Oliver's Story

And so I figured something that would save our mutually smirking faces.

'Look,' I said, 'why don't we say the loser takes the winner out to dinner. And the winner picks the place.'

'I pick '21',' she said.

'A trifle prematurely,' I remarked. 'But since I'll take it too, please be forewarned: I eat as much as any elephant.'

'I have no doubt,' she said. 'You run like one.'

This psyching had to stop. Goddammit, let's begin!

I played with her. I mean I wanted to humiliate her in the end and thus I played the bluffer's game. I missed some easy shots. Reacted slowly. Never charged up to the net. Meanwhile Marcie bit, and played all out.

Actually, she wasn't bad. Her moves were swift. Her shots were almost always accurately placed.

Her serve was strong and had some spin. Yeah, she had practiced often and was fairly good.

'Hey, you're not too bad at all.'

Thus Marcie Nash to me, after lengthy although indecisive play. We had traded games about as evenly as I could manage. With my lethal shots still deep inside my hustler's closet. And in fact, I'd let her break my 'Simple Simon' service several times.

'I'm afraid we'll have to knock off soon,' she said. 'I have to be at work by half past eight.'

'Gee whiz,' I said (how's that for masking my aggression?), 'can't we play just one last game? I mean for fun? We'll call it sudden death and winner gets the dinner.'

'Well, okay,' Marcie Nash conceded, seeming nonetheless a trifle worried that she might be late.

Dear me. The boss might be annoyed and not promote her. Yea, ambition should be made of sterner stuff.

'Just one quick game,' she said, reluctantly.

'Miss Nash,' I said, 'I promise you this game will be the swiftest of your life.'

And so it was. I let her serve. But now, not only did I charge the net — I virtually stampeded it.

Wham-bam, thank you, ma'am. Marcie Nash was literally shell-shocked. And she never scored a point.

'Holy shit,' she said, 'you hustled me!'

'Let's say I took a while in warming up,' I answered. 'Gee whiz, I hope this doesn't make you late for work.'

That's okay — I mean, that's fine,' she stammered, somewhat traumatized. 'Eight o'clock at '21'?'

I nodded yeah. 'Shall I book it for 'Gonzales'?' she inquired.

'No, that's just my racket name. Otherwise they call me Barrett. Oliver 'The Great Pretender' Barrett.'

'Oh,' she said. 'I liked Gonzales better.' And then sprinted to the ladies' locker room. For some strange reason, I began to smile.

'What amuses you?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'You're smiling,' Dr London said.

'It's a long and boring story,' I insisted. Yet I nonetheless explained what seemed to make morose, depressive Barrett doff his tragic mask.

'It's not the girl herself,' I told him in summation, 'it's the principle. I love to put aggressive women down.'

'And there's nothing else?' inquired the doctor.

'Nothing,' I replied. 'She's even got a mediocre backhand.'

 

She was dressed in money.

I don't mean the slightest bit flamboyant. Quite the opposite. She radiated the supreme in ostentation — absolute simplicity. Her hairdo seemed free-flowing and yet flawless. As if a chic photographer had caught it with a high-speed lens.

This was disconcerting. The utter neatness of Miss Marcie Nash, her perfect posture, her composure, made me feel like last week's spinach scrunched haphazardly into a Baggie. Clearly she must be a model. Or at least do something in the fashion game.

I reached her table. It was in a quiet corner.

'Hi,' she said.

'I hope I didn't keep you waiting.'

'Actually, you're early,' she replied.

'That must mean that you came even earlier,' I said.

'I'd say that was a logical conclusion, Mr Barrett.' She smiled. 'Are you going to sit down or are you waiting for permission?'

I sat down.

'What are you drinking?' I inquired, pointing at the orange-colored liquid in her glass.

'Orange juice,' she said.

'And what?'

'And ice.'

'That's all?'

She nodded yes. Before I could ask why she was abstemious, a waiter was at hand, and welcomed us as if we ate there every day.

'And how are we tonight?'

'We're fine. What's good?' I said, unable to sustain this kind of phony badinage.

'The scallops are superb … '

'A Boston specialty,' I said, a sudden gastronomic chauvinist.

'Ours are from Long Island,' he replied.

'Okay, we'll see how they stand up.' I turned to Marcie. 'Shall we try the local imitation?'

Marcie smiled assent.

'And to begin?' The waited looked at her.

'Hearts of lettuce with a drop of lemon juice.'

Now I knew for sure she was a model. Otherwise the self-starvation made no sense. Meanwhile I requested fettucini ('Don't be stingy with the butter'). Our host then bowed and scraped away.

We were alone.

'Well, here we are,' I said. (And I confess I had rehearsed this opening all afternoon.) Before she could concur that we indeed were there, a new arrival greeted us.

The wine, m'sieu?'

I queried Marcie.

'Get something just for you,' she said.

'Not even wine?'

'I'm very chaste in that respect,' she said, 'but I would recommend a nice Meursault for you. Your victory would otherwise be incomplete.'

'Meursault,' I told the sommelier.

'A 'sixty-six, if possible,' said Marcie just to help. He evaporated and we were alone again.

'Why don't you drink at all?' I asked.

'No principles involved. I simply like to keep control of all my senses.'

What the hell was that supposed to mean? What senses did she have in mind?