Part 10 (2/2)

”I must guard my health,” I said. ”It's my birthday.”

”Cool,” Non-Navel said. ”Happy birthday.”

I bowed again.

”Calls for a shot,” Eric said. He took Navel by the arm and they went inside. I looked at Non-Navel, who smiled and pulled me after them.

We cleared s.p.a.ce in a corner, and Eric sent the girls for drinks. They seemed happy to do so, returning with a tray of overflowing gla.s.ses.

”Tequiiiila,” Navel said. She had a thick Boston accent.

Everyone salted and drank and bit. Then Eric told them to get beer chasers.

While they were gone, I asked if Navel was his girlfriend.

”Naw, I just met them.”

”Then why do they keep buying us drinks?” At my sloppiest, I could still find the hole in a situation's logic.

He shrugged, then winked. The similarity to Alma was so striking that I almost yelped.

I can recall s.n.a.t.c.hes of what followed. There were drinks and more drinks. Jokes I knew I should not find funny but that made me sputter with delight. Then everyone got around to comparing tattoos. Non-Navel had a dolphin on her ankle. Navel turned around and lifted up her s.h.i.+rt to show a ”tribal” design across the small of her back. Eric had an AK-47 on one shoulder and a weirdly old-fas.h.i.+oned staghead on the other, as though he'd had the tattoo artist copy opposing pages out of Field & Stream. Field & Stream. When I said that I didn't have a tattoo, the focus then became which tattoo I would get when (not if) I got one. Navel lobbied in favor of barbed wire around the biceps. Non-Navel seemed to think I was more of a Chinese character kind of guy. When I said that I didn't have a tattoo, the focus then became which tattoo I would get when (not if) I got one. Navel lobbied in favor of barbed wire around the biceps. Non-Navel seemed to think I was more of a Chinese character kind of guy.

”I'd get Nietzsche,” I yelled over the music.

They looked confused.

I explained that he was a nineteenth-century German philosopher. They still looked confused, so I added that I, too, was a philosopher.

”Oooh,” Non-Navel said. ”Say somethin deep.”

Later I tried to explain the Sorites Paradox to her.

”That don't make no sense,” she yelled.

She had come to be sitting in my lap.

”That's why it's a paradox,” I yelled. The flow of blood to my lower extremities was being severely restricted.

”What the f.u.c.k are you talking about?” yelled Navel.

”Sand,” yelled Non-Navel.

”What f.u.c.kin sand?”

”It's a metaphor,” I yelled.

Charisma is a mysterious and powerful thing. I have it in limited supply, and that which I do have functions under highly specialized conditions. A certain cla.s.s of smart, strong-willed woman finds me endearing. In general, though, I'm not the type of person who wins people over in bars. Whatever Eric had working against him-that beard, for starters-he had a far more potent weapon coursing through his bloodstream, one unavailable to mere mortals like me. I've already mentioned that he was handsome in a predatory sort of way. When we'd first met he had been so sullen and uninterested in me that I had failed to credit him with anything more than a genetic hold on Alma. Under the influence of booze and despair, however, I now saw that I had been wrong: he was in fact preternaturally charming, oozing s.e.xuality, and knowing instinctively what women wanted to hear and when they needed to hear it. It's hard for me to remember exactly what he said, but in truth the words themselves are unimportant; in seduction, as in all forms of marketing, form supersedes content. I do remember struggling to formulate questions that would reveal something of his character to me. I wanted to know who this person was, this confidence man who had the potential to replace me. What molten substance bubbled at his core? But he had a way of making me feel awkward when I asked a question he didn't want to answer. He would pretend not to have heard me; he would invariably be looking in the other direction, nuzzling Navel, whispering in her ear, making her giggle. I watched her finger skip across the hollow of his chest and up to his cheek, then down to hook under the droopy neck of his T-s.h.i.+rt. I watched as the finger traced around the collar to the nape of his neck, dancing then down his back, coming to rest near the top of his b.u.t.tocks, where the elastic of his underwear rose over his waistband. He did not react to this advance: he expected it and did not seem the slightest bit surprised. Non-Navel was watching them, too. She may have been in my arms, but it was his power keeping her there. Drunk as I was, I could tell from the way they responded to him, their bodies open and inclined, that he had both girls bridled. In this way, they looked familiar to me. They looked the way women used to look when they talked to my father.

I WOKE with my face squunched. Warm, stale air washed over my naked back. Itchy-eyed, cotton-mouthed, I lay there running my fingers over the surface below me, which I tentatively identified as an unsheeted futon.

I heard snorting, felt s.h.i.+fting, became aware of a body next to me. Rising up on my elbows turned a simple headache into pure evil, so I eased myself back down, lying motionless until the world stopped crackling. Then I slid out of bed and began hunting for my clothes. This was a real challenge, as the room was dark and covered in heaps of dirty laundry, and I kept having to pause to let nausea pa.s.s.

I'd collected both shoes, one sock, and my still-b.u.t.toned s.h.i.+rt when from the next room came a shout.

”Mothaf.u.c.ka.”

Startled, I dropped my s.h.i.+rt.

The body in the bed stirred, sat up. It was Non-Navel. ”Hey,” she said.

”Son of a b.i.t.c.h. ” ”

”Jesus,” said Non-Navel. She rubbed her nose, watching as I excavated around her b.u.t.terfly chair. ”What are you doing?”

”Mothaf.u.c.ka.”

”Simma down,” yelled Non-Navel. She told me to come back to bed.

I mumbled about needing to find my pants.

Outside, more ranting.

”Hey,” yelled Non-Navel. ”People are sleeping, y'inconsiderate cu-”

The door burst open. I, pantsless, dove for cover. Navel had no such qualms. In she marched, wearing nothing but a T-s.h.i.+rt, her makeup smeared into war paint. She planted herself in the middle of the room-arms akimbo, thighs aquiver-and bellowed: ”Youbastidwhethaf.u.c.ksmys.h.i.+t.”

I seized a crusty dishtowel, tried gamely to cover myself with it.

”Get the h.e.l.l outta my room,” yelled Non-Navel.

”Bastid.” Navel was striding toward me. ”Whez my s.h.i.+t?” She wrapped her beefy arms around me and swung me toward the floor, my superior size mooted by hangover and the element of surprise. Down I went, noting as I did another tattoo she'd failed to mention, a cackling shamrock and the words ERIN-GO-f.u.c.k-YASELF inscribed on the inside of her left leg. I looked up to see her rearing back to strike me-and then Non-Navel came flying into the frame, tackling her, and the two of them went rolling across the room, caterwauling and yanking each other's hair.

”He took my s.h.i.+t! He took my s.h.i.+t!”

”You crazy b.i.t.c.h, shut the f.u.c.k up.”

”My s.h.i.+t!”

Briefly, I watched, transfixed. Then I came to, grabbed what I had, and ran.

The kitchen was littered with gla.s.ses and overflowing ashtrays. My pants were splayed across the back of a folding chair. I had the presence of mind to check for my wallet and keys before stepping sockless into my loafers.

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