“I have my mother’s rear end. Like two small basket-balls covered over in flesh, that’s what she said once, on a car trip.” She emits a little chuckle. Ray gets an odd look on his face, and Mirabelle reads him and she says the only funny thing of the morning:
“Don’t worry, she’s older than you are.”
He wants to reach over and slide his hand in between the opening in the robe that he has lent her. He wants to relive last night, to trace his hands over her breasts, to analyze and codify and confirm their exact beauty, but he doesn’t. This will take place on another night with dinner and wine and walking and talking, where the seduction is not assumed, and the outcome undetermined. His sexual motor is already whirring and purring for their next date.
Ray’s libido is exactly twenty-four hours ahead of his reason, and tomorrow at this time he will recollect that Mirabelle became quite helpless in the morning and wonder about it (his mind works slowly when it comes to women; he often does not know that he has been insulted, slighted, or manipulated until months or sometimes years later). But since he does not know what to expect from a woman – his four years of dating have not really educated him – he accepts Mirabelle’s morning behavior passively. Ray’s former experience has been with tough-minded, outgoing, vital, ambitious women, who, when displeased, attack. Mirabelle’s dull inertia draws him into a peaceful place, a calm female cushion of acceptance.
He drives Mirabelle home, just in time for her to get ready and be late for work.
jeremy’s adulthood
THE STENCIL ADHERES TO THE amplifier by manila tape, and Jeremy has learned to evenly apply the paint in one skillful squirt of the airbrush. The Doggone Amplifier Company has a logo of a dog with cartoon speed lines trailing out behind it, with the brand name laid out in a semicircle underneath. It is not easy to fill in the delicate speed lines; some of the earlier paint jobs, before Jeremy joined the ranks, are uneven and sloppy. When he works he crouches in an uncomfortable position that only someone under thirty could bear for long before he would have to seek work elsewhere. His salary is so small that his paycheck could read so and so measly dollars and no one would contradict. But it’s Jeremy’s work clothes that tell the story of his line of business: his jeans look like a Jackson Pollock and his T-shirt looks like a Helen Frankenthaler – he is working at the bottom end of the arts.
His boss, Chet, ambles through the warehouse with a client in tow, and their faint muffled voices waft over the stacks of amps to Jeremy’s straining ears. He catches a glimpse of them and notices that the client is a sharply dressed businessman, presumably the manager of a rock band trying to make a deal for a ton of amplification in exchange for promotion. The problem in the negotiation, of course, is that Chet only wants to sell amps, and the manager only wants them for free. There is no middle ground. Chet’s business is waterlogged and about to sink and he simply can’t afford to ship out fifteen thousand dollars worth of equipment for use months later. The manager slips away with a handshake and Chet stands there as the Mercedes disappears out of the lot through the chain-link fence.
For Christopher Columbus, it was the sailing of three ships that launched his life’s great journey. For Jeremy, it is the sight of the sinking Chet watching the ass-end of a hundred-thousand-dollar car shrink to a vanishing point down an industrial street in Pacoima. He lays down his spray gun and gets in Chet’s field of vision.
“You know what I was thinkin’?”
“What was that?” Chet barely replies.
“You know who hangs out with rock musicians when they’re on the road?”
“Who?” says Chet.
“Other rock musicians.”
“And?”
“If you had someone on the road with one of the bands using our stuff, someone who looks sharp, like that guy does…“ he thumbs in the direction of the dust of the Mercedes, “…someone the musicians could relate to, I bet you could sell a lot more amps.”
“Do you have someone in mind?”
“Me.”
Chet looks at the specter of ineptitude that is standing in front of him. He does not see a sharply dressed businessman; he does not see a clever salesman. But he does see someone he thinks a rock musician could relate to.
“And how much would you like to be paid to do this?” says Chet.
“I could do it for…“
Jeremy has never, ever been asked such a question. He has always been told what he would be paid. He can’t even fill out an employment form that asks “desired salary” as it confounds him: he always wants to write down one million dollars. But Jeremy has been asked, so he has to answer:
“…nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing?”
“I could do it for…“
Jeremy has heard only one financial phrase in his life, and he opens and closes every door in his memory bank until he finds it:
“…a finder’s fee.”
“And what would you find?” says Chet.
“Bands to use the amps. And if another band starts using the amps because of a band I got to use the amps, I’d like a finder’s fee for them, too.” And then hastily adds, “of five hundred dollars.”
Chet can’t see any reason not to take Jeremy up on his proposal. After all, it’s a kind of commission basis, an Avon Calling of rock and roll. Since a set of amps can cost fifteen thousand dollars, it will be easy to shoot five hundred Jeremy’s way. He doesn’t see any problem in finding a new stenciler; in fact, his nephew is just out of high school and is looking for a job in the arts. Jeremy, overestimating his own value, is thinking the exact opposite: “I hope he doesn’t realize he’s going to have to find someone else to stencil.”
Chet accepts the offer but does have to lay out some cash. Two hundred and twenty-two dollars for Jeremy to buy a new suit. Jeremy is enterprising enough to stretch the dough into an extra pair of pants so he won’t look like a carbon copy of himself day after day. He then spends five dollars on a copy of GQ for his road bible on dressing and finds cool ways to manipulate his own six shirts into a weekly wardrobe. On the road, he learns to scan newsstands and surreptitiously tears pages out of magazines with ideas for style.
Jeremy’s first gig is with the only professional band currently using Doggone amplifiers, Age – pronounced AH-jay. Age has scored some success with a one-shot hit record and Jeremy offers to accompany them for free in exchange for on-the-road amp repair. He will travel on their bus and bunk with a roadie. His real mission, of course, is to convince some other band, somewhere else, that he is a genius acoustician who has developed the ultimate amplifier and that Doggone amps are the only amps that any hip band can possibly consider.
Three days before Thanksgiving, he boards Age’s auxiliary bus for a sixty-city road trip, starting in Barstow, California, heading toward New Jersey, and ninety days later, in a masterpiece of illogical routing, ending in Solvang, California.
thanksgiving
RAY AND MIRABELLE’ S SUBSEQUENT DATE after the night of their consummation is as good as the first, but Ray will be out of town on Thanksgiving, so Mirabelle is forced to rely on her unreliable friends. She speaks to Loki and Del Rey several days before, who say they are going to a backyard feast in West Hollywood, but they don’t know the address yet and will call her when they get it so she can come. Several days before, she lays out her clothes for the occasion so she won’t accidentally wear them too soon and have nothing to wear on the big day. Mirabelle’s real ache comes from not being with her family, but it is either Thanksgiving or Christmas, and Christmas is the better and longer stretch during which to get away. Because of her unimportance to Neiman’s she swings it so she can get a full five days off, assisted by a big lie that her brother’s psychiatrist is going on vacation and the whole family is needed during the holidays to keep him straight. Mirabelle delivers this plaint to Mr. Agasa with a slight cry in her voice that says she is about to break down in tears. The genuine sympathy Mr. Agasa shows for Mirabelle’s perfectly healthy brother embarrasses her, especially when he volunteers several book titles that link good mental health with exercise, forcing Mirabelle to dutifully write them down and file them in her purse.