That got a rise out of him. “What did you tell her?”
“Hey Doc, remember me…?”
“ ‘I am security.’ Yeah, sure, Kirk. Forget her. That’s my advice. But if she comes back asking about the observatory again, let me know.”
In a pathetic last-ditch attempt to sell my idea, I started to remind him that he still didn’t have all the answers he wanted about the Anti-Christ, when he stepped on the front of my first sentence and finished his own thought, like I wasn’t even talking. This does not endear him to me or any of the blue-collar crowd at the observatory.
“…And don’t bother me with any more cock-and-bull stories just to enlist my help in tracking down this woman. If you can’t keep tabs on your own bimbos, it’s not my problem.”
That really hurt. So I steered clear of Turner for the next week.
One night I was nursing a beer over at The Trough, analyzing the knick-knacks preserved, like Solo in carbonite, under half an inch of clear resin that formed the surface of the bar. It was only my first beer but my mind was already more like a test pattern than a sitcom. I was fantasizing about the fossils trapped in the plastic. Was that scorpion still alive, like a bug in amber, when they poured the resin over it? If we ever run out of scorpions will they come to The Trough and mine DNA from Joe’s bar and make new scorpions? Did Joe find that miniature harmonica, or did he buy it for the bar?
Deep stuff like that.
But behind it all I knew I was kicking myself for missing something. I’d stopped treading water and the something deep I was in had quickly gotten over my head. Was I right about Stella, or was I a fool? I’d picked at that question like a scab for days, and I wanted to give up on it—let it heal on its own. I needed this veg time.
“You know your problem, kid?”
I jumped at that. There was Joe, in his white shirt, sleeves rolled up, and his white apron barely covering his gut. He was looking at me with that expression—that disinterested yet fatherly concern look—on his face, as he polished a tumbler with a white dish cloth. The man is such a cliche!
“No, Joe. What’s my problem?”
“See? You and I get along great ’cause you never worry about impressing me, or Agnes, or any of the observatory flunkies that hang around here. But with a pretty woman, or Turner, or anyone whose opinion you care about, you disappear and Kirk the jerk shows up.”
“You’re wrong. I don’t care a rat’s ass about Turner.”
“Oh yes, you do. That goofy streak of yours is as dependable as a Geiger counter. Seems like you spend all your energy saying what you think they want to hear—what you think’s gonna impress them. They end up uncomfortable—like you’re making them look at their own reflection, distorted, like in some warped fun house mirror.”
“Let me guess… you’re going to tell me to relax. Be myself.”
“I’m not saying nothin’. Just telling you what I think.”
Joe’s quick look over my shoulder—those bushy eyebrows doing semaphore duty—made me look up into the big mirror behind the bar. Stella was walking up behind me.
Joe’s little speech made it impossible for me to open my mouth. Analysis paralysis.
She gave me a hug and planted a big wet one on my cheek—like only one day and not a whole week had elapsed since the last one.
“Miss me?” she asked, all innocence and light.
I was actually a little scared of her. Scared of that whispered “Not in your league” I could still see in her face. Scared that it might be true, making our night together a lie, and me only a pawn in her secret plans, which, as it turned out, I wasn’t equipped to even imagine.
Looking into my beer, I mumbled, “Where’ve you been?”
She giggled. “Oh, you poor boy! I thought you were awake when I told you where I was going, but you don’t remember, do you?”
“So tell me again.”
“I had to wrap things up at this land deal outside of Flagstaff. I told you I’d be out of touch. I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I really thought you heard me.”
An explanation I could embrace, true or not. Maybe she really did like me. But I was still feeling a little off balance. I don’t know why, but I just couldn’t bring myself to order us screwdrivers… the word just seemed indelicate at that moment.
“Joe, two Harvey Wallbangers.”
OK, so I panicked.
And when she asked, after her first sip, what was in the drink, I’m sure I sounded real Continental when I said “Panther Piss” instead of Galliano. She laughed, though, and listened and smiled, and I tried to relax and not work so hard to impress her, and began to fall in love.
The next few days were amazing. The only hard part was keeping up the pretense—you know—of not showing I was overwhelmed, out of my depth. Inside of me it felt just like the time the most beautiful girl in high school scared me to death by accepting my invitation to the prom.
We spent a lot of time in Stella’s fancy apartment, or riding around in her exotic red sports car, doing anything and everything there was to do in this tiny hick town tacked onto an observatory. Mostly we just drank each other in, like parched desert rats at an oasis. And yes, the sex did improve. Boy, did it.
Stella’s appetite for life was incredible. I had trouble keeping up. But it wasn’t all exotic and kinky. The simplest things delighted her. She was like a child. I was going through a second childhood with her. Maybe that’s why I fell so hard for her.
But, you know? There were times, like early in the morning when I’d watch her face as she slept—looking eager for life even then—or after dinner when she’d listen to classical music, totally engrossed, wearing this big blown away smile—and other times when I’d catch her, lost in thought, her face expressionless, except for a look of old pain—times like those when I’d know for sure that I would lose her. I knew her too well, and yet not at all. Any future together had been sacrificed in our head-on collision. A little mystery, a long slow discovery, is like a nice circular orbit, good for millions of years. Our intense, white hot clash was more like a comet’s suicidal dive.
I was completely under her spell, though, for as long as she chose to cast it. She was my primary, my sol. I had no doubt that someday I’d run out of her life, my tail between my legs, like an outbound comet. But in classic doublethink I was just as sure that the inward plunge would never end. I was positive (hopeful, at least) that the fire of what we had now would never burn out, never change, and that, where love was needed, what we did have would somehow make do… become enough.
I was a mess.
And not real quick to catch on when she suggested one morning, “Kirk, let’s go to that party at the observatory on Saturday. It’ll give you a chance to introduce me to your friend, Turner.”
And make him turn green with envy, I thought. Oh, yeah, I was really into rubbing Turner’s nose into stuff, back then.
So we went. Or I went, wearing Stella on my arm like an ornament (said the dummy about the ventriloquist).
It was a real groaner of a party. Everyone dressed nice-to medium-formal. Someone was going to get some kind of award. The food was good, though. We strolled around, amazed at how many people I didn’t know. I decided on an elaborate plan: chow down and split.
Turner was absolutely astounded when I strolled up and casually introduced Stella. And she was so cool—said all the right things, “Such a pleasure to meet you. Kirk has told me so much about you.…” like that.
I almost lost my own cool, though, when they went to shake hands and Stella put out her left hand instead of her right. But Turner just bowed, took her hand and raised it to his lips. Gallant old fart.