Then We'd Be Happy Read online

at the omelet station, waiting for someone to come up and

  ask for one with a little of this and some of that. We also

  happen to be talking about one of the waitresses, Naomi,

  loud enough so she can’t help but overhear us.

  She’s a sexy little thing. Dimples, perky breasts, nice

  round butt. She drops a fork and picks it up without

  bending her knees, which gives us more to talk about.

  The next time she comes within ear shot, Spencer turns

  to me and says, “Yeah, but would you respect her in the

  morning?”

  Naomi walks closer.

  “You would not only respect me,” she tells us, “you

  would be in awe.”

  Hearing Things

  I TAKE A SECOND, part-time job at a bookstore because I

  really want that Suzuki. The store is in a shopping mall.

  Malls are microcosms.

  You get glimpses into all kinds of interactions—the

  sad, the insecure, the intimate—all the time.

  YOU HEAR A MAN approach the woman who waters all the

  plants:

  “Excuse me. I was wondering if I could speak to you a

  moment. I’m a widower who’s forgotten how to approach

  women and basically what I wanted was to ask you out to

  dinner but I’ve forgotten how to do that. You’re probably

  married, it seems like all the beautiful and intelligent

  women around here are married. I do basically the same

  thing you’re doing. I’m a gardener. No chance, huh?”

  “No, I’m married.”

  THEN WE’D BE HAPPY

  YOU HEAR TWO WOMEN coming out of a restaurant after

  lunch:

  “She was so pretty I was embarrassed to look at her she

  was just so pretty.”

  “Oh, but, Linda, you have a hang up about that.”

  “I know I do.”

  “You really do.”

  “I know I do because you’ve pointed that out to me

  before.”

  YOU HEAR TWO OTHER women in a bookstore:

  “Oh, look, we could get Test Your IQ.”

  “Or we could get Test Your Sex Appeal.”

  “I’d rather test my IQ.”

  IF, LIKE ME, YOU happen to work in the bookstore, you

  get drawn into conversations like this:

  “Why don’t you ask him? I bet he knows.”

  “Can I help you?”

  “No, no, no.”

  “Yes, you can. It’s not for me. My fiancé would like to

  know… Where are your books about sex?”

  “Right over here.”

  “Oh, good… where?”

  31

  AL RISKE

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Do you have any sex manuals?”

  “Right here.”

  “Like Joy of Sex? Oh, there it is. Here it is, honey!”

  “There you go, Brad. Now you’ll know how to handle

  me on our wedding night.”

  I SMILE, SAY NOTHING. I just take it all in. All these

  random encounters. All the confusion and frailty. The

  clues. The hints. The almost-revealed secrets.

  32

  Spencer Has Plans

  WE GO IN THROUGH the back door, past the dishwasher’s

  station where dirty mixing bowls and scorched sauce pans

  are starting to stack up. The cooks are not yet wearing the

  hats they will have to put on once the doors open for

  lunch, and the radio is cranked up as high as it will go

  without distortion.

  With a long wooden paddle, Patrick, the sous-chef,

  fishes a single strand of fettuccini from a cauldron of

  boiling water. Tasting it, he turns off the burner. The blue

  flame disappears.

  “Luke, give me a hand with this, will you?”

  I pick up a clean, dry towel to use as a potholder, and

  we lug the twenty-gallon cauldron to the nearest sink,

  where we drain off the water, careful to hold our faces

  back from the gush of steam we know is coming.

  As we set the cauldron down, Spencer comes out of

  the changing room. He is holding the jacket he left here

  AL RISKE

  last night—his phone and wallet still in their respective

  pockets.

  Lucky bastard.

  “If I had done that, all my stuff would be gone,” I tell

  him.

  Standing on his toes, Patrick turns down the radio, an

  old Panasonic that sits on a shelf high above the sink.

  “You left here in a hurry last night,” he says. “What

  were you thinking?”

  Spencer grins and shrugs. We know he left with

  Naomi, so we can guess what he was thinking.

  “You guys working tonight?” Patrick asks.

  I nod.

  “You know I’d love to be here,” Spencer says, “but I’ve

  got other plans.”

  As we head out the back door, I can hear the envy in

  Patrick’s voice.

  “I’ll bet you do,” he says.

  34

  Bad Boy That I Am

  I FIGURE THE MOTORCYCLE will make me happy and it

  does at first.

  It’s a black and red beauty I get from this guy on

  Craig’s List. Only has seven hundred miles on it and runs

  great. The guy is clearly sad to see it go.

  “My wife gives me the silent treatment every time I

  think about riding it,” he tells me.

  So now the bike is mine.

  First thing I do is ride it hard on the backroads through

  the Santa Cruz Mountains to the beach. I’ve never felt so

  free.

  I’m especially happy when Tanya sees me park it in

  downtown Mountain View. I can see her checking me

  out—sexy bad boy that I am. There’s a ghost of a smile on

  her lips.

  I take off my helmet and wink at her.

  She’s stunned.

  AL RISKE

  I give her a nod and walk away—oh, yeah—cool as can

  be.

  In retrospect, the wink bothers me. The wink may have

  been over the top. I should have smiled. Or not, I don’t

  know.

  36

  History of Heartache

  I DATED QUITE A few girls in my school days. Short-lived

  relationships with long dry spells in between. I remember

  them all fondly now—Jennifer, Alison, Sydney, Zoe,

  Heather, Tara, Brittany, Carrie, Kirsten—even though

  most of them left me heartbroken.

  I got myself into some sticky situations, too, hooking

  up with girls I had no real interest in; I was just lonely. I’m

  sure some of them hooked up with me for the same

  reason—they were hurting and needed me to lick their

  wounds—only I wasn’t smart enough to see it at the time.

  Probably willful ignorance. I was always happier when I

  was with someone, even the wrong someone.

  My problem was I took it all too seriously. I fared

  better when I lightened up. Sad to say, the ones I didn’t

  take seriously, who I went out with just for kicks, are the

  ones I think the most of now. I didn’t always treat them

  well, if you want to know the truth, but it was easier if they

  AL RISKE

  left me. Now I think I messed up some really sweet

  opportunities.

  Mostly, though, I was smart enough to see when it

  wasn’t going to work, and I would steer clear. Eve
n if I

  was lonely. Mostly. I did say mostly. I don’t want to sound

  like I’m contradicting myself, but I suppose I’ve often

  contradicted myself where women are concerned.

  I won’t be happy until I find The One.

  I thought Tanya might be The One, and I was serious

  about her, no matter what she says. I was just trying to

  keep things light. My bad.

  38

  A Little Taste

  TURNS OUT WE ALL like basketball, so we meet at this park

  over by the Pruneyard in Campbell to see who’s got game.

  We’re all decked out in our Converse hightops, big-dog

  shorts, and mismatched T-shirts. Each of us brings a ball,

  too, which means we’re knocking each other’s shots out of

  the clear blue sky, all shooting at once. At first. Then we

  get wise.

  Spencer shows up late, driving a rusted old Bel Air

  station wagon. We all give him shit for buying such a

  beater, but he says he got a good deal and they don’t make

  ’em like that anymore.

  “That thing will still be on the road when we’re in our

  graves,” he says.

  Then he takes his first shot, a high-arcing twenty-foot

  jumper, and sinks it. Just like that. Nothing to it.

  “Look at that!” Marty says. “He sure has his form

  down on that jumper, doesn’t he?”

  “He gets up there, too,” I say. “He’s got good springs.”

  AL RISKE

  “Wait a minute, you’re not saying he gets up there

  higher than me, are you?”

  “Well, Marty, his feet do leave the ground.”

  We all laugh.

  “Hey,” Marty says, “I have a bone to pick with you,

  Spencer. You said you weren’t going out drinking last

  night.”

  “That’s right. I didn’t go out drinking.”

  “You weren’t at home.”

  “I didn’t say I was going straight home.”

  “Oh-ho, did Spencer go over to Naomi’s again? I tell

  you, Spencer, you are the most pussy-whipped guy I’ve

  ever met.”

  “Oh, thank you very much. I just want you to know,

  Marty, that you are the most studly guy I’ve ever known.”

  “I can accept that.”

  Again, we all laugh.

  “You know, Spence, you get a little taste and you turn

  into a puppy dog.”

  Spencer grins, drives left, pulls up, hits another jumper.

  “You come out here and you’re the big ball player.”

  “That’s right. I come out here and kick your ass.”

  “Big ballplayer by day, puppy by night.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  40

  Hook Up

  THE BACKSTREET BAR & GRILL is my kind of place. A

  funky little brew pub where you can get ale, porter, pilsner,

  lager—whatever you want.

  The menu is a giant chalkboard listing a dozen kinds of

  sandwiches and a bunch of other stuff. Chili, nachos, beer-

  steamed hot dogs.

  You order at the counter and they fix your sandwich

  (or whatever) while you wait. Then you seat yourself in a

  booth or table and wander over to the bar to pick up a

  pint.

  If the weather is nice, you can take your stuff up on the

  roof. That’s where Nita and I are on this unseasonably

  warm day in early May, waiting for the rest of the gang to

  arrive.

  She wants to know if I’ve hooked up with Ariel yet. I

  tell her no.

  “Yes you have,” she says. “I know you have.”

  I shake my head.

  AL RISKE

  “She tell you that?”

  Nita sips her amber ale, wipes foam off her lips, and

  smiles at me.

  “You women talk about everything, don’t you?”

  Her smile gets bigger. If she didn’t know before, she

  knows now.

  “Shit!”

  “What’s the big secret? Everybody knows she’s been

  wanting to bag you for months. Why shouldn’t you take a

  little comfort in those mongo boobs?”

  This makes me laugh. Ariel, you may recall, is the older

  redhead from where I used to work and she does have

  spectacular tits. They’re real, too.

  “So, tell me,” Nita says. “Is it true that her husband

  likes to watch?”

  She says this as I’m trying to take a drink. Hefeweizen

  shoots out my nose.

  “He doesn’t even live there anymore,” I say. “They’re

  getting a divorce.”

  “That what she told you?”

  “Ha ha, the place was emp...”

  Nita looks doubtful.

  “You’re just messing with me now,” I say. “Aren’t

  you?”

  42

  Proud

  AT THE MALL, A middle-aged woman returns a copy of a

  book she bought a few days earlier.

  “My husband made me bring it back because we don’t

  have a dog and we’re not planning to get one, so I guess it

  is kind of stupid to have a book about training dogs,” she

  says.

  “Do you have your receipt?”

  “No, I don’t know what I did with it.”

  “I can give you a store credit,” I say.

  “Couldn’t you just give me cash?

  “Sorry, store policy.”

  “But it’s only twenty dollars.”

  I shake my head.

  “Fine,” she says.

  When she’s gone, I mimic her entitled voice: “It’s only

  twenty dollars.”

  My coworker, who heard the whole thing, says, “What

  about it?”

  AL RISKE

  “To me, twenty bucks is twenty bucks.”

  “There’s no reason to be snobby about it.”

  “Me? I thought she was the snobby one.”

  “But really you are in your own way. Your problem,

  Luke, is you’re proud of being poor.”

  “Thanks for setting me straight.”

  “Somebody has to.”

  44

  Waiting

  A HIGH-PITCHED VOICE screams something. A few short

  syllables. Totally unintelligible.

  I am just coming over a wooden footbridge when I see

  them in front of me to the left: A young man with short

  black hair, dressed in gray sweatpants and a purple jacket

  (Marty), and a young woman, also with dark hair, who

  wears skinny jeans and a forest green hoodie (Jackie, I

  think her name is).

  I’m here to play a little one-on-one with Marty, but he’s

  clearly busy and I don’t want to interrupt. I keep walking

  and watch through the corner of my eyes. He tries to grab

  her arm and she pulls away.

  “No,” she says.

  I glance over and see her pushing on his chest with

  both fists.

  “No.”

  I am past them now but I glance back to see Marty

  running. He carries a long navy duffel bag under his arm.

  AL RISKE

  As he reaches the crest of the arched bridge, he slows his

  pace enough to look over his shoulder (to see if she is

  chasing him?) and keeps going. He runs almost out of

  sight before slowing to a walk. He stops and looks back,

  then drops the bag on the grass and settles down beside it.

  I don’t
think she can see him because of the bridge and

  the trees in the way, but he can see if she gets up from

  where she now sits cross-legged on the grass. I get the

  feeling he is just waiting to see what she will do.

  I’ve got the ball and could go shoot some hoops on my

  own, but I circle behind the girl and find a seat on the

  other side of the knoll because now I’m curious.

  Then I see Marty’s head, his shoulders, his torso. He

  stops. His hand goes up as if he has just dropped

  something in front of her. (The duffel bag?) He spins

  around and his frame sinks out of sight.

  I blink and he’s back. His hand cuts the air horizontally

  in a gesture of finality. So I think, That’s it. He’ll come find me

  now and we’ll play some b-ball. But when I walk back around,

  he is on one knee in front of her. Her head is down.

  I hear her saying, “How do you know?”

  And him saying, “Oh, boy… Oh, boy…”

  He can’t believe she is questioning him.

  For a long time they just sit there. She won’t even look

  up at him. If they’re saying anything at all, it’s pretty quiet.

  But all of a sudden he’s on his feet again and stalking

  46

  THEN WE’D BE HAPPY

  away. Then he runs back grabs the duffel bag and starts

  off once more. But once more, like a yo-yo on a short

  string, he’s back, standing over her. He throws down the

  bag and slowly peels off his jacket.

  “Here, you want this, too?”

  (The bag must be hers or in some way “theirs” but

  certainly not his.)

  He swings the jacket around once angrily while she,

  head still down, ducks even further. Calmly, it seems, he

  puts his arms back in the sleeves and raises them until the

  jacket slides down around him. He turns and trots across

  the bridge.

  Instead of following the cement path this time, he turns

  sharply to his left and follows the dry creek bed, watching

  all the while to see if she will look up. She does not. She

  only drops her head lower between her legs, letting her