The Feast of Love (24 page)

You just knew from the radar that she was a woman who dug other women physically but wouldn’t do anything about it, and she had spent her young life hemming and hawing, lighting cigarettes and putting them out in frustration. She had an inventory of failed gestures. Being modern, I’d slept with other girls once or twice myself but that was all over now that Oscar loved me and we’d have a life together. Janey, she was pretty in a predatory way, like that pianist, Liberace, but without the clothes he wore to keep you confused and off the scent. She just wore jeans and tee-shirts, like me. You could see by peering at her why she wanted to film porn all day. She stared with these dead-fish eyes at whatever was swimming by her. She was a hungry ghost, sucking people up in her karmic vacuum cleaner and storing them in the dustbag. Also, she chewed her fingernails. I
hate
that. Still, we were friends, maybe out of convenience or something.

Anyway, she was sitting there with the videotape on the table. She gave me a sort of bored wave of hello, like I was already a disappointment to her before our first words had been spoken, very Hollywood agent, and she flipped her head back with this girl-of-the-world shake, accompanied by her patented wolf smile, which looks better on guys than it does on her. “Hey, Barlow,” she said. Barlow is my last name. “Whassup?”

“Not much,” I said. “How ’bout you?”

She shook one of her hands like there was water on it. “Do you ever get bored with weather? The weather is
so
sobering around here.” I didn’t know what she was talking about, so I pretended to smile, which came out as a real smile. “I’m going to move to Seattle or somewhere where they have some goddamn actual weather. You know:
real
rain? Rain and heroin. As opposed to what we get here? Oh, and guess what. I’m discovering something,” she said, sipping her cappuccino. “Guess what I discovered.”

I leaned back. “No idea.”

“Try to guess.”

“Janey, I gotta be at work in a coupla hours. I don’t have
time
to guess.” She was staring at me like she wanted to dine out on me, and she flashed me a quick thing, an event-horizon thing lowering and happening on her face, and then it was gone, and she was normal again. “Why don’t you just tell me?”

“Okay,” she said. “The video we made? The one with you and Oscar, that I shot and directed? We’re not going to make any serious money out of it. In fact,” she said, “we’re not going to make any money at all, almost.”

“Like how much?”

She leaned back. “Like almost nothing. Like zilch.”

“Jeez.” I felt that punch in your arm you feel when you’re disappointed. I hadn’t minded Janey taping us doing our mating dance because I figured we’d get enough for a deposit on a better apartment. Besides, you could tell straight sex just bored her silly, when it was happening in front of her, and she wasn’t paying attention, except technically. “I was expecting a lot more,” I said. “Considering how easy it was, doing it.”

“Well it just goes to show. I guess it’s harder to break into the sex industry than I thought. They’re sort of going for the details, those guys. People are bored with what we served up. They want exotica. They didn’t say anything about exotica in the ad. But get this. They said the video was too
dull.
I have to tell you, I was offended. I mean, hey, I
worked
on that video. I put a lotta effort into it.”

“How do you mean? Dull?” Suddenly my pride got up. Oscar and me, dull? In bed? No way.

“They called me.” She leaned her head back and her eyes went up just like a shark after a bite of leg and shoe. “They said they could maybe,
maybe,
use a few minutes of it someday in a video anthology devoted to today’s youth. They said the marketing would be tough, though. There’s no target audience for watching people like you and Oscar. The only thing they liked was Oscar’s skull tattoo and the ‘Die’ underneath it. They said the sex was too midwestern. And they said the setting was bad.
Unimaginative.
I asked them what was bad about it, and they said it was just a bedroom somewhere. When I asked them where it was supposed to be, they said, well, someplace different, like an office at a used-car lot.” She thrummed her fingers on the table. “And no offense, Chloé, but they said you were pretty but not voluptuous. What do they expect? And they said that the costumes you and Oscar were wearing weren’t any good. They were
very
critical, these people.”

“What do you mean, the sex was too midwestern? And what was wrong with the costumes?”

“Well, like I told you, they said it wasn’t exotic enough. Like, track star and cheerleader aren’t exotic? But they said they weren’t. Your bodies were okay but nothing special. You took your shoes off. That’s a no-no. What’s the big deal with feet? Anyway, you’re supposed to keep your shoes on. And they claimed you guys didn’t have a ‘look.’ Hey, I
argued
with them. Chloé, I really did. I defended you. And they said there were other problems.”

“Like?”

“The love thing.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“They said that it looked like you and Oscar were in love.”

“So?”

“They said the love thing makes the video off-putting. That was the word the guy used. ‘Off-putting.’ It wrecks it visually. That you can just tell by watching. It kinda takes the kick out of it. It makes it creepy to watch. The way you two look at each other was alienating, like you had a thing going. And he really had a deal about the way you went at it. Creepy, he said, too plain-style and also too midwestern. Can you imagine? Fuckin’ mondo. This guy on the phone, working for who he works for, tellin’ me about
creepy?
I got a little indignant. He blamed the pacing on me, as the director. He said it would a better video if you guys had used your imaginations.”

“No way.”

“That’s what I figured. Well, he was one mean guy, and I guess the result is, I’m not going to make my fortune with you and Oscar.” She poked down at a bag. “Here’s your videocam back. I’m getting another one.”

“What about the money?”

“What about it?”

“You mentioned a figure.”

“First I have to sign an agreement. Then he said the check would be in the mail. It’s not here yet.”

“He said that?”

“Those,” she said in a kind of weird half-whisper, “were his exact words.”

“So you haven’t got the money?”

“Chloé, would I lie to you?” She pouted for a split second.

“I don’t know. I guess not.” It occurred to me just then that Janey hadn’t talked to anybody, that she had made the tape for herself.

“There’s this other thing.”

“What other thing?”

“I’ve been asking around town. I made a few inquiries. I found someone. You wouldn’t believe some of the people I talked to. But I guess the Midwest is like anywhere else. I know someone here in town who’ll pay you and Oscar a lotta money if you do something. I brokered it, so I’d have to get fifty dollars out of that.”

“What?”

“Well, it’s pretty, uh, slight. All you and Oscar have to do is make love to each other. You can do that, for sure. All you have to do is sex, and all you need is love.” She looked disgusted.

“Yeah.”

“There’s a catch.”

“What’s the catch?”

“Well, this person here in town wants to watch.”

“Watch us?”

“Yeah, I guess. You know, he’ll be there in the room, sitting on a chair, watching you. That’s all. It’s not exactly what you’d call a
job,
Chloé. I mean, it isn’t
work.
You just make love and then you get paid.”

I got instantly depressed. Ordinarily I have high spirits. This scene was getting worse and worse and worse and worse and worse and worse and worse and
worse,
like an event out of somebody else’s life that you don’t even want to hear about in a story. What had happened to how holy we were, Oscar and me? I had fallen low, I could see that, thanks to economics, the hunger for money in a hurry, and I was worried about dragging Oscar down with me. Thinking about foyers can corrupt you, I guess. “Janey,” I said, “did you ever think when we were in fifth grade that we’d be having this conversation?”

“I didn’t think we’d be having this conversation
last week.”

“So who is this guy?”

“I don’t know. Just some ordinary horrible guy I met. He’s harmless. Some typical man with eyes. The world is full of them.”

“Is it safe?”

“Sure. Nothing’ll happen. This guy is all middle-aged and bald and a wimp and a loser. Besides, honey, Oscar — well, I’ve seen him naked, right? That boyfriend of yours is strong. He may have done drugs once, but he can sure handle himself. I mean, he looks like a tough motherfucker.” She stopped to sigh admiringly. “Though I know how sweet he is and everything.” She reached around and scratched her back and looked annoyed, like I should be doing it for her, the scratching.

“That money,” I said. “How much was it? I want to get this right.”

She named the sum, and then she said, “Maybe I can get it higher, but I doubt it. It’s already a huge lot.”

“Well, I’ll ask Oscar. But I don’t think so. I really don’t think so.” I waited. “I mean, we’re broke, and we could use the money and everything . . .”

“Well, it’s like being sex workers for one night. One night only. Putting on a show for a lonely guy. Hey, I hear you guys are getting married. Wow. You’re so traditional.”

“You heard that?”

“Yeah, word gets out. Congratulations.” She started to shake my hand, thought better of it, and stopped in midair.

“Thanks. We’re gonna do it in a week or two.”

“Where?”

“Well, my boss, this guy, Bradley Smith, he’s offered us his back yard for the reception.”

“Who’s going to perform it? Like, the minister?”

“We’re going down to city hall first. You know: the clerk. The clerk does it.”

“Hey,” she said, “you remember that guy, Buddy Preston, from school?” I nodded. “Well, he’s made himself into one of those ministers you become if you send in a matchbook application and twenty dollars. He could marry you, and it’d be legal. He’s married a couple of people lately.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “A couple of people we knew from school. I forget their names. He does it as a sideline. He makes a little money from it. I saw one of his weddings a while ago. It was a real wedding. And he’s a friend of ours. Well, not a friend. But an acquaintance. I mean, you remember him, right? He lives out in Dexter now.”

I gave her a long stare. I was super-irritated. “Do I look zany to you?”

“Well, no.”

“This is my wedding I’m talking about. Jesus, Janey. I want a proper city hall wedding. I don’t want some quack minister. Come on, Janey. Have some respect for my feelings, would you please?”

“Okay, sorry.”

I took a sip of my lemonade. I don’t drink coffee, it’s bad for you. “Oscar and me, we don’t go to church or anything, so we gotta settle for city hall.”

“Let me see your ring.” I showed it to her. I held out my hand in her direction, and she put my hand in her hand. I knew that was the thrill for her, my fingers touching hers, not the ring. “Wow. It’s real pretty. A stone and the whole nine yards. Is that gold? Where’d you get it?”

“I didn’t get it. Oscar got it. He bought it for me.”

“Where’d he get it? Is it, like, an engagement ring?”

“Sort of. It’s a real short engagement, though. He bought it at the jewelry department at the mall. He made a special trip.” I didn’t want it to seem like I was gloating, so I didn’t say anything more about my ring, which had a genuine zirconium diamond in it. It wasn’t glass, if that’s what you’re thinking.

She leaned back and examined the ceiling. “Your parents coming?”

“My parents hate me,” I said. I tried to find what she was looking at on the ceiling but couldn’t. “My dad threw me out, you remember that, back in my party-animal days. They think I’m a loser. Plus my dad is taking orders from my mom about ignoring me. So I’m pretty harsh on them, too, now that the ball’s in my court. What I do is, I exclude them from stuff, such as my wedding.”

“Yeah. You gotta be radical,” she said.

“So anyway, I’ll tell them after the wedding. But they’re not invited. Rhonda, my sister, you remember her? She’s coming. She’ll be at the reception.”

“What about Oscar’s parents?”

“He’s only got one parent. The Bat. Very scary individual. Don’t know if he’s going to show up or not.”

“Am I invited?”

“Well, yeah.” I gave her the time and the address, but you could see she was pissed about not getting a written invitation, of which there weren’t any.

She tried to recover herself by getting girlish. “You guys goin’ on a honeymoon?”

“Yeah. We’re going to a School of Velocity concert the next day and we’ll spend the night in a motel in East Lansing.”

“Chloé, you are
so
hot. You’re going to be
the
happening married couple. So what about this guy who wants to watch you two lovebirds fuck?” She was going back to street language, back to business. She smiled at me like she had indigestion and was trying to cover it. “Like all that money?” She named the figure again. “Now there’s a fortune. What about him?”

“It’s way creepy. But, like I say, I’ll ask Oscar.”

THE THING WAS,
I wanted to buy Oscar some medical insurance, because Bradley couldn’t afford to give us any benefits at Jitters. And I thought that if we had it, and something happened to Oscar, we’d be covered. But! I knew, alas, that you can’t get an insurance policy for five hundred dollars, but you almost can. What I was worried about also was the pre-existing condition thing, how they never cover that. Well, maybe we could put a deposit on a better apartment.

As for us, I didn’t want anyone watching us ever, exactly. But I also thought: Hey, this customer wants to watch Oscar and me, it’s
his
problem, right? It’s not
our
problem. We’re not watching. We’re just doing it the way we always do, being in love and physically endorsing it. Some poor loveless unloved excuse for an American human wants to watch from the bottom of his particular barrel so we can pay for Oscar’s health insurance or a down payment on an apartment, well, hey, there’s a possibility for positive gain here. I guess everybody wants to watch, sort of. Except: you don’t feel like
doing
it quite so much, maybe you don’t feel like it at all, the air goes out of that particular tire, any of the things you usually do, when somebody’s got their gloating eyes on you.