THIRTEEN
AIDAN
I decide to walk to the restaurant. I have a car, but it’s a pain in the ass to drive in the city. I have a driver because it’s basically expected of me, but I hate using him. Ray’s not a bad guy, actually. I use him more than I’d like, only because going out in public has become more of a chore every single year. Oh, if my friends in Hawaii could see me now.
It’s not that I don’t want to go out, but it’s so fucking awful to be recognized all the time. I know there are a lot of people out there who wouldn’t mind fame and fortune, but living with it every day is crippling. Those people who crave attention don’t realize what a gift it is to be able to go out and not have anyone follow you, or try to take your picture. Yes, once in a while it might be nice to be recognized or admired, but when it happens every single day, when you can’t even go across the street and grab a coffee without complete and utter chaos developing around you, it quickly loses its novelty. In fact, it’s enough to make you want to disappear forever.
So, that’s why I use Ray sometimes. At least the darkly tinted windows of the Lincoln get me from one place to another without being manhandled by half of the city.
Tonight, though, I wear an old Nixon baseball cap pulled down low. It’s faded out and beaten up from the hours and days I used to wear it spun around, peak backward at the beach in Hawaii. Now, it’s my favorite hat to wear when I need to go out and need to be unrecognized—hasn’t failed me yet. Perhaps it’s because I can hide behind the brim, my nose and my mouth the only real visible parts of my face. If I keep my head down, I could be anyone walking down the street.
It is nice to be out walking, to be anonymous, to be able to overhear people’s conversations, conversations that have nothing to do with me, about people I don’t know and will probably never meet. I’m basically an auditory voyeur. The discussions I overhear are formed around the most mundane things:
“Tell Jen I’m running five minutes late.”
“Will you get more baby wipes while you’re out?”
“I’m going to pick up a pizza for dinner.”
These little snippets bleed into the air around me as I walk on by. It seems so strange to think that all over the world, this very second, billions of people are busy acting out the plays of their lives. I am walking to a restaurant to meet a woman that I’ve had my eye on for almost five years now, though she doesn’t know it. That woman in the green dress is on her way home from work. Those two guys are going to a Cubs game, even though they’re certain the Cubs won’t make it to the playoffs this year. Somewhere in the city, someone is giving birth. Someone is dying. Someone’s fucking a hooker. Someone’s tucking their infant daughter into bed. It’s so strange to think of all the things people are out doing. As I walk, I wonder what Essie is thinking, what she’s doing.
She’s probably getting ready. She’s probably getting ready and maybe she’s feeling a little nervous. I don’t want her to feel nervous; if anything, I want to put her at ease, though I’m also still a bit confused as to why all this is happening now. Did she really just email me out of the blue about going on a date?
A part of me wants to tell her I’ve kept track of her all these years. I think it would be hard for her to understand, though. She’ll automatically assume I did so in a creepy way. I prefer to think it was more a guardian angel type thing. Arturo thought I was mad to even bother. When Essie didn’t file a lawsuit against the Callahan Corporation, he wanted me to stay the hell away from her and, ‘let sleeping dogs lie.’ He definitely didn’t want to have her working at the law firm. The grouchy old bastard sweetened to her as time went by, though. Before he died, he actually asked me to continue watching over her since he wouldn’t be around to do it himself anymore.
My mind drifts as I walk. For a moment, I’m laying on my back on my surf board, staring up at the faded out denim blue of a sky far away, the sound of the ocean filling my ears, the motion of the vast body of water rocking me gently.
And then I’m back.
Perhaps it’s not that strange that Essie emailed me. Working at the law firm, of course she would have seen me, and though the idea still seems baffling to me. I have somehow become one of the most eligible bachelors in Chicago. Girls talk about me. Plenty have tried various tactics to get me to take them out on a date. Really, Essie’s approach has been the most straightforward.
Not that being so admired has been terrible one hundred percent of the time. I’m a guy, after all. I’ve always been sexually charged. I like to fuck. I have certain criteria that has to be met by a woman before I allow her into my bed. One: she’s gotta have curves. None of this anorexic bullshit, where I can count their goddamn ribs. Two: She’s got to have a brain. Who wants to spend time with a chick if she’s just going to nod dumbly whenever you ask her a question. And three: She has to love sex. She’s got to want it like I want it. She’s got to need it every five seconds of the day…so badly that she’ll be climbing up on my dick moments after I’ve just made her scream my name, because she just can’t get enough of me. She’s got to be free. She’s got to love herself, and her body. If a woman doesn’t meet these criteria, I’d rather have no sex at all. I’ll go weeks and months without, jerking off to porn when I feel like it, if I can’t get what I need from a girl. I mean, I’d literally rather have no sex at all than have an experience with a woman where she’s not letting herself go with me, because she’s worried about whether her stomach isn’t perfectly flat while she’s got her legs up around her ears and I’m pounding myself inside her.
Jesus. These are bad thoughts to be having right now.
It’s a little before seven, and I want to get to Electra before Essie does. I quicken my pace. The hostess, Martine, gives me a big smile and leads me to the table, which is toward the back of the restaurant, near the fountain.
“Party of two tonight?” she asks.
“Yes. She should be arriving shortly.”
Martine winks. “Lucky girl. I’ll bring her right over when she gets here. Can I get you something to drink while you wait?”
I ask for a glass of water. Maybe I’d like something a little stronger, but at the same time, I want to keep a clear head. I want to be able to think straight. And if I start in on the vodka tonics now, well…that won’t happen.
It isn’t until Martine comes back over, with a silver carafe of water to refill my glass, that I realize considerable time has gone by and I’m still sitting there by myself. I pull my phone out of my pocket and look at the time. 7:14. Fashionably late. If this were a business meeting, my client would have just fucked any chance they might have had at working with me. With a date, it’s different, though. These are the rules of engagement, ridiculous though they are. Martine looks concerned. “Is there anything else I can get you while you wait?”
“No, thank you.” I shake my head and she stands there for a moment, like she wants to say something, but then decides better before walking away. I don’t watch her leave. I don’t watch the minutes ticking by on my Breitling, and I sure as fuck don’t watch the door.
From the outside, I am a study of relaxed patience, sipping on my water, mildly observing my surroundings without actually seeing any of it or making eye contact with anyone. It’s seven thirty when I find with some amusement that I might have actually been stood up. How entertaining. I decide to wait another ten minutes before leaving.
The whole time I find myself wondering what Essie Floyd is playing at.
Fine. If this is how she’s going to behave, then perhaps I will too. I wonder if she’ll be able to handle me playing a few games along with her.