Tuesday, July 29, 2014

The March, Chapter 18: Ooh La La



I’ve got two words for you: shut the fuck up
Midnight Run

Wally had managed to wrest ten bottles of cheap house wine and two hours worth of free domestic tap beer from Bulstrode’s notoriously tight fist.  This made the Ooh La La party a much more appealing fete to the ladies of Lightweight Group.  Those who knew Wally were fond of him.  And those who didn't were most likely still fond of free wine on a Sunday afternoon.  And Wally was counting on all that free wine loosening their grip on last night's tips.

Celia and Brooke walked into the March for the party at the same time, both smiling.  When Brooke had gotten home last night, Celia was gone.  So she went to bed with her secret intact.  When Celia had come home the next morning, Brooke was excited to tell her her big news.  But Celia had her own news to tell.

Before we get all up in the love connection conversations, I’ll tell you that neither girl was burdened (or blessed) with what you might call an ample romantic history.  This is not to say they were virgins.  Neither was. Brooke had rolled around at time or two with various goatee-ed activists, equally as (purportedly) uninterested in conventional partnership as she.  Celia had gone on dates and been to parties with cute guys who made her laugh and turned her on.  They'd both had sex. They'd just, neither one, been in love.

There is, of late, a certain hysteria surrounding the "hook up" culture.  Hook-ups, of course, being the modern parlance for sex without commitment.  This is a vaguely paranoid and misogynist position.  After all, there's been no historic hand-wringing when it was only the boys seeking out the commitment-free sex.  But, once the girls started doing it too, a collective "oh, this will not do" breathed out from a large swath of American culture. 

As we said then and now: whatever.  Brooke and Celia were part of a burgeoning American feminist ethos that believed that girls could have sex for fun too.

This was liberating and exciting.  But sex for the sake of sex does not mitigate the awkward learning curve of adult relationships.  Celia, the practical sister, was much more prepared to fall in love because she was the one whose sexual history was made up of pleasant, impractical events.  She'd had her sex because she'd wanted to have her sex (always the best reason).  Brooke, on the other hand, had turned sex into a political act.  In an effort to prove that she was free from convention, she'd approached her sex partners in a blunt, business-like fashion and then had brief, unsatisfying sex with young guys who were probably a little terrified of her.  She'd never given into the feeling.  She'd always been guarded and costumed.

You can see then, how Celia was more prepared to fall in love.  She’s spent the last few nights with Jorge, having lots of sex and conversation; laughter and pizza. They’d had so much fun.  She'd never have guessed at how sexy Gio was!  Celia was glowing. 

Brooke was thrilled to hear about Celia's night with Gio.  He was perfect for Celia and Brooke was glad they'd both finally figured it out.  It made her even more excited to tell Celia about Teddy.
They'd been talking about Gio all the way down to the March.  When they'd found a seat and poured some wine, Brooke said, "I have some news too."

"Really," said Celia, suddenly wary.

"Teddy and I made up," said Brooke, beaming. "We're in love and I'm moving in with him."

"WHAT?!" should Celia.

"I'm in love with Teddy and I'm moving in with him," said Brooke, defiantly calm.

"You barely know him," said Celia.  "He's too old for you and he's... mean!  And you barely fucking know him!"

"I know I love him," said Brooke.  "And he is not mean.  He loves me and we're going to do important work together."

They argued passionately for 10 minutes.  Celia was the "he's too old and you barely know him" immoveable object and Brooke was the "I love him and we'll change the world together" unstoppable force.  It was a classic impasse.  Brooke got mad and told Celia she was moving out today.  Celia said, "fine."

Neither stayed for the party, which was a success.  Wally moved a lot of product. The young women of The Lightweight Group got some good advice about skin care, some pretty decent cosmetics and lightly buzzed.

When it was over, Wally moved to the bar to enjoy a well-deserved martini.  Fred was passing his afternoon there as well, alternatively pouring over box scores and staring wistfully at Mary, who was behind the bar red-inking a piece she was submitting to the law review.  She was bucking for editor next year and was sweating the piece.  The way she saw it, editor of the law review at a second-tier school would look better than middle of the pack at a first tier.  She'd be in the US Attorney's office by next year.

From the other side of the bar, Fred was sweating yesterday's box scores.  He wasn't the only Bulstrode who liked to gamble, but he was the only one who did it semi-professionally.  It was getting tougher and tougher to get money out of his father and he was pretty sure his credit card was going to start being declined any day now.  So he'd taken to making some bets here and there until school started and his father loosened up the purse strings.  But he'd been on such a losing streak lately.  Fucking Cubs!

"So," said Wally, settling in.  "Let's gossip a little.  What were Brooke and Celia girl-fighting over?"

"Brooke is apparently moving in with Teddy," said Mary.  "Ain't that a pisser?"

"Ugh," said Wally. "I don't blame her sister for freaking out.  Teddy is one of those guys who's always been a horrible old man. Even in his twenties.  While I, on the other hand, have remained a carefree bon vivant all these years."

"You sure fucking have," said Mary, laughing.  "But it is too bad about Brooke.  She's going to end up as miserable as his is. Frankly, I think Gio got the better end of the sister deal there."

"Maybe someone should talk to Brooke," said Wally, sipping his martini and planning an intervention.  "And tell her how miserable she'll end up with Teddy.  He'll ruin that girl."

"Teddy will make her miserable," said Fred, sill pouring over the sports page.  "But she'll figure it out herself.  She'll be OK."
Mary stared at Fred, surprised and a little touched by his rare perspicacity.

Sure, I'd Love To

Edited to Add: GIFs!!!


Warning:

I am on the verge of writing the kind of blogpost that would, had someone else written it, annoy the shit out of me.  Following,  I am going to write about some change I made in my life with an easily recognizably smug implication you should all make the same inspirational change.  If this were a video it would be on Upworthy with some horrible click-baity title like "You Won't Believe the One Change She Made to Make a Marvelous Life.  Brought to you by Pantene."  If this were a listicle it would have one entry on Buzzfeed and feature an entertaining gif from something like The Muppets or Mary Tyler Moore.

But look, before I start writing this let me warn you: you should probably not take my advice.  I am a very flawed person.  I consume far too much sugar, alcohol and diet soda.  I watch terrible shows on television but will judge you harshly if you admit to being a Seth McFarlane fan. I think unkind things about perfectly nice people all the time.  I get irrationally angry at drivers who fail to use turn signals and feel real passionate hatred for people who drive slow in the left lane.  I often think you're talking about me because I am, at heart, a narcissist.  I eat dinner in front of Simpsons reruns with my daughter instead of at the table.  I haven't gotten a haircut in six months because I hate the way I look in the mirror at the salon, which means barring ponytail holders I look like a sister wife.  I wear shorts to work. I get angry with the dog at night when he snores and wake him up by swatting him on the ass, which hurts his feelings.  I wash my sheets more than my daughter's because she has a loft bed and it's a huge pain to get them down.  I don't make her get her own goddamn sheets down because that's kind of a lot of work too and it's just easier to pretend that she's not that dirty.  I'm pretty lazy.  I Facebook too much. I weigh a solid 20 pounds more than I ought to.  I cannot figure out Twitter.  I cry all the time even though I'm not particularly sad, which I believe annoys more than amuses the people I love.

I am not a fount of wisdom.  To wit: I think I maybe should have said "I'm not a font of wisdom,"  but I'm not going to look it up, and the Internet is Right There.  (see above: lazy)

/warning

Is this movie good or overrated?  I can't remember...

I made a decision recently to start saying "yes" more.  (I know.  I hate myself for writing it too.)  I realized lately that I'd gotten really good at making excuses not to do things.  The weather is super shitty.  Don works nights so I have to get a sitter, and there's not always one to get.  Besides, we're always broke so who can afford dinner and a sitter?  It's hard to find parking.   I don't want to go alone.  There's something good on TV.  I'm almost to the end of this book. I need to clean the floors. There's always a reason not to do things.

But it had gotten to the point where my primary social contact was Laney.  And, y'all, she is awesome, but she is 11.  So, I decided that when I was invited to do things, I would start at the default position of "yes," to see if I could get myself out of the house.

Here's the change: when something came up (an invitation, an event), rather then starting to think about why I couldn't go, I'd immediately begin to work up a plan for making it work.  It was kind of a switch. I'd developed a pretty strong polite regrets muscle; working that into an enthusiastic acceptance muscle took a little work.



But it's been rewarding.  I'm feeling a little less like a loser (just a little - I mean if you'd detailed all your faults like I just did, you'd probably still feel a little like a loser).  I've had some pleasant conversations and seen some good shows and gotten myself out just a little.

I'm told by people who know that social lives get easier when kids get older.  Laney's getting older.  So this is probably a normal part of the family evolution.  Still.  It's nice to get out every now and again, you know?

Anyone doing anything good next weekend?

Always good to go out with a swearing Amy Poehler

Thursday, July 24, 2014

The March, Chapter 17: Brooke and Teddy Make it Weirdly Official


Right in the lumberyard
-        Caddyshack

Back at The March, Brooke was completing a dispirited waitressing shift.  She was depressed by Teddy’s rejection and the echo of his lazy nihilism and enervated by the general malaise that comes from being fresh out of college and not yet having set the world afire.

She approached the bar to give Caleb her cash envelope before going home to sleep.  Or have some pasta.  Or something.  She wasn’t sure.

Caleb, accepting the envelope, asked her if she wanted a drink.  “You look depressed, Brooke!”

“I’m fine,” she said, turning to leave.  “I’m just going to go home.”

Caleb wondered why a blooming young girl like Brooke could be so heartbroken over a dried up old turd like Teddy.  But then he shrugged and thought, “I’ve had my fair share of mystifying love affairs.  They sort themselves out in the end.”

Brooke emerged on the night street and reached down to unlock her bike.  As she was wrapping the chain up, a gravelly voice above her said, tentatively, “Brooke?”

Her heart seized up as she said, “Oh!  Teddy! Hi!”

He indicated the steps of the apartment building next to The March and she sat on them.  He joined her, clearing his throat.

“Brooke,” he said. “I apologize for my rudeness yesterday.  I should never have ignored you like that.  I’m not sure really how to act in a situation like this…”

“That’s OK” broke in Brooke, eagerly.  “I’m just so happy you’re not angry with me.”

“Please let me continue,” said Teddy.  “This is rather difficult.”

Brooke, nervous again, nodded.

“I have discovered,” Teddy began, launching into prepared text.  “That I have romantic feelings for you.  This surprises me as I have not felt this way for many years and there is, er, a rather significant age difference.”

Brooke shook her head vigorously and waved her hand in the air to indicate that this age difference simply did not signify.  She was overjoyed, but kept the required silence.

“I do not hope that a woman as young and beautiful as you could return my romantic interest, but I thought it best to tell you my feelings in the hopes that you would forgive my rudeness yesterday.  I acted churlishly and I regret hurting you.  Can you forgive me?”

She nodded and turned her face up towards his, eyes shining, lips parted, transmitting the invitation for a kiss as bold as semaphore, as loud as a siren.

Teddy cleared his throat again and turned to her.  He lay his arm across her lap, leaned in awkwardly and kissed her.

The embrace ended seconds later, and Brooke nestled into Teddy in a rhapsody of scents: old papers and cigarettes, fresh night air and Teddy.  Teddy put his arm around Brooke and looked across the street, as surprised as Brooke to find his attentions reciprocated.  He was on the tail end of middle age and had long ago given up on the idea of a relationship.  The few encounters he’d had with women had been brief, sordid and unsatisfying.  And yet here was this lovely girl with her face half buried in his old jacket.  It seemed almost too good to be true.

Brooke broke the silence. “Are you hungry?”

Teddy said, “No, I had my dinner earlier.  However, if you are, I would be happy to take you to dinner.”

Brooke said, “Oh, if you’re not hungry, please don’t worry about it.”

“Brooke, darling,” said Teddy, smiling.  “I would like to buy you dinner.”

And so they went to a nice Italian restaurant just a block or so away from The March.  The waiter was befuddled by the pairing: a 22 year old woman in a faded Green Peace tee-shirt, beaming across the table at a fifty-something man in a ratty jacket who was expostulating academically on the imminent demise of the world.

They passed the meal pleasantly.  Brooke had a rich vegetarian pasta and Teddy treated himself to a couple of nice bourbons.  Their conversation flowed, with Brooke eagerly asking for more detail, for explanation of theories and anecdotes from his research.  Eventually, their academic conversation gave way to a more personal one.  They discussed their future.

By the end of the meal, Brooke had agreed to leave the apartment she shared with her sister and move in with Teddy.  She could help him better with his research and filing if she were there more.  With her help, Teddy would be able to finish his great work.

Does this seem so fast as to strain credulity?  It does to me, and I saw it happen in real time!  Neither Brooke nor Teddy had even thought about cohabitation before the coffee arrived.  But it’s not as though either were equipped with a wealth of romantic experience.  Neither had been in love before.  Neither had engaged in the casual sniffing around that most people do as a preliminary to a relationship.  They didn’t know how to flirt.  They’d never remarked conversationally to a friend that this guy was kind of cute or that girl was looking particularly good that night.  They hadn’t gone on dates or had awkward conversations in which the parameters of a relationship were defined.  They’d never settled into a comfortable routine with someone they were having sex with.  They hadn’t had explosive fights or tearful break ups. 

Instead, one day they met, had a few conversations and fell in love.  It didn’t occur to them to examine this.  They accepted the miracle and moved onto what they felt the next logical step was: beginning a life together as quickly as possible.

When they left the restaurant, Brooke took Teddy’s hand, excited to return with him to his apartment.  But he walked her back to her bike and said, “Tonight, darling, perhaps you had better return home and explain to your sister your plans.  Let me have the weekend to put my house in order for you.”

“Oh,” said Brooke, “Of course.  Thank you for dinner.  Thank you for wanting to be with me.  I love you.”

Teddy smiled, ”And you, Brooke.  I look so forward to beginning our life together.”


He watched her ride away and then decided to have a nightcap at The March.  My, it had been an eventful day!

Monday, July 21, 2014

The March, Chapter 16: Rosie and Tre at the OTB



You wanna make a memory?
-Jon Bon Jovi

They got to Sidetracks, a divey little bar tucked away in the south loop, at 4:00ish in the afternoon.  Sidetracks was underneath the el tracks, identifiable only by a faded paint sign above a wood door and a flashing red OTB sign in its one window.  They walked into an unexpectedly large room, carpeted with an ancient green wall-to-wall that might be more cigarette ash and dashed hope than polyester fiber now.  In lieu of pub tables or booths, there were rows of tables all facing a big screen TV.  The tables were littered with old racing forms and short pencils, teeming ashtrays and mugs of beer.  Men of all ages and various dispositions (but all men) sat at the tables, eyes glued to the race.  Some jawed companionably, others focused on the races with manic attention. 

Rosie walked through the room like she was lit by a spotlight, the only bright thing for miles around.

She led Tré to the cashier where they got forms and she helped him make a few bets.  Rosie knew a bit about racing.   Her brother, Fred, was inclined to gamble and had told Rosie about Sidetracks when he’d discovered it.  Rosie thought slumming it there would add to her cool cachet, and so she’d nagged Fred to take her with him a few times while she learned the ropes.  She went a couple of times a month now, and if she lost her tips for the week, what did it matter?  It’s not like her tips were keeping the lights on.

Bets made, Rosie and Tré bellied up to the bar.

“So, what do you think, Tré?” asked Rosie.  “Are you ready to class up this place?”

“I don’t know,” said Tré, looking around.  “I think this place might be beyond classing up.”

Rosie had a vodka/soda with a splash of cranberry (a low calorie cocktail).  Tré had a Heineken. The bar had small TVs mounted at various intervals and Tré and Rosie found themselves huddling closer and closer together to watch the race.

Tré’s was the only black face in the room, which was old hat to him.  He’d grown up in a small town in Ohio, where his family was one of only three black families town. When he decided to take Chicago by storm, he headed to Northwestern, not Chicago State.  He lived in Wrigleyville, not Hyde Park.  He worked on the near north side, not the far south side.  Tré had spent a lot of his days as the only black guy in the room.  Through a life of careful study, he’d learned to be cool without being threatening.  He nodded appreciatively when white friends waxed rhapsodic about Public Enemy to him (only to him).  He suffered countless appeals for his expertise after various first time viewings of Spike Lee films.  Tré was a pro at being the only black guy, inured to being the stranger in a strange land. 

He was supremely cool.

He was finding, however, that it was hard to keep up this practiced cool around a girl like Rosie.  While Tré had been mastering Non-Threatening-But-Cool, Rosie had mastered The-Only-Woman-In-The-Room.  She was a practiced flirt, approachable but unattainable; she could talk to any guy about music, sports, movies.  She knew when to laugh and when to make the joke.  Rosie wasn’t just hot, she was bright and funny and smart.  And she really liked Tré.

They sat at the bar, placing bets, drinking, flirting all afternoon. And through it all, Tré kept thinking, “I’m just flirting a little, just having some fun.”  Bur the bartender knew (as would you, if you’d been making bets on that Thursday afternoon in 1990) that Tré was doing a little more than flirting.

After a few hours, the flirting got a little heavier, the sheen of romance got a little thicker.

They left Sidetracks in the early evening, about 8:00, as the sun was setting and the Loop looked romantically derelict.

Just a few hours ago, the Loop had been a corporate hullabaloo; throngs of respectably attired professional people racing to make their trains, abandoning the Loop for their other lives.  At 5:00 pm, when the el thundered past, it was just background noise, muted by the presence of all those regular people.  But late on this Thursday evening, when the lawyers and the office managers have made way for the homeless, abed in pallets in doorways, and the street cleaners picking up trash, the noise of the el was enormous.

And as it roared by, Rosie, a step ahead of Tré and in the middle of a sentence, swiveled and put her hand on his stomach.  She meant to get his attention to point out some sight, to wait for the sound of the train to stop and then carry on with their conversation.  But the heat from Rosie’s hand on Tré’s stomach raced through his body.  He was full of the sound of the train, the loneliness of the street and Rosie.

So he kissed her.


And she kissed him back.

The Halcyon Days of the Incredibly Parlous, Violent Decade I Grew Up In

On Friday night, I was chilling on the sofa, reading a book and listening to a Sirius station dedicated to mellow music from the 70s.  By the time they played a third James Taylor song, I had rested my book on my chest and begun to drift off into a pleasant snooze when a thought flitted through my peaceful mind: "Boy," I thought, "I wish the world were as peaceful and easy as it was when I was growing up."

This thought was so dumb it yanked me out of my quietude.  Are you old enough to remember the 70s?  The 70s were a goddamn mess!  Vietnam. Pinochet. The Khmer Rouge was filling up the killing fields while James Taylor was seeing fire and rain.  The cold war was getting really hot.  Patty Hearst was going by Tania.  Squeaky Fromme was pointing her gun at the president.  Terrorists were taking Olympic athletes hostages.  912 people drank poisoned Kool-Aid in the Jonestown compound in Guyana.  The Beatles broke up. The first Ebola virus struck in Africa.  Pol Pot took over Cambodia.  Watergate.  And that damn hot mess of a decade ended up with 52 American citizens held hostage in Iran.

And the crime!  I mean the only thing to say about 1970s crime was at least it wasn't 1980s crime.  Those 1970's salad days that lazily crossed my addled pre-nap brain were about the time when crime was peaking in the US.  It's been on a decline since 1990, you guys!

Lookit: I woke up and realized that I was being nutty.  But I've told this little self-recriminatory anecdote a couple of times over the weekend and have repeatedly been met with, "Oh, no!  The world is way scarier now than we were kids.  You have to be so much more careful."

In a sense, this is true - the world is much scarier without Mom and Dad to take care of you.  But this fact is independent of the decade.  There are mortgages to pay and jobs to go to and the utterly pants-shittingly terrifying project of raising children.  And, right there at the apex (or the nadir) of adult terror is the profound, constant awareness of one's own mortality.  When you're 11, you're pretty sure you're never going to die.  When you're 45, you're all like, "Gee, I hope I make it through the afternoon." Even worse, when you're 45, you're intimately aware of your own child's mortality, which is the scariest thing in a world that you're increasingly aware is really fucking scary.

But the data matters.  The world itself is not, in fact, scarier than it used to be.  So let's all drop our weapons, nod politely at our neighbors, answer the door, proffer directions when a stranger looks lost and just, you know, relax a little.  It's scary out there.  Sure. It is.

But it's always been scary.


Monday, July 14, 2014

The March, Chapter 15: Wally Cadwallader Has the Perfect Cosmetic for You

Chapter 14

“I’d buy that for a dollar”
Robocop

One Thursday afternoon, Mary paid a visit to the Lightweight Group offices to drop off some receipts.  She was surprised to run into Rosie, who was cheerfully fending off a sales pitch from Lightweight’s secretary, Francis Cadwallader, called Wally by most of the L.G.E. staff.

Wally was a Lightweight institution.  He’d been around since Bulstrode had first incorporated and knew the ins and outs of every bar and restaurant in the group.  He managed all the HR, a good chunk of the accounting and still managed to keep on top of the best gossip.  But what he really wanted was to be self-employed.

“Rosie, your skin is beautiful now, but you need to start a better regimen,” said Wally, brandishing a variety of Ooh La La brochures.  Ooh La La was a cosmetics and skin care company in the model of Avon and Mary Kay.  Wally was operating as the only male Ooh La La sales consultant,  leveraging finger snapping fabulosity and separating the ladies of Lightweight from their tips.  This Ooh La La thing was a niche made for an old queen like him.  He thought the make-up was fun.  And he really enjoyed discombobulating all the old biddies in their knockoff Chanel suits at the biannual sales conferences.  

“Thanks, Wally,” said Rosie.  “But I’m fine on makeup right now.  But how are you doing?  Working too hard?”

“Of course not,” said Wally.  “Doing quite well, thank you.  Well, except your father is being difficult about sponsoring some Ooh La La parties at the bars.  He thinks it’s weird.  But I won’t give up.  There are too many beautiful young girls working in all that smoke and keeping those late hours.  They could all use some good product.  He’ll give in eventually.  In the meantime, you’d better rethink some good moisturizer from me. You won’t always have that wonderful skin.  Start now, and your skin will look as good as mine when you’re 45!” 

(Rosie had attended Wally’s 50th birthday party four years ago.)

Rosie grinned and cheerily agreed to attend any Ooh La La party that Wally threw.  The Lightweight offices were a much brighter place due to his relentless sales pitches.

“Hi, Rosie,” said Mary, who also enjoyed the sales pitches.  “And, hi, Wally, how are you and, no, I don’t need any moisturizer.”

“Ah, youth,” said Wally.  “When I was your age I was sure I’d always be 25 too.  Let’s look at your pores. I have a marvelous pore reducer.”  He thrust a hand mirror in front of the two young faces.
Mary looked into the mirror and saw her face next to Rosie’s. She sighed a bit wistfully.  She was three inches shorter than Rosie, and fifteen pounds heavier; her hair was a sort of dull brown.  Her face was pleasant but plain.  Next to Rosie, she felt a little like a donkey next to a unicorn.

“I swear,” said Mary.  “It’s hard to maintain any self-respect when I look at me next to you.”

“Well, a little makeup could fix that,” said Wally.  “And you’re prettier than you think you are, Mary.  You just need a little oomph.  I have just the thing.”

“It’s not makeup you need,” said Rosie.

“Yes it is,” mumbled Wally as he rummaged in his case.

“You need to get laid,” said Rosie, ignoring him.  “You should take pity on Fred.  He’d gladly buy you dinner and shower you with compliments and then take you home and let you order him around in the sack.  That’ll put a shine on your apple.”

“Uh uh… no,” said Mary, shaking her head.  “The day I let some guy determine my self worth is the day I just give up all together.”

“Well, you should give him a break anyway,” said Rosie.  “He’s an idiot, but he’s sweet and he really is crazy about you.”

“He only thinks he’s crazy about me,” said Mary.  “But I think he thinks I have my shit together and that I can help him get his shit together.  I, on the other hand, am only interested in a guy who’s got his shit together already.  Once he gets there, he should pick up the phone and call me.  I might fucking answer.”

“Here we go!” said Wally, holding up a blusher.  “This will put roses on your cheeks.  And Rosie is right, I think.   About Fred. He’s a good boy. Going on a date with him doesn’t mean you’re going to get married.  I think you’re thinking too hard about it.  It’s clear you like him.  And you swear too much.”

“I swear just fucking enough,” said Mary, smiling.  “And I don’t like him like that.  He’s not done baking yet, you know?”

Rosie stopped listening.  Tré was walking in with her father.  Mary and Wally weren’t offended, though.  They were used to Rosie’s short attention span.

“Rosie,” said Bulstrode.  “What brings you here?”

“Mommy wanted me to come in and remind you about the benefit tonight,” she said.

“Why didn’t she just call,” Bulstrode asked, glancing through the day’s mail.

“I told her I was going to be down here anyway,” said Rosie.  “And I’d make sure you remembered.”

“Well, I hope you remember about church on Sunday,” said Bulstrode.  “I want you there on time. And dressed decently, for God’s sake.”

“I don’t wear decent clothes,” said Rosie, throwing a little side eye at Tré. “I wear fabulous clothes.”

That was true.  Rosie was famous throughout the Lightweight empire for her ensembles. She dressed for maximum attention.  It wasn’t that she dressed revealingly, although she wasn’t shy. It was more that she dressed outrageously, in the thrift shop chic that was popular in those days.  This afternoon, for example, she was wearing one of Fred’s sweaters, which came down to mid-thigh, Chuck Taylor high top and a backwards baseball cap.  No pants.

“Sunday,” said Bulstrode.  “Dressed respectably.  I want to be seen with my family.  I’ve been told I’m being considered for the board and I want it.  I need my family showing up looking civilized.”

“I’ll be there, Daddy.  Dressed just this side of Mennonite,” said Rosie, still looking at Tré.

Bulstrode shook his head resignedly and turned his attention to Mary.  “Do you have receipts?” he asked.  “Wally, find the receipts from last year.  I want to see sales comparisons.  Tré, you carry on with what you were doing.  I like the L.G.E. Presentation idea.  But I’m not sure about making The March a flagship. We’ll talk more later.”

“One second, Bully,” said Wally.  “I would like to throw an Ooh La La party at The March.  You’ve hemmed and hawed too much.  I want a verdict and I want it in front of witnesses.”

“Fine, Wally,” said Bulstrode.  “You can have your damn makeup party at The March, provided you do in on a Sunday before football starts and you don’t bother any guests.”

“I want wine too,” said Wally, following Bulstrode into the office. “You can give us the cheap stuff.”
Mary shook her head and trailed after them.
 
“So,” said Rosie, pleased to find herself alone with Tré.  “I didn’t really come to relay a message to my father.”

“No?” said Tré. “Then why did you come?”

“I was thinking I could help you out a little,” said Rosie, moving a little closer.  “I was wondering if your tour of Lightweight had taken you to Sidetracks, yet.”

“That off-track betting dump,” asked Tré.

“Oh, it’s not a dump,” she responded.  “Sidetracks has real charm if you’re with the kind of girl who can expose them. Whaddya say?”

The boss’s daughter wanted to take him gambling on a Thursday afternoon at a dive bar.  Everything about this was dangerous.  But, damn, she looked good.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Thursday, July 10, 2014

The March, Chapter 14: The Night Doesn't Go Well For Anyone...Well, Almost Anyone


Fuck me gently with a chainsaw
-Heathers

Tré Little made Rosie, who came standard with enough sparkle for two, sparkle enough for 20.

She barely noticed Brooke leaving the bar in tears, paid no attention to Fred’s alternately mournful and merry conversational gambits, and resolutely ignored Caleb’s scolding glances.  All Rosie’s focus was on Tré.  And yet, despite all that focused sparkle, somewhere just shy of midnight, Tré announced his intention to depart.

“So early, nerd?” said Rosie.  “Let’s get out of her and go dancing.”

“Can’t do it, beautiful,” said Tré.  “It’s a working day tomorrow and I need to get my beauty sleep.”  He gave her a wink and another huge smile and walked away.

Rosie was flummoxed.  Rosie was pissed.  When she asked someone to go dancing with her, they good and goddamn well went dancing with her.

What the fuck?

Tré walked to the el with his head full of The Lightweight Group.  He was thinking that The March would be a good flagship for the rebrand.  It was small enough, and in a good location.  They had a dedicated clientele; who might complain loudly about changes, but wouldn’t soon give up the place.
The March was an interesting idea.  He walked the midnight streets pondering, Should we do it like ‘The March: A Lightweight Joint’?  No… too black, too trendy.  What about just L.G.E ... like The March, L.G.E.  Focus the branding more by font and color scheme.  I need to go home and draw it up.  See what looks good. Rosie looked good. That girl is crazy hot. I should have gone dancing with her… Wait!  I’ve got it: L.G.E. Presentation.  The March: An L.G.E. Presentation.  God, that’s classy.

When Tré got home, he whipped out his notebook and drew up some nameplate ideas for The March.  He worked until about 3:00 and then made himself a sandwich, letting thoughts of Rosie dance through his brain.  She was a sexy girl and a hell of a lot of fun.  But she was also the boss’s daughter.  He’d be wise to avoid that little flirtation.

---

As Tré pondered professional and romantic strategies, Brooke lay miserably on the couch, crying quietly.  Celia sat on the floor next to her, distressed and annoyed.

“He just walked out without saying anything!” Brooke murmered.  “He was so cold!”

“He’s an ass, Brooke,” said Celia, barely tolerating even his memory.  “He’s a dried up, withered old ass.  Why do you care so much?”

Brooke snuffled, and shook her head. “No one cares about the things I care about,” She said.  “But he does. And he knows so much.  He’s brilliant.  If he taught me, I could be as brilliant as he is.  I could know all the same stuff. I could make things better.”

“Oh, Brooke,” said Celia.  “I hate it that this old fucker is making you feel this way.  Even if that old fossil has read books you haven’t, it’s only because he’s old.  You’re with ten of him.  Twenty!  A hundred!  I can’t think of anyone who’d care if he fell off the face of the earth tomorrow.  But if you weren’t around, what would I do?  See?  You do make things better!”

Brooke just rolled over and put her face into the back of the sofa.  Her voice muffled, she said, “I love you too, Celia.  But I’d care if he weren’t around. I’d care a lot.”

---

As Brooke cried herself to sleep, Fred was weaving and stumbling around the kitchen, trying to make himself a sandwich.  He made so much noise, he woke Susan up.

“Hi, honey,” said Susan.  “Overdid it a little tonight, huh?”

“Yesh,” said Fred, sitting down heavily in a chair.  “I wish Mary liked me.”

“Well, darling,” said Susan, stroking his hair.  “You’ll start school in the fall and soon enough you’ll be a lawyer and then she’ll see what a marvelous man you are.  And if she doesn’t, well, the girls will be beating down the door for a fellow like you.  I saw someone on Oprah who said, ‘As you become more clear about who you really are, you’ll be better able to decide who is best for you.’  Maybe Mary isn’t the best for you.  Just be patient.  Maybe you'll meet the right girl when you're back in school.  Now, shall I make you a sandwich?”

“Idonwanna,” said Fred, his head buried in his hands.

“What, dear?” asked Susan.  “You don’t want a sandwich?  Just go to sleep.  Sleep it off. Everything will seem brighter in the morning.  It always does!”

Fred trumbled wearily off to bed, where he passed out with one shoe still on.

Rosie flipped channels in the family room, fuming over Tré.

Tré slept like a rock.

Brooke dreamt restless, apocalyptic dreams on the couch.

Celia left the apartment to go to Gio’s where she complained bitterly about Teddy.

Gio commiserated with Celia’s complaints and then he kissed her.

And Celia was pretty happy about that.

And the next day, for every one except Gio and Celia, everything seemed pretty much the same as it had the night before.

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