Slide - Kyle Beachy [38]
“I guess I should drive.”
“Then lessgo.”
The sky was gray-blue-green and lower than usual. A group of rabbits sat like dander in the big patch of yard between the pool house and the driveway. I half expected the ogre to lunge for one of them, a ferocious and not necessarily graceful show of predatory will.
Once we reached the driveway he stopped moving and raised one arm, pointing at the ad.
“Eventually Stuart's going to let me behind the wheel of that thing.”
“I don't know. I think there's a system in place.”
“System or not, he'll get bored. You guys are always getting bored.”
I took us westward, away from the river and the Arch, into the very depths of the county. The ogre next to me bit his fingernails, his thick sausage fingers disappearing into the forest of his beard. And this man, I thought, procures for himself women in abundance. I wondered what Stuart had told Edsel about this proposed internship. I eased the gas pedal, the speedometer revolved clockwise, seventy then eighty passing and merging and flowing deeper into the current westward leg of an ancient American dream. I felt sleazy by association, and it wasn't entirely bad.
I exited on Manchester Boulevard and continued west. Five miles later, Edsel grunted, “There.”
Yes. I signaled and turned into a sprawling parking lot divided by stand-alone restaurants and landscaped partitions. Super market, discount shoe outlet, big and tall clothing store, DMV, another shoe outlet, and baked sub sandwich shop. Twenty-screen cinema. People sat outside each of the four floating restaurants, waiting to be told their table was ready. There was Crazy Sticks, California Cocina, Bighorn Steakhouse, and Beneath the Sea.
“I know a tiny girl who bartends at one of these places. Forget which one. Short girl, tits like this.”
“People make a point of coming here,” I said. “It's a destination.”
At California Cocina we were handed a translucent black disc that would buzz and glow when our table was ready.
“Emily,” Edsel said. “Keep your eyes out for a short girl with hairy arms.”
Eventually a skinny brunette led us to a small booth squished between two larger booths, each filled with a chewing sipping talking family. I focused my attention squarely on Edsel. He occupied his half of the booth with aplomb both physical and psychological, the remorseless ogre, and I began to think that perhaps Stuart had been right, that perhaps here was someone whose stark deviance from whatever flimsy morals I possessed could serve as education. I watched him read the menu, eyes narrow and intent.
I said, “How do these places manage to feel both crowded and empty at the same time?”
“Pesto chicken pizza. Grilled tilapia in mango salsa. I wonder what they offer that's encrusted.”
He liked it here. Hence that aplomb, the palpable contentment oozing from his side of the booth. In a setting so rife with flaws— and it was, surely, just look—he either didn't see them or didn't care about them. How this contentment was related to physical stature, I wasn't sure. But the ogre could have been anywhere and it wouldn't have made a difference. And I had to wonder if this approach—this ambivalent comfort and brute ogre stoicism— was one of, perhaps, love? Wasn't Casanova's conflict one of loving too widely? Love not unlike sprawl, far-reaching and nondiscriminatory Or Don Juan? The hostess made another pass by our table, smiling like a child's toy.
“Let's order,” he said. “Sooner we order, sooner we can get on with this.”
“This. On with this.”
He set the menu down. “The slaughter, Potter. The destruction of every little she-girl we can get our hands on. Isn't that what we're here for? Stuart said you were looking to get laid.”
I left the booth and maneuvered into the back of the restaurant. If I happened upon a restroom I would use it. I stopped at the giant fish tank and watched helpless little fish swim into and quickly back out of miniature castles.