Truth in Advertising Page 0,58
glass of wine the size of a Big Gulp.”
“How’s the snow?”
“Amazing. Crazy cold, though. Do you smoke pot?”
“No. Maybe. Do you have any?”
“My brother got me stoned the other night. It was awesome. I haven’t gotten stoned in so long. I can totally see how someone could become a pothead.”
“Like, totally, man.”
“Shut up. What are you up to?”
“Work.”
Phoebe says, “How’s it going?”
“Shitty.”
“That’s a pun. I get it. If I were stoned I’d laugh my ass off. You doing anything fun?”
I’m about to say I have a date tonight, but decide against it.
“Me? Mr. Fun?”
“I’m sorry, who did you say you were?”
“I’m Mr. Fun. I’m all about fun. Finbar Good Times. That would be my mob name. Johnny the Gun, Guido Three Balls, Finbar Good Times.”
“The Frenchman called me,” she says.
On the TV obese people stand on a scale and compete to see who’s lost more weight. Some of the obese people are crying. Some version of Law & Order is on four different channels. Far up the channels is a repeat of the women’s college softball World Series from 2003 between Texas Tech and Cal State Fullerton. Phoebe has only mentioned the Frenchman to me once. We were talking about whether we’d ever had our hearts broken.
I say, “You okay?”
“Yes. No.”
There’s a silence.
Phoebe says, “I was crushed when it ended. When he ended it. I’d call and leave long messages. I wrote him letters. God. I threw myself at him like a . . .” She drifts off.
I don’t know what to say. I’m tempted to say he’s a selfish asshole but that’s probably not what she wants to hear right now.
Phoebe says, “It was a message. I didn’t talk with him. Out of the blue. He left a message saying he was thinking of me, that he saw an old letter of mine and that he missed me and just wanted to say hi. I mean, you don’t get to do that.”
“Maybe he does miss you,” I say.
“He cheated on me. Left me for someone. Maybe she left him. Maybe he’s lonely. Maybe he’s horny. I don’t know. I don’t know what the fuck men want sometimes. Some want sex and at least you know where you stand and some want a part-time connection and some want a mother and most are just boys and confused and they don’t know their own minds. They don’t tell the truth. They don’t know what they want and it’s tiring.”
Cal State Fullerton has brought in a new pitcher. She is short and stout and she looks exactly like the previous pitcher, to the point where I’m wondering if they are twins. I couldn’t hit her pitching in a million years.
Phoebe sighs. “Sorry.”
“I wish I knew what to say.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
“Are you going to call him?” It’s out before I can pull it back.
“I don’t know. It’s just . . . It’s unfair to throw a little bomb from the past into someone’s life, when they’ve worked so hard to lock it away.”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“Home.”
“What are you watching?”
“Lesbian softball.”
Phoebe snorts. She snorts when she laughs. “You’re a moron.”
“What? It’s not an insult. You should see these women. They’re lesbian softballers. They’d look at me and say, ‘There’s a bland straight white man.’”
“Moron.” But I can tell she’s smiling. “I gotta go help make dinner.”
“I’ll talk to you later.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
I’m about to click off when I say, “He was an idiot.”
“Whatever,” she says, then blows her nose.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“You are my favorite lesbian softballer.”
She laughs. And hangs up.
• • •
The competing voices in my head vie for time.
Go out, Fin! Get laid, for Christ’s sake.
Stay in, Fin, read a book, watch a Ken Burns documentary, hang yourself as a result.
I arrive early and stand at the small bar. A place called Prune in the East Village. Couples wait for tables over drinks, wait for friends. Kiss, kiss, you look wonderful. The women in close, talking, making eye contact. The men at a distance, nodding, looking around the room. Rich, seductive scents, women in fitted skirts. Hips and thighs and long, milk-white necks.
A woman’s voice says, “You must be Fin.”
“Rachel,” I say. “Hi.”
She kisses my cheek and I go to kiss hers, but she is moving too fast and pulls away so that I appear to be kissing nothing, a Chaplin moment. She is out of breath. She says, “I need a drink, my lips are soooo chapped, I have to pee, I couldn’t find a cab, where’s the toilet? I’ll have whatever you’re having