When Fred drives up, I know it's him because last night he told me his new car is bright blue. Cobalt blue. When I ask the idiot why that stupid color, the idiot says, Nothin' but blue skies, Frank.
It's a jag convertible with the top down—which he better not drive when he calls on doctors—and it pulls up too fast and stops an inch from my knees. Almost puts me on my ass right in front of the New York Hilton.
Yesterday we had our launch meeting there for our company's new erection drug. Told the northeast reps the world needs another Viagra, and their mission is to get doctors writing it with both hands. Being head of sales I'm up there doing the telling, and Fred's among those being told since after all these years he's still a rep. Carry the bag till the day he buys the farm.
Thanks for waking me up, I say. Mornin' old buddy! he says. Didn't run over your foot did I? With that southern drawl, and meanwhile he's Jersey and not even south Jersey.
I throw my bag in back. Climbing in the front seat is like laying myself out in a coffin one size too small. By the time I'm settled, I'm one sweaty corpse. Should've taken my jacket off but too late now. And Fred with that shiteating grin. God knows how late he was up but he looks perfect, smells fresh. Not a wrinkle in his white shirt or seersucker suit. I never wear light suits anymore because they make me look like Moby Dick. But Fred's the same weight he was when we were both reps, and botoxed and dyed to the hilt, so the bastard looks thirty.
I tell him to put the top up. I put it down to give you more room, he says. Asshole, I think, but I don't push it. Fred zigs into traffic and zags west onto Fifty-Seventh Street, alternately flooring it and slamming the brake. Which is not good for my hangover. A drill's breaking concrete under my left eyebrow.
Fred looks me over. How you doin'? You look tired. No shit Sherlock. Just did three time zones in four days covering every region. Well, old buddy, that's the price you pay for being important. Just because we once worked together he calls me old buddy in front of everybody, and when I set the record straight—he's not my buddy and never was—Fred laughs. He says: Frank and me have what you call an enduring relationship. I love him and he hates me.
I'm bringing on the hate now, and he grins even wider like the cat swallowed the canary, but that's fine because for once I'm the python that swallowed the cat. He says, What happened last night? Nothing, I say. Went to bed. Lost track of you guys—by which I mean I hope they lost track of me. How'd you make out? Not as good as you, he says, and I'm like Whaddya mean, and he says, C'mon Frank that girl was all over you. And though I make a face the girl's all over me again, shoving into my head like she shoved into me last night. Skinny and her face all angles, but her breast pressing me felt pretty full and soft.
Aw, she just wanted to get close to the bar— But Fred's drawl gets thicker: Mah friend, you have officially become a chick magnet. Settin' yourself free did the trick. You're gonna have fuuun. I didn't set myself free, I say, I got dumped. Loud enough for the India Indian in the cab next to us to look over. I'm fat, I'm bald, and the bitch dumped me. I think you look prosperous, Fred says. Fat. And doing fine. For a minute Fred shuts up and drives. Seventh Avenue is a parking lot; so's Broadway and Ninth, and he keeps heading west toward Eleventh. Then he says, voice low like somebody died, I'm sorry, Frank. You're still hurtin', I should be more sensitive— Fuck you. I'm fine.
Then the cab next to us cuts us off. After Fred stops cursing India, I change the subject. So what did you think of Potenna? That's the name of our erection drug. We'll sell it, he says. Which is his way of telling me it's a piece of shit. Well I know you'll sell it, old buddy—which is my way of telling him he's an old whore and he'll sell anything. It is pathetic that after all these years he's still a rep. I don't care how much he says he loves it, dealing with the customer instead of office politics. He's a loser. Never grew up.
To stick it in deeper I say, So how's life? Fine, he says. Family's fine. Which one? I sneer. He laughs: Both! Theresa had her first communion other day—the whole gang showed up. All my kids from both marriages, and Carly of course, and even Greta. How many guys can say their ex-wife comes to the first communion of the oldest girl of their trophy wife?
Not many. I'm being snarky but he looks proud, the idiot. I can't even imagine talking to my wife again. Of course she'd say I never talked to her. Well, I never cheated on her either. She fucked the guy who did our rugs. Probably on the rug.
Alice is a good woman, he says. How the hell do you know, I'm thinking, you met her twice. I can't judge her, but I can say from experience that bein' in a loveless marriage is hell for both people. I know it don't feel that way now, buddy, but she did you a favor. And based on last night you ain't gonna have any problems meetin' new people.
I have to smile how the clown brings it right back to that girl. He says, See? You know what I mean. You had a good time all right! Tell me what happened, you stud. Gimme details. Well there's no way I'm giving him details. I may as well send an e-mail to the entire sales force. We just talked, I say. She told me she's divorced, and I'm like, Me too. She asks how many kids I have and I showed her a picture of the cat. That got a laugh out of her—she tells me about this band she's in, the Kit Kats. She's an accountant but loves to sing. I told her Frank Sinatra's my namesake, crooned a little New York New York, and she's cracking up. Then we argued about rock versus swing— Come on now Frank, he says, I can't believe all y'all did was talk.
I look ahead and it's like she's in the car with me. On top of me. She liked being on top, and I didn't feel so fat. Her breath in my mouth, her breasts pressing my belly, inside she was warm and deep—it didn't last long but it was wonderful. So fuck you, Alice; and fuck you Fred.
OK. I'll tell you again. We talked, I said good night, bought her next drink for her, and went to bed. That's what I did, and it's none of your effing business. OK? OhhhhK he drawls.
Eleventh Avenue isn't any better than Ninth or Seventh. We creep a block, then stop dead like our conversation. Maybe the bridge? I say. He puts on Ten Ten Wins—the bridge is a mess too, and so's the Holland. It's gonna be a long drive. Once Fred tries cutting ahead by driving in the wrong-way lane, but I tell him to stop it. So he cuts back in and we sit.
At the corner of Fifty-Second Street, I notice a couple of girls. One blond, drop-dead gorgeous but with curves so perfect she could be a mannequin. But I've stared at mannequins, and I stare at her. The other one I barely register. Just thicker and plainer. Classic. Every beautiful girl has an ugly friend. Beauty keeps Ugly close to make herself look even better, and Ugly hopes Beauty will rub off on her.
Suddenly Fred turns the wheel, but this time takes us rightways to the curb. I'm guessing he's frustrated, wants to give the engine a rest. But he stops right near the girls. They're both wearing earpieces yet managing to have a chat. Ugly doing most of the talking, but Beauty's listening is what you look at.
Excuse me, Fred says. I realize he's talking to them because with girls his drawl is five times as cheesy. But they don't know we're there. Another classic—the invisible middleaged men. Girls under thirty just don't see you unless you exhibit signs of wealth. Or, in rare cases, if you've got character. Maybe I still have some of that; the girl last night—Terry, that's it—maybe that's what she saw in me.
But Fred leans into my space, waits for a pause in Eleventh Avenue noise, then speaks again. 'Scuse me? I wanted to thank you. You just put a smile on my face. Yeah, that's what he said. I've heard him say shit like this before. This time they notice, or at least Beauty does. She laughs. A well-practiced laugh telling you she might be pleased or displeased with you. Well, thanks, she says.
Oh I don't mean you, Fred says. Don't get me wrong—you're beautiful—but I'm talkin' to you. And he smiles at the ugly one. Ugly still doesn't seem to get it, and Beauty nudges her. Then she's stunned, doesn't know how to act and tries to hide it by glaring—not at us but the weird blue of Fred's jag.
Yes you, Fred says. Don't mean to speak out of turn but you are adorable. No man's ever said this to you? Believe you me, they're thinkin' it. His voice like triple-sweetened tea but it makes Ugly clam up more. Her jaw twitches, her face seems to swell; I'm waiting for her head to explode.
Meanwhile Beauty gets over the shock of not being the center of the solar system. To her credit she seems happy for Ugly. Says to Fred, Thank you on behalf of my mute friend. That's what I always tell her, she won't believe me. And this finally releases Ugly: Shut up! But he's being nice and I think he means it— Just shut up. She turns in our direction: You guys are creeps. Why don't you get lost?
Wow, Fred says after a moment. I know it's a cliché, but when a girl like you gets mad, you just get better.
God, he's shameless. Because I take my first real look at this girl. Her real hair's probably reddish-brown, but she's got it dyed like a carrot—I never get what makes women do that. Her nose is wide, her lips are thin, she's got bigger boobs than the mannequin but too much flesh in her wrists and neck. And heavy freckles. Maybe she's not ugly, but there's no way she's adorable, and no way Fred thinks it, either.
I don't want to hurt the girl's feelings, so I just say: Hey, excuse my friend here. He means well but—doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut.
You think it's funny to make fun of people? Ugly looks at me for the first time, then her eyes laser into Fred with enough heat to burn out his retinas. It's rotten. It really is.
I'm not making fun of you, Fred says. Then he sighs. Actually, you reminded me of someone. My very first girlfriend. Your hair, your voice—just like her. I thought I was going to marry her, but her family moved away. Later I found out she died young. Cancer. I'm sorry if I come off disrespectful, but you triggered a precious memory. Really.
Now Ugly has no idea what to do. Doesn't know if she's thrilled or ashamed of herself. Beauty says, That's beautiful.
Fred raises thumb and index finger to his forehead, like a cowboy tipping his hat. He wrenches the wheel taking us off the curb and back the other way on Eleventh Avenue. Doesn't say a word as we head toward the West Side Highway. And then all he says is: The bridge can't be worse than this.
What the fuck was that? I say. At first he doesn't answer. Then, slowly, he grins. You're sick, I say. You should be ashamed. What? Why? he says. Because you royally fucked with that girl's head. I called her adorable, how is that fuckin' with her head? Because she doesn't look adorable and you know it— But she believed me, he says. Look how happy she was. So you admit you lied to her. Sure, OK, but she believed me. You saw her face. She believed me.
It almost sounds like he's pleading with me. And I'm so pissed that sweat's popping out everywhere, even between my toes. But I don't speak, which keeps him twisting. Come on, old buddy. I made the girl happy. You could see that—?
I see that you played with her. Who the fuck made you God? People have a right to honesty—it's part of their dignity. I'm not saying you should've told her she was ugly—or plain, to be exact—but what you did? She said it. It's cruel. Like pulling her wings off and telling her to fly!
He merges onto the West Side Highway, and then we're stopped, because everyone else is. For once Fred can't drawl back at me, can't look at me. I've shamed him. His nose wrinkles. That what you think I did? Is that what you think of me? I just wanted to help her out— And I swear to God his eyes pool up.
Fuck you, Fred. That girl can get laid anytime she wants to. But it won't do her any good pretending she's Megan Fox. Help her feel better inside herself, he says, as if this clarifies it. Fred, your help isn't needed. The ugly people of the world don't need you. We can do just fine.
When I say we he gives me this queer look. He ducks his chin, and I can't explain it but I feel like I'm in front of a subzero freezer: every drop of sweat is gone. And the girl Terry presses into me, so brazen yet easy about it, and so interested in every stupid thing I had to say. And I remember now, when we got back to my room she starts to strip, then says, Oh do you want to rip my clothes off? Yes I want to rip your clothes off, and I do. And even though I don't have any condoms, she has one right at hand. Was Terry even her goddamn name?
Don't tell me, I say. Don't tell me you set me up last night? Frank, I— Fred! You sick fuck did you set that girl up for me? He doesn't deny it. OK. OK. Just tell me was she a pro? Was she? I keep screaming at him till he says, Yes. Please, I'm sorry. So the girl I fucked last night was a whore you paid to fake it. Is that right? To give you a good time, he says faintly.
I should fire your fucking ass. I really should. But then I'm wondering what reason I'd give for doing it. I have to give a reason, and then he might give the real one. So I take a long breath.
Fred, if you ever, if you ever tell one soul in this company, or one doctor, or either one of your wives, I swear I will fire you. You got that?
Fred nods, but for once the idiot knows not to speak. Meanwhile Idiot Two feels the sun, and the crawl of sweat, and the fact that we're not moving. Solid cars and blue sky from here to the bridge. It's gonna be a long drive.
Tim Millas writes and lives in New York and Florida. His fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in various journals and collections, including The Battered Suitcase, Confrontation, Conte, Eclectica, Exquisite Corpse, Gargoyle, and Unlikely Stories of the Third Kind.
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