Right. So, what’s it about?
It’s about the difficulty of enforcing an arbitration award in Kazakhstan.
Ah. Interesting.
No, I said, it’s not. But it looks good on the resume.
Ah.
I went back to my article. I looked for wrongly italicized commas. That’s what you do when you get to draft seventeen.
The guy went back to his drink.
A few minutes later he leaned back in. The aftershave was musky, pungent.
I’m an actor, he said.
Really? That’s great.
Not so great. I’m not working right now.
I’m sure something will come up.
It always does. But I’m in a dry spell right now.
That’s too bad.
Last thing I did was a hair loss thing.
A hair loss thing?
Yeah. You know, one of those spray-it-on-your-bald-spot things. A commercial.
Right, I said, glancing at his long, full hair. Well, it looks very natural.
It was funny, he laughed. They tricked me out in a bald man hairpiece. Itched like hell.
Why wouldn’t they just hire a bald guy?
I don’t know. I guess I had the look they were going for.
I pondered that one.
By the way, he said.
Yes?
You need any carpentry work done?
Gee, I don’t know. You a carpenter too?
Yeah. When I can’t find work. But don’t get me wrong. I’m good. I used to do it for a living. My former life. I’m not one of those waiters looking for a break. Like that one over there.
I looked around.
The one with the bow tie, he said.
Ah, I laughed. Him. Yes.
I’m not like that. I’m a serious guy.
Yes. I can see you’ve got some substance.
You can?
He was surprised. Pleased.
Kind of charming. Innocent.
So anyway, he said. I can do anything. Rough work. Fine work. Whatever you need. Just to tide me over. Til I get another gig.
Gotcha, I said. Right.
Maybe I can find something for this guy, I thought. Nothing big. Can’t afford anything big right now. A little thing. A bookshelf, a table.
Well, I said. Let me think about it. There might be something I could use you for.
Great, he said, getting up to leave. Hey, I’m here all the time. Just drop by and let me know. Or leave a message with Thom.
Sure. I’ll do that. Nice talking to you.
Jake, he said, putting out his hand.
Rick, I said, reciprocating.
His hand was warm. Dry. His grip was loose.
Funny. I’d never seen him there before.
9.
I got home before midnight. An early night. I felt virtuous.
Melissa was still up. She was on the sofa, reading, reclining, legs curled beneath her. Black hair. Green eyes. She was beautiful. After eighteen years, I was still startled by it.
She had a smile for me that night. I basked in it.
What’s up, love?
Nothing, she said. Just reading.
What?
Oh, nothing.
She was embarrassed. It was something about feng shui. Or pressure points. Anti-carcinogenic foot massage. She knew I’d laugh. Yes, darling, my liver feels so much better, now that you’ve squeezed my pinkie just so. Others have squeezed my pinkie before. But not in just that way.
She wouldn’t find it funny.
She was fragile.
I sat next to her. I took her hand. Her fingers were long, patrician. Her skin was dry. There were small, eloquent lines at the corners of her eyes.
She was not so young anymore.
It bothered her.
I met a kind of interesting guy tonight, I said.
Really? she replied.
She sat up a little straighter. An unusual concession.
I was encouraged.
He seemed like a nice enough guy, I continued.
Oh?
I told her a bit about him. The carpentry thing.
‘But don’t get me wrong,’ I quoted him, ‘I’m good. I know what I’m doing.’
She laughed at that. A brittle sort of laugh.
I thought maybe I could get him to do a bookshelf. For the bedroom.
Sure, she said.
I’ll invite him over.
Sure.
Her eyes returned to her book.
The audience was over.
I trudged upstairs.
10.
Next morning my back felt good. I told Judy to cancel my appointment with Dr. Altmeier.
I gave Butch a call. Figured he might know a little bit by now.
Meet me later, he suggested. The usual hang.
Gotcha, I said.
I marked up some briefs. I took a three-hour lunch meeting with a bottle and a half of Corton Charlemagne. 1998. Not as good a conversationalist as Dorita, but it had a good nose and a long finish.
