King Dork

bourbon into the empty can. Because I needed some help, man.

The fourth time I tried Deanna Schumacher’s number, the answering machine message had been changed to “Look, asshole, I screen, so if you don’t leave a message there’s no way you’ll ever find out if I would have picked up.”

Off to a good start. So after the beep, I said, haltingly,

“This—this message is for Deanna Schumacher—” I pronounced it shoe-mocker. But the phone was suddenly picked up and a female voice said, “Skoo-macker.”

“Skoo-macker?” I repeated.

“Skoo-macker,” said the voice.

“Really?”

I realized the conversation was going nowhere, and I decided to suspend my disbelief about the whole Skoo- macker thing. She was the Schumacher expert around here. “This is she,” the voice was saying with charm-school precision.

“Who, may I ask, is calling?”

“Oh. This is, um um Tom Tom Henderson.” The “um um” is where I momentarily forgot who I was. I was starting to say, though with perhaps a bit less suavity than I had planned, that we had met at a party in Clearview Heights last month, when she broke in:

“Tom-Tom?” she said. “Is that Moe Henderson? Chi-Mo Henderson?”

That about covered it. So she had known who I was. Not surprising, if she knew Susye Teneb.

211

“Oh. Yes. We met at a party—”

“How nice to hear from you. What can I do for you, Tom-Tom?”

“Oh. Well, we met at a party—”

“What?” She was determined not to let me deliver the rest of my suave “we met at a party” speech. She was quite the conversationalist.

I decided to ignore her interruptions and charge ahead, so I explained that we-met-at-a-party-in-Clearview- Heights-last-month, and tried to make it quick so it would fit in the brief space before she burst out with another interruption. I just about managed it, too, and I think the information finally penetrated, because her next question was quite to the point.

“And?”

Well, that was a tough one. So many different things could follow that “and.” And, I don’t know if you remember, but we made out on the couch when a telekinesis experiment went awry. And you wouldn’t let me go down your pants, going “my tits, my tits” instead, and I was wondering whether that was because of ladies’ week or was there some other reason? And you asked about my band’s gigs, and, well, it just so happens that we’re playing at the Festival of Lights in a few weeks, maybe you’d like to cut class at IHA and come? And I look fondly upon the special moments your left breast and I spent together, and I’d welcome the chance to pick up where we left off and get to know the rest of you better. And, though I doubt it’s something people generally say about just anybody whose nipple they happen to maul in a dark room at this or that fake mod stoner party, I have this dream where we’re imaginary boyfriend-girlfriend in a Sex Alliance Against Society. . . .

None of those answers to “And?” would have fit into one of Deanna-Fiona’s pauses, I knew that, and most of them 212

would have come off weird over the phone. So I said, as quickly as I could:

“I think we have some some matters to discuss, but I’d rather not do it over the phone. Maybe we could get together some time at your convenience if that would be be copasetic.”

Devil-head. Boy, did I ever feel like an idiot.

“You’re so professional, ” she said, giggling. I’m not sure what she meant, exactly, though it sounded sarcastic. I guess she wasn’t stoned enough to be quite as amused by my virtu-oso devil- headedness as she had been at the party. Then she said: “Are you asking me out, Tom-Tom?”

Was I? “Oh,” I said. “Oh. Um. Well. I mean . . .”

“You know, I have a boyfriend.”

“Right. Dave.”

“Tim.”

“Tim?”

“Tim.”

“Really?”

“Really. I think I would know.”

I could sense that this fascinating conversation was draw -

ing to a close, and I was trying to figure out a way to slip in a quick “well, nice talking to you, bye now,” to make her hanging up on me seem a bit less embarrassing, when she said, to my astonishment:

“Well, maybe you’d better come over, then.”

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