Say Uncle Read online

  “The twenty-first century,” I chimed in.

  “…This conversation.”

  “How do you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Get up in the morning. You’re so negative. I mean, I thought I was bad, but you—”

  She halted and faced me. “Listen,” she said, this time her voice absent of sarcasm. “When you know what you do believe in, all that other stuff doesn’t matter, okay?”

  I knew she wouldn’t tell me but I had to ask. “Okay, so then what do you believe in?”

  She narrowed her brilliant green peepers and pinned me speechless against the ether. Then she smiled—a full-blown, double-dimpled blast to the heart. “Friendship,” she said. “I believe in friendship.”

  The Epicurean

  On the way to a bar in Scottsdale, slouched in the corner of my truck’s cab, her feet up on the dashboard, she told me that her name was Melody, that she was Australian, and that she had been tramping around the world most of her life. When I asked her how old she was she evaded by answering that she was, “One of immortality’s mortal moments.” I rolled my eyes at her pretentiousness but let it slide. She said she came to Arizona to see the Grand Canyon and visit relatives, and then planned to continue south to Mexico and Central America where she intended to climb every pyramid from Teotihuacán to Tikal.

  Melody had the air of the veteran traveler—cool, unhurried, and detached. She looked out the window a lot, and I had the feeling she didn’t worry where we were going; that no matter what situation might arise she felt confident that she could take care of herself. She was intimidating and I was impressed.

  Dinner, the encounter with Wilkinson and Fielding, my last minute shopping fiasco, and even my headache all seemed a long time ago. I was cruising down Camelback Road with a mysterious Aussie in my truck, and it was only ten o’clock. A lot can happen in an evening.

  Because my sisters were the only interesting things in my life, I talked about them. Melody took a keen interest in them too, especially Doreen. She admitted to being an only child. She told me that her mother died when she was young and that her father was a “fuckwit” and rarely saw him. I asked if his work kept him away, and she answered that it was work and women. Stopping for the light at the intersection of Scottsdale and Camelback Roads, I was about to launch into my all-men-are-scum tirade, but I had to bite my tongue when she added that she loved him very much and admired him more than any man she had ever known.

  My disbelief returned to me mirrored in the face of the same fellow I had seen earlier that evening when I was with Doreen. He was still alone in his Mercedes, and I had another beautiful woman in my truck.

  Melody laced her hands behind her neck, and stretching, she arched her pelvis level to the dash. She purred and muttered something about being stiff from standing. She looked sexy and inviting. I didn’t think she was being intentionally provocative, but the man in the Mercedes wasn’t so sure. His jaw unhinged, his eyes bulged, and he began mumbling to himself. The guy must have thought I was some sort of superstud. The light changed and I left him in a cloud of blue-gray smoke.

  The bar was crowded, but we spotted a small table near the entrance to the restrooms. As we weaved our way to the back, Melody exuded head-turning sassiness. I left those same heads swinging in disbelief.

  It was a young, chic-looking crowd, and I was already regretting having brought her there. I knew that I was violating the laws of natural selection—guys like Guy don’t have drinks with gals like Melody. I could barely control my own amazement.

  Melody wore no makeup and needed none. She had a scattering of pretty freckles about her nose and cheeks, and straight, pearly teeth. She wore faded blue jeans ripped at the knees, and a short-waisted tweed sport coat over a long-sleeved, purple T-shirt. Perhaps she also shopped at the Salvation Army, but whereas I was a slob, she looked like she was modeling next year’s fashion.

  A waitress dropped some napkins on the table. I ordered a beer and Melody ordered Perrier with five olives. I noticed the waitress’s furled brow of annoyance, but she didn’t say anything.

  “Watch,” Melody said. “She’ll give the order to the bartender and then he and half the people sitting at the bar will turn to see who the olive freak is. People are so predictable.”

  I glanced over my shoulder to see.

  Yep.

  Melody cracked a smug smirk.

  The waitress brought our drinks. The Aussie and I clinked glasses and made small talk. She had lightened considerably since I first accosted her, and I thought things were going rather well.

  I felt particularly encouraged when she held up the little plastic sword with the speared olives on it and offered me one. She reached the sword across the table and I slid an olive off with my teeth. Then, Melody’s eyes locked on mine, she raised the sword to her lips, sensuously curled her tongue around the olive, and s-l-o-w-l-y reeled it in. I turned green with olive envy.

  “I’m an Epicurean,” she said, noting my astonishment. “Pleasure is the highest good, you know. I enjoy the little things in life.”

  I had a little anatomical rejoinder for that, but instead I asked her questions about Australia and about her impressions of America. According to Melody the world was a hopeless, materialistic mess, but if it depressed her she sure didn’t show it.

  “It’s said that a cynic is a frustrated idealist,” I remarked.

  “Yeah, well, people say a lot of things, don’t they? What about you, Guy? Are you an optimist, a pessimist, or a frustrated idealist?”

  “Me?” I said, my eyes still on her olives, “I’m just frustrated.”

  Melody chuckled and I thought I detected a hint of fondness flicker across her crystal green eyes. I wanted to caress her face and poke one of her dimples. Instead, I squeezed my beer bottle with both hands. Melody gently tapped my whitened knuckles and rose saying she had to make a phone call.

  “Should I order us another round?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Five olives?”

  Melody winked mischievously. “Six.”

  I snagged the waitress and ordered. While I waited I scanned the bar and checked out the other women, to see, in my shallow and chauvinistic way, how Melody rated. Then I looked back at Melody. She stood in the corner near the bathroom leaning against the wall, her cell phone at one ear, a finger plugging the other. She smiled and waved. My heart leaped. No contest.

  I fell into a mooning daydream… Melody and I were traipsing through Mexico together. There we were scrambling up and down the Mayan ruins of Palenque. She was mad about me, always grabbing my hand and wrapping her arms around my neck. We strolled along palm-strewn beaches, bathed naked under the rush of cataracts, rode horses bareback into mist-covered mountains, made passionate love in cheap hotel rooms, sipped tequila at night and café au lait in the morning… A lot can happen in sixty seconds.

  My tropical travels were cut short by the entrance of Wilkinson and Fielding, accompanied by two airbrushed blonds. What rotten luck. Why here, why now? I tried to make myself invisible, which for me usually took no effort at all, but Melody’s return to the table had the effect of a helicopter spotlight. Wilkinson and Fielding exchanged flabbergasted looks, motioned to their girlfriends to mingle, and headed for our table.

  “What’s the matter?” Melody asked.

  I nodded at the two studs prancing towards us.

  “Enemies of yours?”

  “Worse,” I said. “High school acquaintances.”

  “Guy, my man,” Fielding said, planting his hands on the tops of my shoulders. “How’s it going?” He gave me a chummy, patronizing massage meant to make me look puny and ridiculous.

  “Guy,” Wilkinson said, “where have you been keeping this sister all these years?”

  “She’s not my sister,” I said. “Melody…” I hiked a thumb over my shoulder, “Jim Fielding…Craig Wilkinson.”

  “Pleasure to meet you,” Fielding said, extending a hand across t
he table. “Craig’s right, you could pass for one of Guy’s sisters. That’s a compliment, by the way. Guy’s sisters are very pretty.”

  “Is that so?”

  “You aren’t a friend of theirs?” Wilkinson said.

  “No. Guy and I met only an hour ago.” She raised her cocktail sword to her lips and seductively sucked another olive into her mouth. “I picked him up at the mall.”

  There was a long silence, and then Fielding laughed as if he had just understood a joke he had heard the day before.

  “So,” he said, “you two in the same class at school or something?”

  “I told you,” Melody said. “We only just met.”

  “Excuse me,” Wilkinson said. “Your accent, are you English?”

  “That’s right,” she lied.

  “Cool. You know I spent a week in England last summer. Great place. I did all of Europe.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “Best four weeks of my life,” he boasted.

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Huh?”

  Melody evaded with a smile.

  “So what did you do to it, Craig?” She was all pleasantness.

  “Huh?”

  “To Europe? You said you did Europe.”

  “Oh… Travel-speak, you know. It means I saw and did it all. The kinds of things most people only read about. All I had was a backpack. It was just me and a couple of college buddies. Really cool.”

  “Fascinating,” Melody said. “Perhaps I’ll read about you someday. ‘A thousand years of civilization in four weeks. Europe and what he did to it. The adventures of Craig Wilkinson—an American Marco Polo.’”

  “Well,” Wilkinson said, “I do have some stories to tell. In fact, Melody, if you’re free for lunch tomorrow, maybe we could—”

  “Gee, thanks, Craig, but I think I’ll wait for the movie.”

  Fielding was still having trouble getting his mind around the occult-like possibility of Melody and I linking up.

  “So you two just met, huh?”

  “That’s right,” Melody said.

  “Do you often pick up strange men?” Fielding asked.

  “I wouldn’t call Guy strange. I’d call him…special.” She pronounced ‘special’ with a perky, Valley Girl twang.

  I hadn’t a clue what Melody was up to. I could appreciate her making fools out of them, but her cheap flattery made me feel that she didn’t take me seriously.

  Apparently, Jim Fielding didn’t appreciate her little game either, and decided to play one of his own. Once again I felt the two-time all-state wrestling champion’s hands massaging my shoulders. Only this time he was kneading my muscles like they were silly putty.

  “In high school we liked to tease Guy. We used to pin him to the ground and toy with him until he cried uncle. Gosh, suddenly I’m feeling nostalgic. What do you say, Guy? For old time’s sake. Say uncle…”

  What little musculature I had was quickly dissolving into subatomic particles under Fielding’s powerful hands. I tried not to show my pain. I tried to smile, but it came out all bent.

  “I’m very impressed,” Melody said. “You can stop now.”

  Fielding ignored her. “Say uncle, Guy.”

  I shook my head and knocked loose a tear.

  Melody slipped the last olive from her sword and tossed the stick onto the table. She shook her head in disgust.

  “Say it,” Fielding said.

  “Uncle,” I squealed.

  “I didn’t h-e-a-r you, Guy.”

  “Uncle, uncle… Ow!”

  “That’s better,” he said. He slapped me on the back. “Thanks, Guy. You brought back a lot of fond memories.” He tousled my hair, told the waitress to bring us another round, and walked away, Wilkinson right behind him.

  “You okay?” Melody asked.

  “I’m sorry about that,” I said. I picked up a cocktail napkin and tried to inconspicuously sop up my tears.

  “Men are idiots,” she said.

  True, but was she lumping me together with the likes of Fielding and Wilkinson?

  “All men?”

  “Just about…but I’ve known a few good men, I guess.”

  In the corner of her mouth I noted a budding smile. I had the feeling that bud held a big secret. She had someone in mind, someone she didn’t think was an idiot. I was jealous.

  “Yeah?” I said, still grimacing. “I don’t. Name one.”

  “My father.”

  “The same man you referred to as ‘fuckwit,’ and who’s never around? Sorry, but which one of us is the idiot here?”

  “Things aren’t always what they seem.”

  “Anyone else?” I asked. “I mean, well…do you have a boyfriend somewhere?”

  “If you mean a lover, no. How about you, Guy? Got a little chick-a-dee?”

  I shook my head, no.

  “Why not?”

  “Because.”

  “Because why? You want one, don’t you?”

  I shrugged. “Sure. A girlfriend sounds good.” How about you, Melody? Wanna be my girlfriend?

  “So?” she said.

  “So it’s not that easy.”

  I didn’t think her little game funny at all. I really liked her and there she was treating me like I was a kid brother again.

  “Come on,” she pressed.

  “No, you come on,” I snapped. “What was that garbage you were feeding those guys a minute ago about picking me up and thinking me ‘special,’ huh? It was patronizing, all right? Look, I don’t know why you came with me tonight. Maybe you were bored or a little lonely and didn’t feel like hanging around with your relatives. Fine. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. I think you’re interesting, and yeah, beautiful too. I know you know I like you. I’m not good at hiding that kind of thing, and what’s the point anyway? You don’t have to like me. But I don’t think you have to treat me like I’m some sort of cartoon character either.”

  What I said came out in a jumble because I didn’t know what to say but wanted desperately to say something.

  Melody smiled and said, “There’s hope for you yet, Guy-Guy.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean? And don’t call me Guy-Guy. I’m not your dog. It’s Guy, okay?”

  “Okay, Guy… I have to go.” She got up and reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a handful of change. A couple of ones stuck out between her fingers. She dropped it all onto the table.

  “Where are you going? You haven’t finished your drink.”

  “Home.”

  “I’ll give you a ride.”

  She slipped on her coat. “I have a ride waiting outside.”

  The phone call.

  “Can…can I see you again, Melody?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You mean, no.”

  She flipped her hair from beneath her coat. “Have it your way.”

  “Good luck, Melody. Really, it was nice to meet you.”

  She turned and walked away, tossing over her shoulder a barely audible, “You think so…?”

  Huh?

  I shook my head and finished the rest of my beer watching Melody leave the bar. Across the way I saw Wilkinson and Fielding laughing and making pouty faces at me. Wilkinson held up his hand and made a gesture of jacking off. Their dates thought me equally amusing.

  I can’t tell you what Wilkinson and Fielding were thinking of me as I sat by myself in that crowded bar, slumped over an empty beer bottle. But I can tell you what I was thinking…

  What was the point of it all? Why did God give us such a big brain and the ability to use only a smidgen of it? All those years of evolution and the universe was still coughing up knuckle-dragging fur balls like Wilkinson and Fielding?

  I remembered reading somewhere that the French philosopher Henri Bergson thought that perhaps man once did use more of his brain; that he was many times more aware than he is now, but that while he was sitting around under a fig tree distracted by the wonders being availed to him by his b
ig brain, a saber-toothed tiger with no regard for mystical meditations made a snack of him.

  More likely, though, I continued musing, his demise came at the hands of paleolithic versions of Wilkinson and Fielding, then known as Grunt and Squawk, troglodyte bullies who lived a few caves downstream, and who did all their philosophizing with a club. In effect, the prehistoric poets and visionaries perished, and only those who focussed on hunting and raping survived. What today we call reality, therefore, is but a shallow puddle of immediate gratification that we flop around in, like fish trapped in a tide pool.

  That’s what I thought as I watched Wilkinson, a beer bottle plugged into his mouth, jacking off the sky.

  The Aristotelian

  At eleven-thirty I still didn’t feel like going home. I didn’t feel like hanging around either. I felt neither here nor there, which was a lousy way to feel about anything, especially yourself. The only thing I felt for certain was a weight on my bladder. I left my coat around the back of my chair and went to the bathroom with the thought that by the time I returned I would have decided what to do next.

  When I returned a blond wearing a black turtleneck sweater was sitting at my table. I couldn’t see her face because she was looking down into her compact. Taking her presence as my cue to leave, I plucked my coat from the back of the chair and tossed some bills onto the table. Across the room I saw Wilkinson and Fielding staring at me, their faces screwed in puzzlement. Nostrils flared, brows furled, jaws distended, lips puckered, they scratched the backs of their heads. Yep, I thought, troglodytes.

  “Excuse me, are you leaving?” the blond asked.

  “Huh?”

  “I don’t mean to chase you away, but there was nowhere else to sit and I’m waiting for a friend.”

  Ah, the cause of Wilkinson and Fielding’s stupefaction. They thought that the Nordic goddess was with me!

  “Um…”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Err…”

  “Do you speak English?”

  “A little, but it doesn’t sound nearly as nice as yours. Where are you from?”

  “Sweden.”

  Gadzooks, two gorgeous foreigners in one night!