“I really don’t—”
“It’s cool,” she says. “I told you I don’t want any of that relationship torture, but it’s kind of bullshit that you’re just going to keep her to yourself like that. I bet she’d be my bitch. She’s the quiet type. Actually, I bet she’d end up wanting to make me her bitch. I saw the way she looked at me when I popped out of the room flashing my honeypot.”
“Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound when you say shit like that?”
If my tone weren’t so hostile, I might be able to pass the question off as a joke.
“What the fuck is your problem?” she fires back. “I’m just talking a little bit of slap and tickle. I’m not saying I want to steal her from you. I’ve never been with a woman. I’m curious.”
“You know I find it really hard to believe there’s anything you haven’t done in that arena.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks. “You’re just jealous. You’re a jealous little boy who doesn’t want to share his plaything.”
“She’s not a plaything,” I snap. “You know what? Why don’t I just take you home? Tonight’s turning to shit in a real hurry.”
“You’re telling me,” she says. “Why don’t you call me when your fucking balls drop?”
“Oh, fuck off,” I tell her. “Every time I don’t want to go along with your psycho bullshit, you talk like it’s because I’m not a real man. News flash: It’s because you’re out of your god damned mind.”
“News flash? What is this, the seventies?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Just drop me off here,” she says. “By the way, it’s bullshit that I can’t smoke in here.”
“It’s a rental car!” I shout.
“Why would you rent a car anyway? It’s such a waste of money in the city.”
Ah, the age-old male dilemma: do I blow the whole thing up by telling her I was trying to take her out on something that resembled an actual date, or do I lie and figure out a way to make up with her so we can keep having sex?
“I wanted tonight to be special,” I tell her.
What the hell am I doing? I decided on the lie.
“Special? Giving you a knob bob in the parking lot of a baseball stadium is your idea of a special night?”
“I wanted to take you to the game,” I tell her. “I was trying to take you out on a date.”
“Pull the fucking car over,” she says.
This isn’t the easiest task where we are in the Bronx this time of night.
“I told you I didn’t want any of that,” she says. “You crossed the line, Dane. Let me out!”
“What? You’re going to catch a cab back to Manhattan right now?” I ask, finally managing to double-park.
“Don’t call me,” she says. “Don’t come by. Stay out of my life, you fucking freak.”
With that, she throws her door open and gets out of the car.
She’s hailing a cab by lifting her shirt. It works well enough, but the woman is fucking insane.
When she gets in the cab, she doesn’t get in the back, but the front seat. At least I know she’s getting home safe as I pull back into my lane and drive off. I just wished I’d spared myself the glance in the mirror, seeing her head dipping below the dashboard.
A few weeks ago, I would have told you that Wrigley was the perfect woman for me: no worries about monogamy, a little crazy, insatiable. Now, though. I don’t know.
There’s got to be something more to it than that.
I can’t believe that I’ve actually grown bored of a woman with a sex drive higher than mine.
I know I’m paying by the mile, but I drive around the city for a while. Most of the time, it’s stoplight after stoplight, waiting for that shade of green that means I can drive free for the next couple hundred feet before I have to stop again.
Every once in a while, though, I hit a few green lights in a row, and I start to let things go. I start to forget all the nonsense.
It never lasts.
I couldn’t tell you what brought me here now, but as I’m pulling into the parking lot of l’Iris for the very first time in a car driven under my own power, I know where I’m going. For the first time in a long time, I know where I’m going.
I’m through the back door and standing outside Jim’s office before anyone sees me.
That’s going to work to my benefit.
I knock.
“Come in.”
I open the door.
“Dane,” Jim says. “You’re not on tonight, are you? I thought Cannon was running the kitchen.”
“Yeah, I’m sure he’s running it through a wood chipper,” I tell him, “but that’s not why I’m here.”
“Okay,” he says and leans back in his chair. “Why are you here then?”
“Jim, I get that you’ve got to cut some spending, but you’ve kept me on this long. I know you don’t want to let me go.”
“Yeah, I told you that—”
“Just let me finish,” I say.
This is probably the most respectful I’ve ever been to my boss.
“Okay.”
“Jim, I don’t mean to sound like a clingy girlfriend or something, but I need to know where this is going. If you’re going to fire me, fire me now. I’m not just going to sit around and wait for it to happen. If you’re not going to fire me, well, I have a few ideas.”
He puts his hands together, interlocking his fingers.
“I’m listening,” he says.
“First,” I tell him, “we dump Cannon. I’m sorry Jim, but he’s just nowhere near good enough. Even when I am there pissing down his neck, he’s only ever half on, and you know that’s not anywhere near cutting it.”
“Dane, I don’t think firing Cannon is going to—”
“Next,” I interrupt, “we promote Wilks to executive chef and demote me—with pay decrease—to sous chef. He’s going to need me for guidance over the first couple of weeks, but he’s really one of the most talented guys I’ve ever worked with in this business. When he came in here, he didn’t know the difference between crème brûlée and a ramekin full of baked spunk, but within a week, he was up to speed. He doesn’t know everything we do just yet, but I know he can learn and he’s got some fresh ideas that I think will really bring the customers in and get them talking.”
“I get that you’re trying to save your own job, but putting one of your underlings up as executive chef isn’t going to get me to let him go instead of—”
“You won’t want to let him go,” I tell Jim. “You hire him on as executive chef and cut the pay of the position by twenty percent. It’s still going to be about double what he’s making, so I really don’t see him complaining.”
“I can’t have a sous chef making more than my executive,” Jim says, “that’s a steaming vat of resentment I’d prefer to keep out of my restaurant.”
“I know, Jim,” I tell him. “That’s why you keep my below what you give to Wilks. With Cannon gone and your head and sous chefs cut back on pay, you’re going to be saving a lot of money and I’m not out enough cash to screw things for me, either.”
“What’s the catch?” Jim asks, leaning forward. “You’ve never once said anything positive about Wilks. Why is he suddenly the golden boy? I don’t see what you get out of this.”
“I never told you about Wilks because, well, honestly, I didn’t want you to figure out that he’s better than I am and do exactly what I’m telling you to do now.”
“Why are you doing this?” Jim asks again.
“I want to keep my job,” I tell him. “I was getting a blowjob from this freak I’ve been nailing a few weeks in the parking lot of Yankee stadium—”
“Oh for fuck’s sake…”
“Just listen,” I tell him. “I started to realize that I’ve spent all my life trying to get that quick release, that instant gratification and it wasn’t until tonight that I realized that’s not really what I want. It’s never really been what I want, but that’s because I’m a coward. It’s just easier to take advantage of people than to put the best person forward and try to make things work with them.”
Jim laughs. “That must have been one terrible blowjob.”
“Actually it was fantastic. She does this thing with her tongue—pierced, by the way—where she’ll—”
“I got it, I got it,” Jim interrupts. “You’d actually be willing to do all this just to keep your job?”