The Up and Comer (4 page)

So there we were, riding high atop the food chain. Four guys with far too much disposable income and far too much expendable energy for having worked all day. Oh, to be young, handsome, and wealthy in the city that never sleeps.

After a few more rounds, Dwight slammed back the last of his bourbon, barely finding the table again with his empty glass. "Who's hungry?" he demanded.

A fast cab ride later, he was leading us all into the Gotham Bar and Grill, making a beeline for the maitre d' — a tall, thin man with indented cheeks undoubtedly caused by years of sucking up to celebrity types.

"Franklin, party of four, please," Dwight announced.

The maitre d' glanced up and quickly performed a once-over on us. There are something like fifty-six different muscles in the human face, and not one of them on this guy's flinched. Looking down again, he extended his index finger and began scrolling down the reservation book. "Franklin, Franklin..." he mumbled as the finger slid all the way to the end of the page without stopping. Mildly pleased, he informed us that he didn't seem to see that name anywhere.

"Sure you do," said Dwight. "It's right here." With that, Dwight took his right hand out of his pocket and placed it on the reservation book. When he removed it, Ben Franklin's face on a hundred-dollar bill was staring up at the maitre d'. The effect was nearly instantaneous.

"Oh, yes," said our new best friend, his hand promptly removing the evidence. "I believe we can accommodate you." He motioned to a D-cup in a size-two dress. "Gentlemen, if you would follow Rebecca, she'll show you right to your table."

Hell, we would've followed Rebecca off a cliff if that's where she'd led us. When we got to the table — a corner one, no less — she extended her arm like one of those prize girls on
The Price Is Right.
As we all sat down, Dwight couldn't resist being a dick.

"You wouldn't happen to be on the menu tonight, would you, darling?" he asked.

"Fuck off," she wavered.

And that was that.

We ordered every appetizer on the menu and an '88 Mouton Rothschild at $600 a bottle. Then we unwittingly began to play Top That, a kind of revolving game in which one of us initially regales the others with a story of sexual conquest or testosterone-laden athletic achievement only to have everyone else try to top it. In other words, I'll take heavily embellished bullshit for a thousand, Alex.

After eating and listening to Dwight's tale of the two nympho nurses and the turkey baster last summer on Nantucket, I'd had enough.

"I've got to make a call," I said, getting up.

The pay phone was downstairs by the rest rooms. Guys' night out was one of the few times I could call Jessica at home without having to worry about Connor picking up. I began searching for a quarter in my pocket.

"Your friend is an asshole," said a voice.

I turned around to see Rebecca sneaking a cigarette off in the corner.

"Excuse me?" I said.

The girl who'd seated us walked over and folded her arms across her chest. "Do you hang around with him by choice, or are you required to as part of some cruel punishment?" she asked.

"Who, Dwight?" I said. "Aw, he's not so bad once you get to know him."

"Like that'll ever happen."

Good one. I smiled and Rebecca extended her hand.

"Rebecca," she said.

"Philip," I replied, grasping her hand with a slight squeeze. She had curly, long black hair, a dark complexion, deep-set eyes. At least a catalog model if not the occasional runway. We stood there for a moment saying nothing. I couldn't tell if she had simply been making polite conversation or was now waiting for me to ask her when she got off work. Turned out to be a moot point. She spotted my wedding band.

"How long have you been married?" she asked.

"About two years."

"Two years, huh?" Her mouth broke into a grin. "Do you love her?"

Interesting question.

"As a matter of fact, I do," I lied.

"Good."

She tossed her cigarette and walked away, but not before one of her breasts brushed against my shoulder. The girl really knew how to make an exit.

I regrouped and plunked a quarter into the pay phone.

"Hello?"

"Hi, it's me," I said into the phone.

Jessica's voice came back, "I hate it when you do that."

"Do what?" I said.

"Say,
It's me,
as if there's only one it's me in my life."

She was right. "Sorry."

"This is so weird, you calling me when the two of you are out together. I don't know if I like it."

"I suppose it is a little unfair of me," I admitted.

"Try a lot," she corrected me. "So are you boys all behaving?"

"For the most part," I said.

"Is Dwight smashed yet?"

"You have to ask?"

"I hate him when he drinks."

"That would mean you hate him period."

"Can't you guys do one of those intervention-type things with him?"

"We're hardly the models of sobriety," I reminded her.

And so it went for a couple more minutes. Meaningless chitchat that gave us an excuse to hear each other's voice.

"So what are you doing?" I asked.

"Trying to figure out how my life got this way," replied Jessica.

"Sorry I asked."

"Am I going to see you tomorrow?"

"I suppose that could be arranged," I said.

"Gee, don't do me any favors, stud."

I laughed. "I'll call you in the morning."

"Okay."

When I got back upstairs to the table, Connor was sitting there by himself.

"How's she doing?" he asked as I sat down.

I panicked for a second. "What?"

"Tracy," he answered. "I assumed that's who you were calling."

"Oh. She's fine."
Phew.
"So where are the guys?"

"Smoking cigars at the bar."

"You didn't want to join them?"

"Not really," said Connor. "Besides, I didn't want you to think we bolted on you."

"Thanks."

The place was still buzzing, and we both took a moment to soak up that unique spectacle afforded us by the patrons of a top-ten Zagat's restaurant. Beyond all the chemical-peeled skin, personal-trainer bodies, and salon-colored hair, here was the true battlefield of fashion. I had even coined a phrase for it:
waging wardrobe.
A little roving eye reconnaissance made it clear that on that night, despite some regiments of Hugo Boss and DKNY, the Prada and Armanian armies seemed to have the place pretty much surrounded. In my gray Brooks Brothers pinstripe, I kind of felt like Switzerland.

Eventually, I spotted a large table by the opposite wall. It had to be somebody's birthday. As I tried to figure out who in the group that somebody was, it occurred to me that there were probably two types of people in this world: those who hate having "Happy Birthday" sung to them in a restaurant and those who make the same claim only to secretly enjoy it. I determined that I fell into the former category and my wife, Tracy, definitely fell into the latter.

It was right about then that I started to sense that Connor's waiting for me at the table was about more than being polite. A few moments later he confirmed my suspicions.

Said Connor, "Jessica's been acting weird lately."

"Weird? How so?"

He drew a deep breath. In the time I'd known him he'd never been what you'd call forthcoming with his feelings. This was obviously very difficult for him.

"Things are different between us," he explained. "She's different. I don't know; it's like there's this distance. Even when we're having sex, her mind seems to be somewhere else."

"Maybe it's her job," I offered up. "You always tell me how intense she is about it. Or maybe there's something with her mother or brother, something that she hasn't burdened you with."

"No, it's not anything like that," he said.

"How do you know?"

"I just know."

I watched as a waiter brought a piece of cake with a candle in it to the large table across the way. I knew it was the bald guy.

"I think Jessica's having an affair, Philip."

I turned back to find Connor's eyes waiting for me. "You think what?"

"I think she's having an affair," he said.

"You're serious?"

He had never looked more serious in his life. The fact that he simply stared at me without saying a word in response was the biggest, fattest, most affirmative yes there was. He was dead serious. This was going to be tricky.

"Connor, how long have you and Jessica been married?" I asked.

"Ten months."

"That settles it right there. She can't be having an affair," I said with a reassuring smile.

"Why's that?" he asked.

"The gift rule, that's why. A couple can't start cheating on each other until everyone's had that first year to get them a wedding gift. Letitia Baldridge — you can look it up."

Connor didn't see the humor.

"You know, it could be Eric Johnson," he said, nodding as if he had put it all together. "We were at a party a couple of months back, and Jessica and he were talking to each other for a really long time. I swear to god, if it's him, I'll kill him. I'll get a gun and shoot the motherfucker right in the balls!"

"Jesus Christ, Connor, calm down," I said. "I don't think you've got anything to worry about with Eric Johnson."

"Why not?" he asked.

"Trust me."

"I'm not in the trusting mood, in case you haven't noticed. Why couldn't it be him?"

"Because he's a Rice-A-Roni, that's why," I said.

"A what?"

"A Rice-A-Roni," I repeated. "You know, the San Francisco treat."

It took him a second.

"Eric Johnson is gay?!" he nearly shouted.

"Yeah, he made a pass at me last fall."

"Get the fuck out."

"Okay, maybe not, but Tracy did tell me that a friend of hers from school who knows him saw him at the Vault doing it with another guy."

"Doing it
doing it?"

"I don't have the video, if that's what you're working toward."

Connor slouched in his chair. "Wow. Who would've thunk?" he said.

"Freud, apparently. Eric's the quintessential mama's boy, after all."

"Okay, so it's not Eric Johnson. It could be anybody."

"Or it could be nobody," I reminded him.

Connor had a "go ahead, keep trying to convince me" look to him. I went ahead.

"Connor, I don't want to play the lawyer on you, but everything you've told me here is pretty circumstantial. It's all stuff that you're perceiving. Now, you come home one night and she's humping the mailman, then we'll talk. Until then, even if she is being a little distant like you say she is, I really don't think it's anything to worry about. My bet is that it will pass. Hell, a little while after I got married to Tracy she was doing the same thing. It was like buyer's remorse or something. I'm telling you, a new marriage must be like a new house. It needs time to settle."

I looked at Connor. He seemed to be mulling it over.

"But what if she is having an affair?" he asked.

"What if, what if?!" I said, throwing up my arms. "What if Jack Kennedy had been riding in a hardtop and Teddy had the convertible, huh?
What if then?
My point is you can speculate all you want about what if, but the only thing that really matters is what is."

"What is what?" came Menzi's voice over my shoulder. He and Dwight had returned from the bar.

"What is the chance that you two single boys hook up tonight," said Connor, covering for us in surprisingly seamless fashion.

"Funny you should mention that," shot back Dwight. "It so happens that Menzi and I have made the acquaintance of two extremely lovely young Indian girls at the bar."

"Gandhi or gambling?" I asked.

"I wish they had casino blood," said Dwight.

"Then we could marry rich and relax, kind of like someone we know?"

"Now who could that be?" said Menzi, scratching his head and getting into the act.

I feigned being hit and shuddered, "Ooh, that hurts."

"So you boys might get lucky after all, huh?" said Connor.

"It's in the Hefty," Dwight boasted. "And since you guys appear to be laying down the challenge, Menzi and I won't feel so bad about dropping you old married farts now like bad habits."

"Dead weight at age thirty-one," I sighed, shaking my head. "What went wrong, Connor?"

"What's that you say?" he replied in an old man's accent. He hit his ear. "Damn hearing aid!"

The waiter came and put the bill on our table. I picked it up and threw it in the air to Dwight, who instinctively caught it.