The week moved dazedly. I was dazedly. I was happy. Oh, so happy. Samantha was busying herself in Hudson and Boston with her mother, shopping and touring, visiting her uncle with the broken leg in Benton. I talked to her every night.
During the day I got beat up at work but I didn’t care. I worked for a small landscaping company and it was getting late in the season. The work hours were diminishing and soon I’d get laid off for the winter, but with Samantha so close the timing couldn’t have been better.
One day I got into a fight with a rose bush and the rose bush won, shredding my forearms. The next day I got into a fight with a heavy socket wrench and the socket wrench won, defeating my collarbone. But I took the scratches and the bruises in stride; I was happy. During those days, I often thought to myself, These fuckers could beat me with lead pipes and I wouldn’t care. I’m happy. Samantha is so close. She is so close.
The week was perfect. Samantha and her mother had picked a perfect week to come to Massachusetts, busted up Uncle aside. It was an oddly mild week in November and most of the leaves had fallen. The days were yellow and temperate and the nights dark and crisp.
Friday evening, the sun was setting as I drove back to Hudson. I wasn’t as nervous this time but I was still nervous but not like I had been. I was wearing my olive and orange fleece that I’d bought for a couple of bucks from a thrift store. And I was wearing jeans and my running shoes.
I drove east on the Massachusetts turnpike. I hadn’t spoken to Mark since this latest outing began and I didn’t plan to. Mark had helped me enough this week. He was such a good friend. He hated my guts.
I took exit 21 and then 20 North and then I was in Hudson. It was busy and I moved through the center slowly. The sky was dark but the street and the sidewalks glowed. Yellow headlights and red brake lights and strings of white lights in the windows of the restaurants bars and stores and lots of couples were out and about, young men and women looking very nice, doing up the big town, walking arm in arm or hand in hand and I was happy that I had a girlfriend. I smiled through town.
Moon then Main then Chess then Ledgewood. I was such a fucking pro now. I had this thing down pat. I pulled up the driveway of her uncle’s house and shut off the truck. I got out and walked up steps. I cranked a funny little crank on the door and it made a funny little sound. The door opened.
“Hey.”
It was bright inside the house. The porch was dim. Shadows and light. Meeting Samantha, once more, with the light at her back, making her edges glow, making her even more angelic than I remembered, made me crazier, more obsessive, and more ridiculous than I’d ever been. This woman owned me.
“Hey,” I said. Then, “Wow. You look amazing.”
She flipped her hair, blushing. “Oh, shut up.”
She had broken out the black string bikini this evening. Around her neck hung a black silk choker and on her feet were black six inch heels. She was as tall as me. Her hair was down and she had rings on her fingers. She invited me inside and we embraced, and she smelled good, like fresh flowers, and I closed my eyes and squeezed her body and I could feel the bikini melt away. I stepped back and she was wearing a white tank top, tight jeans and worn leather boots. I stared at my jeans and sneakers, feeling very underdressed.
“I look like a fuck,” I lamented. “You look amazing.”
“No, no,” Samantha assured. “You look fine.”
Somewhere in the corners of the house I could hear her mother moving. Then she came into view. At first I didn’t recognize her. And then I did. I was looking at Sissy Spacek, the actress.
“What…?”
She was taller and she was wearing glasses but she wore glasses anyway and her hair was long and straight and her eyes were blue and I was looking at Sissy Spacek from her role in David Lynch’s “The Straight Story.” I was stunned. Samantha giggled, knowingly.
“Trim-Spa,” her mother explained. I rubbed my eyes. Then, to my right, Samantha began to play the Trim-Spa theme on a shining saxophone. The hallway filled with sound and I stared at Samantha and her mother stared too, and her face was proud as she watched and listened.
Samantha leaned back and her lips embraced the reed, and she played and played with such emotion and then she finished and cleared the spit-valve and a wad of saliva landed on the hardwood floor and we all stared at it, wondering what it could possibly mean. Samantha’s mother and I broke into applause.
“Wonderful!” Sissy exclaimed.
Samantha bowed and set the sax on a small table at the bottom of the staircase. I noticed then that Charlie Parker’s signature had been etched into it. I wondered, Did Bird play alto or tenor?
Samantha’s mother/Sissy Spacek told us that we should go, that the night was young and so were we. Samantha grabbed me by my elbow and my toe and flipped me over her shoulder.
“Let’s go.”
Such a brute. Such brute force. It’s very sexy.
Sissy applauded the fact that I was draped over her daughter’s shoulder. We turned toward the front door.
“Get the knob,” ordered Samantha.
I turned the knob. Then she hooked the door with her foot and pulled it open. It clipped my head.
“Ouch.”
“Stop being such a pussy. If I don’t carry you to this restaurant we’re never going to get out of this house. I mean, really—playing the sax in the hallway? Why do you write such drivel?”
I could smell her hair, her head. She was aromatic, sweet.
I said, “It’s not drivel. It’s fitting. It’s a little bit of everything that we’ve talked about. I’m showcasing your talents.”
We thumped down the cement steps. My head hurt with each thump.
“My talents? I haven’t played the sax in years,” said Samantha. “If you want to showcase my talents, why don’t you write a scene where I kick your motherfucking ass and then scalp you?”
“You’re soooo Native American,” I said.
She was German and Native American.
“You like that, huh?”
“You could scalp me anytime.”
Sissy Spacek waved from the doorway.
“Bye bye, kids!”
Samantha turned and so I turned too. I was draped over her shoulder.
“Bye, Mom!”
“Bye, Sissy!”
“Bye, kids!”
We were a pack of waving morons and then the door swung closed and we moved down the driveway.
“Can you set me down now?”
“Are you going to get us to the restaurant?”
“If you want me to.”
“I want you to.”
“Then let’s go to the restaurant.”
“Fine.”
Samantha shrugged me off of her shoulder and I landed on my feet.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I love you.”
“What the fuck did I tell you about that?”
“Right.”
We walked to the center of Hudson. It wasn’t far. Later, on the way home, we’d take a cab but neither of us would remember it very well. We held hands as we walked. Things had settled back to normal.
“David?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think we’ll ever get married?”
“I don’t know. That’s a good question.”
“But do you think it’s a possibility?”
“Anything is possible,” I said.
We looked at each other and smiled and I pulled her close. We were now a single entity walking toward the center of Hudson—two heads, four arms, four legs, a penis and a vagina. Neighborhood children ran from us in fear. Car horns honked, people screamed. German, Native American, English, Polish, and whatever the fuck else we could cram into our monster suit we crammed in, and as we shuffled down the sidewalk we grunted like animals, letting our proverbial freak flag fly. At one point, as we stood at a crosswalk waiting for the light to change, we decided to wag our tongues and make our eyes real bi
g and—
Samantha smacked the back of the head.
“What the fuck did I tell you? Restaurant? Please?”
“Right…Sorry.”
Arm in arm in the moist but comfortable night air, we made our way down and then up and we were at the restaurant. It was Cambodian. Samantha had been there before, earlier in the week with her mother. This was her night to plan. This was our second date. I trusted her completely. We stood outside, smoking. Inside, a few people chattered and chewed. It was past eight o’clock. We went inside.
The room was small but spacious, the walls painted a soothing color like rust or earth tones and everything was soft and textured and the tables were ample and the wait staff friendly and accommodating. We were led through an easy maze to a table in the back against the wall. Samantha took the seat looking out. I took the seat looking in.
“This place is very cool,” I said.
“I came here the other day with my mother. It’s sooo good.”
It smelled good. Almost as good as Samantha. A man came over to give us menus and to take our drink orders.
“I’ll have a red wine,” said Samantha.
Ooooh! I thought. What class! What charm! I knew she really wanted a Pabst Blue Ribbon but was just afraid to ask.
“I’ll have a Jack and Coke,” I said.
I really wanted a Pabst Blue Ribbon too.
Our drink selection was as cool as we were. We knew this. We could see it in each other’s eyes. Hazel and brown. Her eyes were so hypnotic. We began to play an easy game of footsie under the table. It was hot in the restaurant. A waiter came over and adjusted the thermostat.
“Make it cooler,” I said, still wearing my fleece, wondering why I was hot.
He looked over and nodded.
“Hot in here, right?” he asked.
“Yes,” Samantha and I said together, again the mishmash monster of limbs and genitalia.
“Is it humid out?” asked the waiter.
“Kind of,” I said.
“Well that would explain it. It gets hot in here when it’s humid out.”
Then he whistled the theme song to “Taxi.” Samantha squealed with joy.
“I love that tune!”
“I know you do!”
Then her face became very serious. It made me serious.
“David?”
“Yes?”
“How do you think part four is coming along?”
“I’m not too confident about it.”
“Why not?”
“Well…”
I stared off into space. I could get lost in the décor of the restaurant. I said, “It’s just that I keep getting fucked up as I try to write this, and I know that it’s important, maybe even more important than the beginning of the week, and I don’t know. I don’t think I’m capturing it very well.”
“I think it’s okay.”
“Yeah? You really do?”
Samantha reached across the table and took my hand. Soft but strong.
“I do,” she said, and then she smiled and it made me smile.
“Thank you for lying,” I said.
A waitress came over. She had a Silly Putty face and her neck was covered in hickies.
“Ready to order?” she asked.
I pointed to Samantha.
“I’ll have the Alabama Gumbo,” she said. “And could we get some spring rolls too?”
The waitress scribbled onto a pad. She looked at me.
“I’ll have the Crazy Fish on a Plate,” I said.
She scribbled more.
“Alright,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Thanks.”
“Thanks.”
She left and the room got very loud. I was staring at the wall. Samantha could see the room. I wished for a moment that we could live here in the restaurant, raising our children on Alabama Gumbo and Crazy Fish on a Plate. We could make our clothes out of tablecloths and we could home school the children. I sipped on my drink. Samantha sipped on hers.
“I like this place a lot,” I said. “Thank you for taking me here.”
“It’s awesome. The food here is awesome.”
“You’re awesome.”
“I know. You’re awesome too.”
We were adorable, just like a real couple, just like real people. I wanted to tear off her shirt. I entertained ideas behind my eyes.
“Tell me about your other girlfriends,” she said.
“Tell me about your other boyfriends.”
We traded some war stories. We traded the good and the bad. We were traders. It was all very informative. I watched her as she spoke. She often grew very excited, her hands moving fast. Her eyes, those hazel eyes, were hypnotic. Our food came.
“Alabama Gumbo for the sweet lady and Crazy Fish on a Plate for the gentleman. And spring rolls. Does the amazing couple need any more drinks?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
We ate. I secretly choked on a piece of bone. I’d choke on it for hours and learn to ignore it. Samantha had a pyramid of noodles and other colorful things and a huge bowl of white rice sat on the edge of the small table. I told her I wanted to throw rice at her.
“Please don’t.”
“Okay.”
My Crazy Fish tasted like butter and spices. We shared Crazy Fish and noodles. Ravi Shankar played a sitar in the background. Samantha took out her camera. I put on the blinders, hands at my eyes. She took a picture, careful to get the both of us in frame.
We ate, we laughed, we told stories. She had dated some interesting men. I had dated some interesting women. My beak was sweating. Samantha pointed this out.
“I know,” I said. “My nose sweats when I’m drinking.”
“I think it’s cute.”
“I think you’re cute.”
Then the room got very loud and I had to yell. Samantha had to yell. Then the room got very quiet.
“Is it empty now?” I asked.
“Yes, kind of.”
Our food was shredded and scattered about the table. We sipped our drinks. Samantha’s wine glass was very delicate, the stem long and thin. We pooled our collective wisdom garnered from insane relationships. We knew what we liked and we knew what we didn’t like. We knew that we liked each other. The check came.
“I got this one, my little monkey,” I said.
Samantha frowned and looked pretty but she ended up covering the tip. She was an easy feminist. I liked that. Girly but strong, opinionated but open to new ideas. We said “Thanks” to the wait staff and they said “Thanks” back and we went outside.
We stood on the sidewalk and lit cigarettes.
“That was awesome.”
“That was awesome.”
“What now?” I asked.
“Let’s go this way.”
We walked arm in arm back the way we came. Samantha had seen a bar up the road. It was Friday night and the Celtics were playing the Knicks at Madison Square Garden. It was close to ten o’clock. We could catch the end of the game and cuddle in a booth. I liked this idea. We smiled and held hands as we walked.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“About?”
“Four?”
Samantha considered the question. Then she said, “It’s alright. I think I might’ve done things a bit different, though.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Maybe put in more of our conversations.”
I nodded, slowly.
“Yeah. You’re probably right. I was having a hard time just getting through this.”
“Probably?”
“Probably what?”
“Probably right? You know I’m fucking right.”
She was beautiful. I felt like such a slug again.
“Okay. You’re right.”
She elbowed me playfully in the ribs. I wrapped her in my arms and we kissed. Our faces close, she whispered, “End this piece of garbage already, my love. Take me to five.”
An
d she was right; she was so right. I could see it all over her face, her body. Samantha was right. Samantha was right in ways that I didn’t even know yet. We closed our eyes and we kissed. Car horns honked, people screamed, children ran from us in a mixture of terror and awe. My eyes closed and our foreheads pressed together I whispered,
“I…am…so…in—”
“Shhh.”
“I…am…so…in…love—”
“Shhh. Take me to five, David. Take me to five.”
Her voice was soothing. It stopped my disintegration into a bumbling moron. I nodded and collected myself, my thoughts. I opened my eyes. Samantha was looking right at me, right into my brain and then beyond. I tried to match her power. But I was still weak.
“Five?” I asked.
“Five.”
“Okay. Are you ready for five?”
She nodded.
“Yes. I think so.”
“I won’t make it bad, I promise.”
Her eyes were nervous and searching. She would do some interesting things in five, things that even I wouldn’t remember very well. I touched her cheek and then kissed it. I was getting stronger now. Samantha needed me to be strong. I whispered in her ear,
“Ready?”
“Okay.”
“We’ll be fine.”
“Okay.”
And with bellies full of wine and whiskey and fish and noodles and rice, we made our way down the sidewalk toward five, the number of chaos, and our heads were held high and we were together and our fingers were interlaced, and my beak was still sweating, and Samantha looked beautiful, and nothing could harm us. The lampposts were jealous as we glided by.
FIVE