The Jewel Box (37 page)

“I was thinking more along the lines of The Captain and Tennille. Hey, hold on a sec. I can’t talk without a cigarette.”

I heard Eric’s voice and thought what a salt-of-the-Earth good guy her husband was, and how Delilah had become more responsible over the years. Still slightly warped, though.

“Cherie, you need to stop wallowing in the past.” She paused to take a drag. “Go on a date—it’ll help.”

“Dating doesn’t help. Every time I try to detach, he calls. Gabriel feels the same as me.”

“Well, he won’t do anything about it.” Delilah all but yelled. “Gloria and Hope are happy he’s not with you, and maybe he thinks being miserable with Fran is his penance for what he did to Astrid and his girls.”

“You’re probably right.” I found some grapefruit juice and poured myself a glass.

“Just feel lucky you two shared something great once. Really Cherie, put a lid on your memories, toss ’em on a shelf, and start dating again.”

“There’s gotta be more to life than smiling at lousy jokes during dinner, dodging lips after that, and ending the date by saying I’m not interested so take your penis elsewhere.”

“Stop using Gabriel as a gauge for men, and maybe you could fall in love again.”

“In the immortal words of Dionne Warwick:
I’ll never fall in love again
.”

“Cherie, if things are meant to be you two will be cashing your social security checks together and sitting your butts in rocking chairs when you’re eighty, but until then, have some fun and enjoy life. Gabriel obviously hasn’t put his life on hold for you.”

Heaven help me. Delilah was right.

M.C. Hammer was belting
U Can’t Touch This
, and I was longing for some favorite Motown music when the phone rang. It was Beau! The best music my ears could ever hear. He had been hospitalized for weeks with a bout of emphysema, and then recuperated at his first wife Celeste’s home. She insisted he stay at her house so their son Gilles could check on him when she wasn’t around. Beau was happy to be back in his unadorned apartment, but talked about plans to head to Vegas the minute he was well again. Nothing could nip the joy that came from hearing his voice, but his frail utterance worried me.

A week later Beau called to say he was feeling better and had found an old side table and a ladder lamp table he was sure I could refurbish. I was so excited about our Friday date, I spent the week cooking and freezing casseroles to take him. I’d listened to KLOL’s traffic updates in transit, but still wound up getting a ticket in my rush to see Beau. I would’ve risk jail time to hear him say “Baby” while wrapping me in one of his hugs—an embrace that evoked tears from me.

His wonderful smile lit my heart, but Beau looked pitiful. Pale, bone thin, and struggling to catch his breath between words, still he noticed my tears and immediately attempted to soothe my concern. “I feel better than I look, baby.” And he rolled into story telling mode, easing my worry as he took me along on his favorite sentimental journeys. I would’ve been there all night had his lungs cooperated. Before he secured his oxygen for the
evening, I hugged him extra long, making him promise to call anytime he wanted my company and especially if he felt ill. “Baby, if I get really sick I’ll put your unlisted phone number in my wallet. My memory isn’t what it used to be. It irritates me no end that this seasoned Black Jack player can’t recall numbers.”

“There’s bound to be a tattoo parlor somewhere around here. Let’s ink it on your arm.”

“I’ve had too many needles poked in my arms the past few months.” He was too tired for tattoo jokes. “But I’ll be okay and will try to let you know if I’m not.”

“Try?” I asked, in way-too-whiny voice.

“Baby,” Beau attempted to speak, but began coughing something fierce. We slipped oxygen on him for a few minutes and I monopolized the conversation until a healthier color suffused his face. “That dang Lanny Griffith didn’t help my cause tonight,” I said.

“Who?”

“Houston’s Master for Traffic in Bondage. He wears black leather and cracks his whip to keep listeners informed about traffic jams, but failed to keep me from getting a speeding ticket.”

“Let me pay for that,” he offered.

“No way. I’ll take it to court, cop won’t show up, and I’ll win.”

“You sure?” He started coughing again.

“I’m positive. And you need to rest so please don’t say another word.”

His neighbor arrived to help me load the old furniture into my Bronco. I waved and blew kisses to a coughing yet smiling Beau as he sat watching from his apartment window. I looked up while driving away, and saw Beau flash a single playing card. I couldn’t read it, but knew his weak hand was holding a
Jack of Clubs
.

25

Beau wasn’t up to many visits and our talks grew rare, so I busied myself elsewhere, determined to forget what’s-his-name. The ‘91 calendar was rapidly rolling toward May ninth when I rolled into the Sculley situation at Griff’s pub where I watched Rockets basketball. Despite my attraction to this Irish advertising man with blond hair, blue eyes, and year round tan, I resisted his date requests. He was Gabriel in a tailored suit—sans moustache.

His simple “Hi, I’m Aidan Sculley,” introduction back in 1990 was drenched in sensuality and accentuated by the flashing of his pearly whites.

“Oh, I’ve heard of you. Prone to tantrums, part-time bounty hunter, collector of belly button lint, wannabe priest, single helix DNA, and you were once caught kissing a corpse.”

“Pretty funny,” he said, uncertainty belying his comment.

“Well, I used to be pretty funny. But that was a while back.”

“What happened?” He brushed his hand across the breast pocket of his suit.

“Let’s just say I fell from grace with a family that was more like my family than my genetic family, so my only family now is my aboriginal family.” I gazed into the crowd.

“Sounds interesting.” He shot me a dubious look.

“What a coincidence, I used to be that too. But my wise personality just fired a warning shot reminding me to get away from the opposite sex.” I turned my attention to a big screen TV.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Adian offered.

“I don’t drink much, so thanks and buh bye.”

“
Adios
,” he said, yet never budged. The guy was either hearing impaired or hellaciously persistent.

“Bueños nachos,” I responded. He had definitely derailed my train of thought. Although I suspected he was addicted to Binaca, there was no denying my physical attraction to him. Aidan was a very sexy piece of business. He stood stoically in his usurped post, forcing me to move elsewhere. My mercurial mind already hatching plans to substitute him for you-know-who.

Every time I saw Aidan he would do something incredibly asinine, like loudly sing the theme song to
The Fresh Prince of Bel Air
or suddenly break into discourse on Descartes. He was peculiar. My kind of guy. His athletic body verified his statements about being a health food nut, exercising regularly (participating, not just watching sports), and his casual dress consisted of walking shorts and wild print shirt, indicative of the Woodstock era. I learned through others that Aidan owned a small ranch in California, but considered himself a multifaceted rancher. Capable of roping and branding cattle, Aidan left such chores to hired cowboys while he enjoyed the great outdoors. His varied background intrigued me.

“Wow. Check out the callipygian.” Aidan nodded to a passing girl as we sat at Griff’s watching a Rockets game.

“Callipygian?” I questioned.

“Oh, it’s an esoteric and rather useless word that means big-assed. I was an English professor at UCLA, and tend to remember minutia like that.”

No way.
I thought to myself, even more intrigued. “Then you could tell me all about Dorothy Parker.” I attempted to check authenticity. Remember, I’d been involved for two years with Mr. Would I Lie To You Baby?

“Too easy.” He slid onto the barstool beside me. “The sarcastic American writer of short stories, poems, plays, reviews and magazine articles, who was rarely without booze, attempted suicide several times, wrote ‘Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses,’ walked around without her glasses because she liked things blurry, and left her estate to the NAACP.”

“I’m impressed, Mr. Sculley.” I raked my bangs over my forehead, attempting to awaken any finesse I previous possessed for communicating with attractive, interesting men.

“Good,” he said, observing me. “I’d like to impress you. My friends from California call all the time asking me to settle disputes on literature, history, politics, song lyrics and old television shows. I’m a vast receptacle of trivia. Feel free to indulge.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I flipped my hair in flirtatious fashion, realizing my libido had sprang back to life. “Why did you stop teaching?”

“Mo’ money, mo’ money. And I wanted a job that entailed traveling.”

“So.” I nervously twisted my locks into a side ponytail. “What state did you go to first?”

“State? I went to countries. Starting with the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, Spain.”

“Hemingway must have known he’d ignite machismo in every man alive when he wrote about that custom.”

“
Si, señorita.
” Aidan nodded in agreement.

“
Hable usted Espanol?
” I mustered some Spanish and swept my tresses back to norm.

“
Si. Y tengo películas para provarlo. Soy un photografo fabuloso,
” he said.

“
Despacio, por favor
,” I asked him to slow down. “I don’t have a clue what you’re saying. I retained only a few words from seventh grade Spanish, and some vulgar street slang.”

“I said I’ve got photos to prove it.” He raised his right hand as if taking an oath. “I’m quite the photographer.”

“I’m sure you are,” I said with skeptical inflection, watching the callipygian girl stroll past us again.

“So, would you like to go to a movie or dinner sometime?”

“Oh, Mr. Sculley. Something about your looks warns me to say ‘No way José!!’ with double exclamation marks.” I rubbed my ankle with my foot.

“My looks? I couldn’t look more clean cut. In fact I’ve been mistaken for one of Christ’s disciples before.”

“Yeaaah? Would that be Judas?” I scurried away as he offered the bartender thirty pieces of silver for a Budweiser. If he smoked, something told me the brand would have been Marlboro.

Shortly after Aidan began to earnestly consider a position as National Ad Director for a travel magazine in California, I accepted a date with him.

“
Dulce señorita.
” He grabbed his heart when I agreed to dinner. “I guess you make all men ask for a year, before agreeing to go out.”

“It’s a celibacy issue. I hear self-inflicted abstinence slows the aging process.”

“Actually, it’s just the opposite.” He winked.

He probably had a plethora of sexual tricks up his bi-lingual sleeves, but he was leaving for California in the near future and I couldn’t possibly become attached. So I decided to indulge in that predominately male game. Utilization of current resources. When you can’t be with the one you love, check out tangible bodies.

Aidan arrived at
mi casa
, blue eyes sparkling as he whipped out a dozen orange roses from behind his back, saying they represented the number of months he had asked me for a date. He also informed me his color choice signified enthusiasm, desire and fascination.

I lika this cowboy,
I said under my breath while placing the roses in a vase. We went to Birraporetti’s on West Gray, and after pizza I suggested venturing down the way to Marfreless. Didn’t take long for us to find the crooked tree, rusty fire escape, and unmarked blue door. We didn’t see much naughtiness going on in the darkness, so we conjugated verbs while Aidan drank bourbon and I sipped a raspberry martini as chill music played around us. Finally we stopped talking and kissed a few times before leaving. Doubtful we’d become regulars, but at least we experienced the little speak easy so we could brag to friends. On the ride back to my place, Aidan cranked up his Dylan CD and we sang all the way home. His live for today attitude somewhat conflicted his passionate reflections of the Sixties and Seventies. We had a lot in common. Married and divorced twice, Aidan admitted knowing his way around when it came to failed relationships. We also shared the joy of windsurfing and waterskiing, watching Letterman nightly,
Northern Exposure
on Mondays, and
Seinfeld
on Thursdays. When we returned to my house, Aidan grabbed a bucket with chilled champagne from a cooler in the back of his Land Rover. He popped the cork, poured bubbly into our
glasses, then rummaged through my cassette tapes and inserted “Smash Hits of the Sixties” into my stereo. That was all she wrote, cowgirls. I dimmed the lights to cocktail lounge level and enjoyed the spontaneous combustion. Somewhere near the grand finale I murmured Gabriel, but Aidan took it in stride and never missed a beat.