Lady
“What’s your name? I might have asked before, but I forgot.”
“I’m calling myself Lady these days.” What I don’t say is “after my Lady Smith revolver” that I keep it in my underwear drawer.
“Lady,” smiles my handsome friend. “If you’re Lady I wanna be the Tramp.”
We both smile.
We had met at yoga. We both like Nate who goes slowly, doesn’t blast you with constant oldies-but-goodies or even worse, fake spiritual crap. We had walked out together twice and chatted. Now we are having cappuccino, his treat. That’s the first step in the dating ritual. Cappuccino and then if the spark is there, a date soon after in the evening. I’d been through dozens of variations of this dance since my divorce, but had abandoned all such activities once the dark arm of the angel of death, the big C, had appeared and just as mysteriously disappeared like a miasma of smoke that clears after the bomb goes off. I’m in remission. But for how long?
Photo: Joel Goodman
Until this handsome classmate sidled up next to me after class, the only thing on my mind has been another man, one who haunts my days, and appears in my fantasies and often my dreams. I’d even tracked him down and seduced him. And he’d liked it. Had I liked it? Certainly I’d enjoyed that my motivations were unknown to him, just as his had been unknown to me back when I was young, sweet and naive. His hobby I discovered later was popping cherries then saying cheerio, so to speak. It was a long time ago, but the night is seared in my memory. He did what he wanted and vanished.
Looking at this gentle man across from me, I know he would never do such a thing to a girl. That night, so long ago, became a sort of template for my future relationships, meaning I learned to suck it up young and expect the worst – and blame myself when it didn’t work out. I could never get back all those years, those feelings I lost, because I had to squash them down. Squash them down and let them rot inside me. No wonder I had gotten the big C.
“And you? What’s your name?” I ask my handsome yoga friend who smiles.
His teeth aren’t very white. I like the off-color teeth. It is like a slap in the face to the prevailing zeitgeist. Should I tell him this? When you are single and “out there” you have to be very careful with big words. Big words intimidate men and sometimes women too. But fuck it. This last act of my life is just for me. I can say all the big words I want.
“So?” I’m still smiling
“I’m Blue,” he tells me, “like the color…”
Blue
It’s been three weeks since Endless showed up. Already Blue feels at home in the two small neat rooms above the antique shop. He’s grown accustomed to the food cards, the yoga pass, though he’s still in awe of the wonderful cappuccino he gets to drink every single day here at the café on Montana. He has stopped being friends with Nate, the yoga teacher, because naturally that’s whom Endless wants gone. It makes him almost sick thinking of it. Why the fuck do the good always have to die young?
This woman, Lady, and she is a lady, feels like icing on the cake of his new life. He likes her, she doesn’t push his buttons. He knows right away when his buttons are pushed. She’s smart; she has a sense of humor. He supposes they are around the same age, with maybe a couple of years more for her.
Blue has sought her out, even though he’s supposed to be figuring out how to off Nate, or as he told himself last night, help him leave the planet for a better place. He thought of that phrase last night as he lay in bed, waiting for sleep inside his nice clean bed, near the window with the moon and street lights outside, even the telephone wires that kind of hiss are sweet sounds to him. The sounds of being out of prison: bits of polite conversation, a laugh, one made without someone getting kicked or punched or reamed or slammed into solitary. Prison makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end at the sound of laughter, and even the sound of tears. For a man, anger and
tears are a dangerous combination.
Still, Blue is getting used to the idea. Endless has told him he can stay here for a while in the new life. They want him to stay in place. That’s fine with him. A life like this, with his needs met, suits him just fine. On one of his earliest runs, he’d had a house, a car, and then of course he lost it all at the tables. Or maybe they’re just shitting him. The hit man is often the next to go.
“I’d like to see the ocean, would you?”
“Yes,” Lady replies, and takes a last sip and wipes her mouth not so daintily then blows her nose. He likes her forthrightness. Nothing phony about Lady. My Lady he feels like saying.
They take the ten blocks west at a fair clip, not talking much, past stores that sell nothing and fancy salons that promise straight hair or no hair. Does Lady wax it all off? He hopes not.
Halfway there he takes her firm warm hand and she squeezes it back, with just the right kind of squeeze. How does she know how to do everything right? Probably she leaves just a little.
The weather has been cool lately, cool and often there is rain, unusual for southern California. They get to the ocean at five forty-five, just as the beautiful sky is lit with the sunset. It really does look like a ball of fire about to drop in the water. Colors he’s never registered before are registering now: the grays near the blues, the light purples and the bits of orange. Best of all are the rosy clouds that are starting to lose the light.
Blue leans toward her, their heads touch for a moment, he closes his eyes.
He opens them to a now familiar voice. Endless, who is standing in front of them is asking for the time. Endless, holding his watch up, smiling sweetly to Lady, “I think my watch has stopped.”
Fucking Endless.
Blue stares back mildly, but inside he’s roiling. Endless – maybe Endless is the one who has to go – not Nate. He wonders if he could pull it off – killing a Federal agent…
Blue smiles sweetly at Lady and then at Endless, “No problem.”
The characters in this story also appear in Hot Water, Safe Zone, Christmas Eve, New Year, Blinded by the Light, A New Man, The First and Aftermath.
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