***
Paula’s brakes squeaked as she barreled into Martine’s driveway at 6:42. Martine yelled a general goodbye to whoever was in the house (She thought at least one kid was home, but couldn’t remember which one), and trotted out to Paula’s car. With the new contacts, which were an unnatural, bright blue, Paula looked deranged, and Martine’s face inadvertently registered her emotion.
“What do you think?” said Paula.
“You look like a serial killer,” replied Martine.
“Ha! You’re just jealous. My eye doctor said that I looked ‘striking.’ His words.”
“Isn’t he the one trying to sell you colored contacts in the first place?”
“Shut up. Oh, and stop me after two beers.”
“Right. You are driving,” said Martine.
“And I’m broke.”
Over their first round, Martine explained the situation with Bob and Bud Mathis, and over their second, Paula told Martine exactly why she should let the situation drop.
“Bud Mathis is as dumb as a fence post,” she began. “He’s in, what? His second term in the state house? I went to high school with him, and he is exactly the type who sees a big pile of rope and just keeps pulling it and pulling it and piling it up right next to him.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” said Martine.
“If I set my great-niece’s dollhouse down next to Bud Mathis, it would take about a minute and a half for him to accidentally choke on the toy saucepan. The man is not smart.”
“Which is exactly why we need to expose him and get him recalled.”
Paula shook her head. “Which is why,” she continued, “we let him go on under his own steam for another couple of years. Him pretending to be a lesbian online is a little, stupid thing.”
“But it’s a thing that would be extremely embarrassing if it got out.”
“Right. I know that. But if he thinks he’s getting away with this, it will only convince him that he’ll get away with the next thing, and the next. And one of these days he’s going to do something so profoundly stupid that even the Bible-thumpers will abandon him. He’s already got a big supply of rope, Martine. All we have to do is wait around for him to hang himself with it.”
Martine’s phone made a noise. She huffed, opened it, and rolled her eyes.
“What?” said Paula.
“Francis keeps sending me pictures. I haven’t told him my phone doesn’t display them.”
“Why do you keep that piece of shit?” said Paula
Martine was perplexed. “I thought you liked Francis,” she said.
“I’m talking about your phone, you idiot. The 21st Century: you should join it someday. Here, look at this,” she said, taking her iPhone out of her purse.
“I wouldn’t have the first clue how to operate one of those. There aren’t any buttons.”
“Martine Wexler, are you telling me that you can give me the over-under on game three of Boston’s series with Kansas City without even looking at a calculator, and you can’t operate the simplest, most elegant piece of gadgetry to come along in 150 years?”
“Shhhhhhh!” said Martine.
Paula raised her camera and took a quick photo of Martine, who looked quite fetching in the fading sunlight that streamed through the window they sat next to. “See, look at that,” she said, showing Martine the photo.
Martine took the phone from Paula. “So I just do this?” she said, indicating the taking of a picture.
“Mm-hmm,” said Paula.
She snapped a picture of Paula with her unnaturally bright blue eyes and showed it to her.
“Jesus Christ, why didn’t you tell me I looked like a maniac?” she said. Paula plucked the contact lenses out of her eyes and flicked them onto the floor. Then she reached into her purse and pulled out a pair of eyeglasses held together with tape and put them on.
“Much better,” said Martine.
“Let this be a lesson to you, Martine. Sometimes you have to see the big picture, like with Bud Mathis. And speaking of pictures, I’m sending this one to Francis. What’s his number?”
Meanwhile, Francis was within half an hour of pulling into the next town the band was playing, and he was finishing up a song he had been writing about Martine. All she cared about, he thought, was seeing the big picture. What Martine needed was to see what was right there in front of her, namely him (when he happened to be in town). He was slightly drunk, he was horny, and he missed her sorely. He strummed his bus guitar and worked out the chorus of his song:
Always looking around, baby,
But don’t you know you’ve got it so good?
Always seeing the trees, darlin’,
But come here let me show you this wood …
In his pocket, Francis’ phone bleeped, indicating he had a new message, but he needed to try to grab a quick nap before they had to be ready for the sound check, so he switched it off and put it back in his pocket without even looking.
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