of fried shrimp.

“You eat the bowl?” George marvels.

“Yeah, but the soup’s the best paht,” Quentin instructs her. “And I’m from Bahston, so I know good chowdah!”

“Is he for real with that?” I ask Vale as discreetly as I can.

“Yeah,” he whispers back. “His family moved here when he was ten. But he plays up the accent around girls. Don’t ask me why.”

George tears off a big chunk of her bowl and tastes it. “Sourdough!”

Quentin’s eyes widen. He’s clearly taking some sort of carnal pleasure in her appetite.

“George never met a carbohydrate she didn’t like,” I explain.

“Yeah, well when was the last time
you
ate a vegetable, Holly? And Caesar salad doesn’t count.”

“Do potato chips count?”

“No!”

“Tortilla chips?”

“No!”

“Popcorn? Come on—you gotta give me that one!”

“As you can tell, Holly has never met a partially hydrogenated snack food she didn’t like,” George says to the guys. “At least I
try
and eat a balanced diet.”

“Well, whatevah you’re doing, it’s working!” Quentin drawls while he leans back in his chair, straining to get a glimpse of George’s rump.

“I’m sitting on it. You’ll have to wait till I get up if you want a good look.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” he answers with a grin.

She rolls her eyes as dramatically as she can, but I can tell she’s flattered. And she definitely feels comfortable enough with the compliment to reach over for another shrimp.

Vale nudges me. “Is it just me or do I hear the pitter-patter of little feet?”

“Could be…they’ve definitely got some sort of weird chemistry happening.”

George flushes bright pink and shoots me an I’ll-kill-you-later look.

“Huh?” Quentin says.

“Never mind,” I say. “Isn’t the boat leaving soon?”

Vale checks his watch (which I can’t help but notice is a Rolex). “Shit! We better go!”

The Alcatraz tour was excruciatingly long, so when we finally return four hours later, we are all hungry again. Vale suggests a great place he knows in North Beach “with pasta to die for.” The owner is an old friend of his from high school and she sends us over cannoli and tiramisu for dessert. Everything is wonderful, of course, and even after spending the entire day together, we all still have plenty to talk about.