Bermuda Shorts - James Patterson [23]
Single women outnumber single men here in the Capital of the Empire. An intriguing statistic. When I hear these women bemoan the fact that all the good ones are taken, I think it’s absurd until I catch a glimpse of guys like this. He’s a good one. I’m sure he’s taken. I look for his ring finger, but he is wearing gloves. I am about to turn away in search of some more pleasant preoccupation when I think of other empire capitals throughout history and wonder what the merchant classes of those eras were like. I wonder how similar or different this son-of-a-bitch is from them. How does he stack up? I try to imagine myself standing on a London railway platform circa 1890, or in Constantinople, or Rome, Paris, Tokyo, Berlin, Athens, Ayodhya, Alexandria, Beijing, all at the height of empire. Now, this specimen seems quite interesting. A real live artifact. On another day, in a better mood, I might have tried to strike up a conversation with him. I could go into my affable kook routine I use on stage to disarm him and draw him out. Maybe see if I could come away with some identifying quotes. Some kind of watermark I could then cut and paste into something useful. A caricature of our times. Then I suddenly know why he’s uncomfortable. He’s afraid that is exactly what I am about to do.
As soon as I get on the train, my mind is on something else. Seven stops later I exit the subway, pick up my car, and arrive at the Royal Mile Pub early, so I must wait for my friends. The Royal Mile isn’t my idea of the perfect bar. The tables are too big and too close together. The lights are always bright, and there is no place to hide. Nor am I impressed by their infinite selection of beer. I would never come here on my own with a good book and my journal. I feel conspicuous, and the short wait is excruciating.
Amanda Gay was a beauty, but I didn’t lust after her as did every other male in her immediate orbit. On the contrary, I’ve always found giant breasts humorous in the extreme. Some women don’t like being made love to by a fellow who can’t stop giggling. She was a musical stylist, had a unique way of rearranging popular songs in their flat or sharp keys. Whenever we were playing in the same burg, she would seek me out and we would sneak off for a quiet drink and a chat. She would hold my hand. We were at a hotel bar during a convention of college-booking agents once when some kid wearing his ball cap backwards, knee-length shorts, and sneakers that didn’t match, approached her drunkenly and without once making eye contact with her said in a loud voice, “Hellacious tits!” I put down my drink and was reaching for his throat when she stood up majestically, pulled back her shoulders, and raised his chin to meet his poor vapid gaze, and without a trace of gratitude said, “Thank you.”
My friends arrive and the frenzy begins. These are tough-nosed, school of hard knocks, self-employed people who see the world differently than most corporate or government employees. Most people have to do the job hunt boogie half a dozen times in their lives. Self-employed individuals essentially have to look for work every day. Jaded, edgy, and angry, they have a very practical