If You Liked School, You'll Love Work Page 10

  I’m instantly uplifted as I look at Cynth and try to stop a smile moulding my face into Mr Sly. — Good of ya to take her, gel. I’d go myself, but there’s this place … I say, looking around the Herefordshire Bull, but all the time thinking about the nailing Seph’s gonna be getting from now on in!

  — Yeah, I thought I’d go over and see my parents, Cynth goes, — and also help Persephone find Costas.

  — What …?

  Seph gives me a poisonous smile, which ages her about thirty years. — He thinks he can do this to me and not pay. I want to look him in the eye and tell him that he is a cowardly, lying dog!

  — Sometimes it’s healthier to let it go, gel, I almost plead, looking at Em and seeing the Hardwick in her and hating it. My own flesh and blood: looking like she got a career in white heather sales. In fact, the three of them seem straight from central casting for Macbeth.

  Specially, it must be said, Seph, who’s looking proper narked. — No, I will let it go once I have looked into the eye of the coward and liar!

  Cynth nods slowly in agreement. She’s got a bleedin nerve acting like Snow White. A certain golfer not a million miles from here wouldn’t be best pleased if he knew what she was up to when he was on the links!

  Fairly bonded, those two have, but it’s proper messing up my shagging plans. — Seph, you don’t wanna –

  — He has insulted my father, who is a chief of police. He will pay for this, and she bursts into tears again, only to be crushed back into Cynth’s big floppy tits.

  I let it go, cause when all’s said and done, there ain’t no use crying over spilt milk. As one door closes, another one opens; that’s what I’ve always believed to be the case concerning shagging. Sure enough, a couple of days later, they’re back to Gatwick on the flight, and I’m looking over at Marce. Bert was sitting in the corner of the bar getting plastered, while Rodj was cleaning glasses in the lounge. Ultimatums had evidently been issued. You could’ve cut the atmosphere with a knife. I nodded at Marce and dropped my voice. — Why the long face, gel?

  — Bert and Rodger … they both say they want to be with me. I don’t know, Michael, I just don’t know, she told me. — It’s all too much.

  I winked at her, cause I knew exactly where she was coming from. — Not that I wanna complicate things, gel, but at the election back home, that Liberal Democrat geezer said, ‘We are now in the age of three-party politics.’ Well, I think you’re in exactly the same position!

  Well, she got my drift alright. — What position do you prefer? she asked, arching a brow.

  And I have to say that she’s certainly delivered the goods. Poor Marce: all she wanted was a good nailing and a bit of fun, not Bert and Rodj giving it the old pistols at dawn routine.

  So the summer didn’t turn out so bad, after all: the big disappointment being the film, Old Iron. It only went straight to video after me giving it the big one on the blower to the mates back home, about Hollywood beckoning and all that.

  Still, you can’t have everything, and as I pull a frothing pint of John Courage’s finest for this tourist couple, Marce is on her knees behind the bar, her dirty, lovely mouth going to work on the old fellah, so I got to say that life could be worse. And you gotta admit that there’s a lot to be said for persistence. As the old cunt said back at his posh school: ‘This is the lesson: never give in, never give in, never, never, never, never, in nothing, great or small, large or petty – never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense. Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy.’

  Old misery-guts Rodj, cleaning up the glasses in the bar next door, daft little Bert, out on the piss somewhere, they should have heeded that advice. Reminds me though, Cynth’s only due back next week; or at least I believe that to be the case. No rest for the wicked. Still, with a bit of calmness and serenity, there ain’t no hurdle that can’t be negotiated.

  The DOGS of Lincoln Park

  THE CITY STEWS as the temperature soars past a hundred degrees. Their spirits muffled in the swampy insulation, some citizens veer for the lake. Many who live in apartments without air conditioning decant to the emergency cooling shelters set up by City Hall. On television, the mayor runs a hanky across the back of his sweaty, red neck for effect as he urges people to use those facilities.

  Yet Kendra Cross is navigating the journey from her realty office to the small, new Asian fusion restaurant close to Clark and Fullerton with an air of insouciance. Mystic East, a manageable block away from her workplace, was where she had taken to lunching every Friday with her friends Stephanie Harbison and Stacie Barnes. Kendra seldom wearied of proclaiming that it was she who had unearthed this culinary pearl. Now she felt herself satisfyingly closing in on the weekend; all morning the lunch date had hummed urgently in her thoughts. Yes, Trent had been a washout last night, but there was the prospect of that cute rich guy from Capital Investments calling. Kendra thought that there was a mutual attraction at the meeting last week on that condo development at Printer’s Row.

  Also: Kendra has floated through her morning duties on a magic carpet of Xanax, the same one that takes her down the sidewalk. Taut across the face, a tight, high, blond ponytail pulling her skin tensile on her forehead swings behind her, a tail as vital as the ones on the more enthusiastic dogs which negotiate Clark. Gliding among the buffed, two-pinned, mobile mannequins, she pouts in sympathy as she regards their quad-legged companions on the leashes, the heavy tongues on some grazing the sidewalk. She thinks of her black-and-white papillon, Toto, bonding with the other small dogs her sitter looks after, just as she is set to do with her own friends.

  Kendra supposed that they were typical of many young, hardworking (Stacie excepted!), wealthy urban professionals. Apart from the demands of commerce, they had been unable to come up with suitable reasons for their ennui, and had overindulged in illegal drugs and alcohol as a convenient repository for their tired, listless, alienated behavior. Then they discovered the beauty of rehab. They’d taken to showing up at lunch dates, perky, superior and focused, hand placed strategically over the wine glass, a satisfied smile at the waiter. — Rehab, they’d whisper blissfully to their dining partners, as they discreetly washed down a Xanax with the proferred mineral water.

  She had left her office at the real-estate agents prompt on 12.30 and at 12.38 Kendra opens the restaurant door to let the X-ray blast of air con invigorate her. The Japanese-looking waitress, wearing a dark kimono, escorts Kendra to her seat and she looks across at the chef, his round face pockmarked at the sides, eyes harsh in this light, under his dark brows, as he takes in everything in his benignly magisterial way from his vantage point behind the sushi bar.

  Within a couple of minutes, Kendra is joined by Stephanie, whom, she notes, is wearing a green business suit of a similar cut to her own, with huge Dior sunglasses pushed onto her shiny blond hair, which is cut in a dramatic wedged bob. — No Stacie? Stephanie hums, her gaze, Kendra feels, one of assessment.

  — She called to say she was running late.

  — Let’s order anyway, Stephanie blows impatiently, — some of us have things to do.

  — Affirmative, Kendra snorts, adding, — Stacie’s a fucking basket case, as she tactically drops and retrieves her napkin in order to check out Stephanie’s shoes, relieved that satisfying objections come quickly to mind. Fortified, she sits forward and lowers her voice. — Her stupid big mouth blew it for me with Trent last night.

  Stephanie leans in, her eyes widening. Excitement and anxiety contend within her. She prays that Stacie won’t appear and interrupt this story. — How so? she urges in faux concern.

  — We were in the LP Tavern. With Trent, Stuart Noble and Alison Logan. Alison saw this girl and shouted, ‘Isn’t she from Highland Park?’ I said I kinda recognized her from somewhere. Then blabbermouth Stacie cuts in and said she did psychology at DePaul, but that she was a couple of years below us. You could see Trent doing the freaking math there and then. He spent the
rest of the evening looking at my crow’s feet, Kendra explains despondently, pointedly waiting for a reassurance that Stephanie assiduously withholds. Why thank you, fucking bitch. — He hasn’t returned my call, she moans dismally. — I’d phone again but it would come over as too needy.

  And at that point Stacie, wearing a short, pink pleated skirt and matching tank top, blond hair in braids, appears in the restaurant, waving as she approaches them. She gapes suspiciously at Kendra and Stephanie. — Were you two just talking about me?

  — Oh, wouldn’t you just love for that to be the case. Stephanie’s teasing tones are pitched somewhere between a snort and a purr as Stacie sits down. — But you are needy, she immediately points out to a grumpy-looking Kendra. — You need him. Or somebody like him.

  Ignoring Stacie’s widening eyes, Kendra has a thought, sparking in her mind like the wheel of an El train over a rail point. Is Stephanie a free agent? Does she have an agenda? — Are you still seeing Todd? she suddenly inquires.

  Stephanie’s thin brows slant like a roof. — I guess, but he’s so fucking clueless and insensitive to my needs, she contends. — Jeez, it’s a hundred degrees outside and we don’t have central air con, she purses, then quickly qualifies this, — … as I choose to rent a cheaper apartment because I value my work above money …

  Kendra attempts an expression of empathy at this point, but her nod comes over as pitying and she can’t stop derision and triumph molding her finely cut face, shearing it of its characteristic wariness.

  — … which is a concept that clearly does not chime with his limited intellect, Stephanie spits in retaliation to Kendra’s contemptuous expression. — So I’m stuck with those crappy fans.

  — Worse than useless, Kendra hisses.

  — Yes … Stephanie says, now more cagily, trying to calculate whether the martyr bonus points beat the cheapskate debits. She regards Stacie who is all eyes, teeth, hair – a vacancy waiting to be filled – and knows that she’s made a gross miscalculation. — But the point is, she says grandiosely, — that the apartment is sooo gross. So I’m lying on the bed pooped, in front of the fan, after a particularly taxing day. I’d spent all morning talking to Sybil, that horrible, manipulative parakeet I told you about, and Benji, the aggressive tom who litters everywhere but the designated tray. So Todd comes through with a big smile on his face. He only wanted to do it!

  — In this heat? In your apartment? Sooo gross, Kendra scoffs, enjoying Stacie’s affirmative nod.

  In shared acknowledgment of her air con own goal, Stephanie winces, the ice water she sips tasting like vinegar, while Kendra grins. That motherfucker will run, they think the same solitary thought, but in polar opposite emotional channels. Moving on sharply, Stephanie states, — I gave him a piece of my mind and I told him that I didn’t want him in bed with me till it cooled. Of course, that simple statement of my personal need was more than enough to evoke the child in him, her nylonlike hair swishing and settling back as she moves her head, — That stupid pout. So moronic.

  — But don’t you think that all guys have that little boy in them? Kendra inquires, suddenly keen to make a common cause.

  — Of course, Stephanie agrees, acknowledging Kendra’s gesture. — That is nat the issue. The issue is ‘How close to the surface is it?’ In him I think it might just be a little too close for comfort. I told him, couch or cab home, buddy: you decide.

  Stacie’s big browny-green eyes under those infeasible lashes turn first on one friend, then another, her head moving like a spectator at a tennis match.

  — I admire you, Kendra purrs. — It would be great to have that sort of control over certain other parties.

  — He’s so much more alpha than Todd, though, Stephanie gushes suddenly.

  Stacie picks up the menu card. Thinks about sashimi. Made for this weather. — Who are we talking about? she asks.

  Kendra shakes her head at Stephanie, ignoring Stacie. — That’s just the image he projects. To me it’s a case of ‘methinks the lady doth protest too much’. He’s probably a fag.

  — Kennie! Stap it! Stephanie squeals in jovial reprimand. — Just because he works out?

  — Who are we talking about? Stacie asks again.

  Ignoring her once more, Kendra says, — No, of course not. He just dresses a little faggy.

  — He’s got style, is all, Stephanie declares, then turns to Stacie, — and we are talking about Trent.

  Stacie nods. — Right. Gotcha.

  Continuing, Stephanie expands: — And a membership of the yacht club. And a convertible. And a nice house on Roscoe.

  — He’s a sweet guy, Stacie opines.

  — And rich. He’s a partner in an architect’s practice, Kendra says, narrowing eyes trained on Stephanie.

  — A practice? Since when did architects have practices? Stacie asks, taking a drink of water which stings her teeth.

  — They’ve always called them practices, Kendra’s head shudders in irritation, — like law, or medicine.

  — Oh, I’m sure that’s a new thing, Stacie argues.

  Kendra abruptly rises and heads for the restroom. — I think you’ll find that it’s always been the case, she hisses through her teeth as she departs.

  When she is out of sight, Stephanie makes her hands into claws and performs an air-raking gesture. — Miaow! Looks like somebody’s kitty litter needs changing!

  Adopting her party-piece tones of a Southern black girl, Stacie raps out, — Stick a lumpa Carolina coal up dat bitch’s white ass an she gonna shit diamond! And they high-five in triumph.

  The chef coasts over to them with a tray full of small dishes. He has a habit of selecting the food for his favorite customers. To Kendra and Stacie, this constitutes special treatment. Stephanie believes it is a con and that he’s just working yesterday’s stuff onto them. — Very special food, for very special customers, he smiles. — Korean, the chef explains with a mirthful twist to his mouth. — Distinguishing feature of Korean food is spices. Basic seasonings; red pepper, green onion, soy sauce, bean paste, garlic, ginger, sesame, mustard, vinegar, wine.

  Stacie’s nodding-dog routine induces a tightness in Stephanie’s chest, which is mirrored in her thin red lips.

  Pointing at some small bowls of soup, Chef explains, — Maeuntang is spicy, hot seafood soup that include white fish, vegetable, bean curd, red-pepper powder. Twoenjang-guk is a fermented soybean paste soup with baby clams in its broth.

  — Yummy, Stacie exclaims.

  — Vegetable dish is also popular in Korea. Korean call dishes made with only vegetable namool. There two kind, one cold and raw, other warm and steamed.

  — Namool, Stacie repeats.

  The chef is glowing as his chest expands with pride. — Korean table settings are the 3, 5, 7, 9 or 12 chop, depending on the number of side dishes served. The average family takes three or four side dishes. When family hold celebrations or party, a dozen or more dishes served. Chopstick and spoons used for eating. Different from Japanese and Chinese, Korean use more thin chopstick made with metal, not wood.

  — Mmm-hmm! Stacie smacks her lips.

  Stephanie’s eyebrows arch, her open mouth quivering slightly before settling to form an appraising but urgent smile. Can we shut the fuck up and just eat this stuff that you’ve brought, that we didn’t order, she thinks, suddenly time-anxious. This afternoon will herald a potentially demanding consultation with Millie, the self-harming marmoset.

  Kendra waltzes back from the restroom, equilibrium restored by another Xanax. It’s not kicking in yet, and it’s no placebo, but she savors the glow of anticipation, of knowing it will before long. Her friends note that she’s changed her eyeliner from yellow to a rose color. — Looks interesting, Stephanie says approvingly, not herself knowing whether she means Kendra’s makeup or the food.

  — This is Korean stuff, Kennie, Stacie sings excitedly at her.

  — Korean food have various side dish, Chef continues to Stephanie’s obvious chagrin. — Favorite
side dish are bean-paste soup, broiled beef, fish, cabbage kimchi, and steamed vegetables. He accusingly fingers the various dishes like they were suspects in an ID parade. Then he taps the menu. — Full-course Korean meal called Hanjoungshik. Compose of grilled fish, steamed short ribs, and other meat and vegetable dishes with streamed rice, soup, and kimchi.

  — What’s kimchi? asks Stacie, as Stephanie swallows a long gulp of air and drums her big nails on the table.

  — Kimchi best-known Korean food. It is vegetable dish, highly seasoned with pepper, garlic, etcetera. Served with every kind of Korean meal. Stimulate appetite like pickles. Contains amounts of good nutritions such as vitamin C and fiber. Try, he commands, looking at Kendra.

  Kendra spoons some up onto her plate, then takes a small forkful. — It’s very good, she nods in endorsement. Stephanie gratefully follows suit, as does Stacie.

  The chef responds with a graceful bow. — Enjoy, he says, before retreating.

  — I kind of like that chef, Stacie says as he departs, — that inscrutable oriental demeanor. It’s kind of neat. What do you think, Kennie?

  Kendra is daydreaming. She is wondering if the rich developer guy, Clint his name is, will call her. — About what?

  — Never mind, Stacie wearily sings, then changes her tack: — How’s Karla getting on?

  — I cannat believe that the same sperm and egg sources that produced me provided the raw material to manufacture her, Kendra rants, aware that the Xanax she’s popped in the restroom is perhaps lifting her again. — She’s got one of those lame and passé tattoos above her ass that she thinks is sooo punk rock. It makes her look like a crack whore. And she must weigh over a hundred and thirty pounds.

  — Ugh! Stephanie winces, then adds with concern, — Is she like, depressed or something?