Slide - Kyle Beachy [11]
“Brockman's here,” I said, sitting. “There's a group huddled out there who keep laughing. He's smoking a cigar and talking about his job in Chicago. What does he do?”
“He sells,” Stuart said quickly, “he's in sales.”
“What does he sell?”
“I have no idea. Does it matter?”
“I would like it to matter.”
“Well, I'm sure he knows what he sells.” Stuart looked up. “That's the important thing when you're in sales.”
“A product,” I said. “He sells a product.”
“Or not. Let's not assume.”
“People say he's been getting laid like some feral mammal.”
“Have you seen his car? He's leasing one of these tiny European coupe things with reflective oversize rims. He picks up dates in his little sex car and takes them out to dinner. He steers the conversation and tips the valet and the women basically fall home with him as if to gravity His routine could be bottled.” Stuart leaned over the square mirror on the coffee table, snorted, and sat immediately up. “Quickly now. Describe the last place you and Audrey had sex.”
“Her room. Once all her paintings and photographs and furniture were already packed. Just us, sheets, bed, and alarm clock.”
“Was it: A, good; B, okay; C, awkward; or D, something you both knew was a bad idea but felt like had to happen for some sort of closure?”
“I wouldn't say closure. The whole nature of this three-week plan is counterclosure. Awkward, yes. But okay overall. I wouldn't say good.”
“Quickly still: list all items of your clothing currently in Audrey's possession.”
“In Europe? Or in Portland?”
“Quicker.”
“My red hoodie. My blue zip-up hoodie. A bunch of bootie socks. Who knows what else.”
“Your socks fit Audrey.”
“Sort of,” I said.
“This is all very important information, thank you.”
I wondered how long Stuart had been in here with the credit card. I sat still and watched him rub his thighs and dart eyes around the room while in the kitchen someone deployed a sequence of words into a cell phone, some foreign code, and outside through the French doors I saw Edsel Denk bounce and lift into the air. Moments later his bearded face emerged from the water slowly, seductively, Marlow or whatever his name is in Apocalypse Now. I leaned myself over the mirror and partook.
“Remember the timid Brockman?” Stuart asked. “The one who cried when he got cut from freshman basketball? He drove a beige Corolla.”
“I want documentation of the change. Psychological time-lapse.”
“Go on interviews,” he said. “Find a business that's hiring. Consult. Make money and get laid.”
“I could have gone home with a girl from AP Bio. She said something charming about television and I made up a story about my mom dying. Why did I do that?”
“Then you take a guy like Edsel Denk,” Stuart said. “You want laid, he's got it down to a perverse science. The anti-Brockman No money, no dinners, just this evil and stratospheric duende.”
“What is he doing here, Stubes? Why is he at your pool?”
“There are two rules for the pool, Potter. No glassware outside and no pissing me off. Edsel comes from time to time because he believes in what's going on here. He is interested in the dynamic, as we all are. I'm not going to exclude him because of his history with women, particularly yours.”
“He's an asshole,” I said.
“That's accurate, yes. A remarkable asshole.”
Outside, people continued to enjoy each other's company. They bummed smokes and flashed smiles and gently leaned into one another as if not from longing but subtle shifts in the earth's tilt. It was all right there, right outside the French doors. Nothing was stopping me from developing a smoking habit. I knew how to smile. And yet all I wanted was to bury myself in the backyard.
“I have to get some sleep.”
“That's right.” Stuart pulled out his small Baggie, twist-tied and full of white. “Good luck