“My son had that problem,” said one of the blue crones. “His wife once pulled me aside.”
“Has his wife ever pulled you aside?” the pink crone said to Ma.
“He’s not married,” said Ma.
“Maybe the not-married is related to the bathing-too-often,” said the lime crone.
“Maybe he holds himself aloof from others,” said the blue crone. “My son held himself aloof from others.”
“My daughter holds herself aloof from others,” said the pink crone.
“Does she bathe too often?” said Ma.
“She doesn’t bathe too often,” said the pink crone. “She just thinks she’s smarter than everyone.”
“Do you think you’re smarter than everyone?” asked the lime crone severely, and thank God at that moment Ma reached up and pulled him down by the shirt and roughly kissed his cheek.
“Have a good time?” she said, and the group photo fell out of his pocket and into the dip.
“Very nice,” he said.
“Who are these people?” she said, wiping a bit of dip off the photo with her finger. “Are these the people you went to meet? Who is this you’re embracing? This big one.
“I’m not embracing her, Ma,” he said. “I’m just standing behind her. She’s a friend.”
“She’s big,” Ma said. “You smell like beer.”
“Did you girls see Mrs. Link last Sunday?” said the lime crone. “Mrs. Link should never wear slacks. When she wears slacks her hips look wide. Her hips are all you see.”
“They almost seem to precede her into the church,” said the pink crone.
“It’s as if she is being accompanied by her own hips,” said the lime crone.
“Some men like them big,” said one of the blue crones.
“Look at his face,” said the other blue crone. “He likes them big.”
“The cat who ate the canary,” said the lime crone.
“Actually I don’t consider her big,” said the barber, in a tone of disinterested interest, looking down over the pink crone’s shoulder at the photo.
“Whatever you say,” said the lime crone.
“He’s been drinking,” said Ma.
Oh he didn’t care what they thought, he was happy. He jokingly snatched the photo away and dashed up to his room, taking two stairs at a time. These poor old farts, they were all superlonely, which was why they were so damn mean.
Gabby Gabby Gabby, her name was Gabby, short for Gabrielle.
Tomorrow they had a date for lunch.
Breakfast, rather. They’d moved it up to breakfast. While they’d been kissing against her car she’d said she wasn’t sure she could wait until lunch to see him again. He felt the same way. Even breakfast seemed a long time to wait. He wished she was sitting next to him on the bed right now, holding his hand, listening through the tiny vined window to the sounds of the crones cackling as they left. In his mind he stroked her hair and said he was glad he’d finally found her, and she said she was glad to have been found, she’d never dreamed that someone so distinguished, with such a broad chest and wide shoulders, could love a girl like her. Was she happy? he tenderly asked. Oh she was so happy, she said, so happy to be sitting next to this accomplished, distinguished man in this amazing house, which in his mind was not the current house, a pea-green ranch with a tilted cracked sidewalk, but a mansion, on a lake, with a smaller house nearby for Ma, down a very very long wooded path, and he’d paid cash for the mansion with money he’d made from his international chain of barbershops, each of which was an exact copy of his current barbershop, and when he and Gabby visited his London England shop, leaving Ma behind in the little house, his English barbers would always burst into applause and say Jolly Good Jolly Good as the happy couple walked in the door.
“I’m leaving you the dishes, Romeo,” Ma shouted from the bottom of the stairs.
7.
Early next morning he sat in the bath, getting ready for his date. Here was his floating wienie, like some kind of sea creature, here were his nubs on the green tile. He danced them nervously around a bit, like Fred Astaire dancing on a wall, and swirled the washrag through the water, holding it by one corner, so that it too was like a sea creature, a blue ray, a blue monogrammed ray that now crossed the land that was his belly and attacked the sea creature that was his wienie, and remembering what Uncle Edgar had said at the wedding about his shooter not being viable, he gave his shooter a good, hard, reassuring shake, as if congratulating it for being so very viable. It was a great shooter, very good, perfectly fine, in spite of what Ann DeMann had once said about him being a bad screw, it had gotten hard quick last night and stayed hard throughout the kissing, and as far as being queer, that was laughable, he wished Uncle Edgar could have seen that big boner.
Oh he felt good, in spite of a slight hangover he was very happy.
Flipping his unit carelessly from side to side with thumb and forefinger, he looked at the group Polaroid, which he’d placed near the sink. God, she was pretty. He was so lucky. He had a date with a pretty young girl. Those crones were nuts, she wasn’t big, no bigger than any other girl. Not much bigger anyway. How wide were her shoulders compared to, say, the shoulders of the Buggin’ girl? Well, he wasn’t going to dignify that with a response. She was perfect just the way she was. He leaned out of the tub to look closer at the photo. Well, Gabby’s shoulders were maybe a little wider than the Buggin’ girl’s shoulders. Definitely wider. Were they wider than the shoulders of the white-haired woman? Actually in the photo they were even wider than the shoulders of the country boy.
Oh, he didn’t care, he just really liked her. He liked her laugh and the way she had of raising one eyebrow when skeptical, he liked the way that, when he moved his hand to her boob as they leaned against her car, she let out a happy little sigh. He liked how, after a few minutes of kissing her while feeling her boobs, which were super, very firm, when he dropped his hand down between her legs, she said she thought that was probably enough for one night, which was good, it showed good morals, it showed she knew when to call it quits.
Ma was in her room, banging things around.
Because for a while there he’d been worried. Worried she wasn’t going to stop him. Which would have been disappointing. Because she barely knew him. He could’ve been anybody. For a few minutes there against the car he’d wondered if she wasn’t a little on the easy side. He wondered this now. Did he? Did he wonder this now? Did he want to wonder this now? Wasn’t that sort of doubting her? Wasn’t that sort of disloyal? No, no, it was fine, there was no sin in looking at things honestly. So was she? Too easy? In other words, why so sort of desperate? Why had she so quickly agreed to go out with him? Why so willing to give it away so easily to some old guy she barely knew? Well, he thought he might know why. Possibly it was due to her size. Possibly the guys her own age had passed her by, due to the big bod, and nearing thirty, she’d heard her biologic clock ticking and decided it was time to lower her standards, which, possibly, was where he came in. Possibly, seeing him at the Driving School, she’d thought: Since all old guys like young girls, big bods notwithstanding, this old pear-shaped balding guy can ergo be had no problem.
Was that it? Was that how it was?
“Some girl just called,” Ma said, leaning heavily against the bathroom door. “Some girl, Gabby or Tabby or something? Said you had a date. Wanted you to know she’s running late. Is that the same girl? The same fat girl you were embracing?”