Ten
Stanford has a lake, Lake Lagunita,
which translates as “Lake Small Lagoon.” This makes about as much sense as “The
El Camino” – particularly because Lake Lagunita is hardly ever a lake. The
winter rainfall offers enough water for a few weeks of sailboarding, but the
rest of the year it’s dry. It used to be the site for the bonfire before the
Big Game against Cal, but then they discovered it was the breeding ground for
endangered California tiger salamanders, and decided to give the poor buggers
some peace.
When
Pisarro requested a ghost-lake picnic, I didn’t much see the point, but she did
have a nice spot picked out: a bench at the northwest corner, in the shade of a
live oak. The branches sprawl out in that gnarly, witchy fashion, dropping
acorns that land at our feet with leafy smacks.
We’ve
just settled in, performed our usual huggy greeting, when a man comes loping
toward us in a suit and tie.
“Hi!
God, long time. How you been?”
I’m
preparing a fake, nameless greeting when the man looks sideways, revealing the
telephone hookup in his ear. He proceeds down the trail, yapping away.
“Pisarro,
ten years ago that man would’ve been locked up.”
She
looks at me and laughs. She’s beautiful. She’s back to wearing makeup, a
further sign of recovery. The dark lipstick and purple eyeshadow bestow magic
on her Mediterranean features. I hope some of this effort is for me. The
longings grow by the day – the dry mouth, the trains of thought that scatter
like cockroaches – and Dr. Pisarro is a prime suspect.
“What
are you thinking about?” she says.
She’s
looking at me sideways, opening up the white acres beside her irises. This does
things to me.
“Tiger
salamanders,” I reply.
“They’re
beautiful. I saw one once when I was hiking.” She smiles. “So tell me about
your son the ruffian.”
“Man!
What was I thinking? Our friend Ponce came out okay – just a concussion, though
they did have to keep an eye on him. You know.”
“Yes,
I do.”
“Marcus
has a spotless record. Had. So they let him off easy. Two days’ suspension.
Eight hours’ volunteer work. I’m surprised he didn’t ask for more.”
“Lots
of guilt?”
“Oh
yeah. You could give that kid a separated shoulder, broken bones, migraine
headaches – no problem. But make him visit suffering on someone else…”
She
peers across the lakebed, where cars are buzzing by on the expressway. “I’m
imagining what any other kid would say. ‘He was asking for it.’ ‘It was an
accident.’ ‘My dad made me do it.’”
“Not
the Mea Culpa Kid. When I’m not picturing him getting eaten alive out there, I
am amazed at his compassion.”
Pisarro
raises a toast with her ginger ale. “Marcus, the Peacemaker.” Then she settles
her head to the back of the bench and closes her eyes. “God, I really needed to
come out here. Work has been so crazy. It’s like they…”
The
rest goes right past me. One of Pisarro’s blouse buttons has popped open. I can
see the top of her breast, a pliable tan plumpness lipping out over a lacy
black bra. The caustic lightness burns through my limbs and I am reaching
across, slipping through the narrow gap of fabric as my hand settles on her
nipple.
Followed
by pain. She grips my wrist, digging in with her nails as she pushes it away
like a small but dangerous animal. Then she slouches forward, gripping her
legs, oddly silent.
“Shit!”
It
comes out as a short hiss, air brakes on a bus. Pisarro jumps up and walks
away. I am left on a bench with two sack lunches. Once again the fuckup.
My judgement is so far off, I’m
afraid to go to work. I’m afraid of the damage I could inflict on our study. I
stroll carefully to the front lawn, where the bright weather has caused an
outbreak of volleyball. I park myself on a bench, settle the two lunches next
to me and stare into a bed of pansies until the purple bleeds into a solid
square.
Perhaps
I have picked a bad spot. Some of the girls are well endowed. And volleyball is
a vertical sport.
“Excuse
me.”
She
catches me by surprise.
“Could
you tell me where Kresge Auditorium is?”
The
following inventory takes half a second: coffee skin (heavy on the cream);
wide, plush lips with a sharp cupid’s bow on the upper; eyes like black olives
behind thin-framed glasses (got a thing about glasses), and a thick mane of
black ringlets, falling past her shoulders like a shawl. Time’s up.
“Sure,”
I reply. “Do you have a piece of paper?”
She
hands me a steno pad, and I draw a map. She sits beside me to watch. She’s
wearing a white cotton dress with petticoats – crosses her legs to reveal brown
leather boots (got a thing about boots). I hand her the pad.
“So
immaculate!” She’s got an accent that’s hard to locate: Carolina, Bronx. Long
vowels.
“I’m
a scientist,” I say. “I like to get things right.”
“Oh!”
She smiles. “Do you work here on campus?”
“Yes,
I do.”
“I’m
interviewing for a job with the lively arts program. Thought I should scope out
the performance spaces. Is it nice working here?”
A
tall Japanese man fires a spike at one of the well-endowed girls, driving her
backward.
“Really
nice. It used to be weird, being around all these students. But they’re great
kids – intensely curious. I think I feed off of that.”
She
lowers her voice. “Is it any problem… if you just got your master’s at
Berkeley?”
“You
are speaking to a Golden Bear at this very moment.”
“Really!”
She laughs. “Is it tough, being in enemy territory?”
“You
will find, after a few red-and-white paychecks, that your loyalties tend to
wander.”
She
opens her mouth in mock horror. “Never!” Then turns to watch the volleyball
match, revealing a golden stud in the side of her nose. I have a thing for
this, also. How have all these tremendous parts come together in this one
package?
“My
father is Jewish, and my mother is from Kenya.” She answers my look with a
grin. “You held out longer than most. Next answer. Nef. N-E-F. Now! If you can
guess…”
“Nefertiti.”
“My!”
she says (this from Carolina). “You just won a cuppa java.”
“I…
did?”
“That’s
what I was going to offer before you so rudely cut me off.”
“Oh.”
I feel like a schoolboy, unsure of my words. “I… Don’t you have to see the
auditorium?”
She
holds up two fingers, like a witch casting a spell, and taps them on my
shoulder. “Much better to pick the brain of an authentic Stanford scientist.”
We
end up in town, at the University Café. It occurs to me that this is where I
first met Kelly. I’m hoping there’s something in the coffee here, because I
desperately want to fuck this woman. It’s crowded, so she tells me to save a
table while she orders our drinks. She walks away with that fashion-model
twist, one foot directly before the other. The cotton dress sways, as do the
generous hips.
Perhaps
this is the key to my unexplained longings. Typical of a scientist, I have lost
myself in overwrought hypotheses, and overlooked the obvious. After two years
of steady, illicit sex with Kelly, I have gone two months without. I am a randy
little salamander, and my needs are not being met. Nef returns with
cappuccinos; hers has a sprinkling of chocolate.
When
we leave, a half-hour later, she spots the marquee of the Stanford Theater.
“The
Thin Man! Oh my God! Myrna Loy is my goddess.”
“So
let’s go,” I say.
“Don’t
you have to go back to work?”
“I
have no idea.” I also have no idea if I’m supposed to pick up a child
somewhere, be home for dinner, drop my wife’s car at the garage. This is
Tuesday afternoon, spun gold, and I desperately want to collect.
Nef
takes my hand and leads me into the theater. When the movie starts, she leans
her head against my shoulder; the black ringlets tickle my jawline. When
William Powell takes Myrna in a clinch, Nef turns to kiss me on the cheek. As
the credits roll, she whispers an invitation. I am aloft in a blur of yes.
I remember very little. I am flat
on a bed, naked, morning light silking in through the blinds. I hear the rivery
whoosh of the freeway, am awake but exhausted, consumed by an image: Nefertiti,
mounted on my cock like a trophy, using her hips to perform feats of kinetic
geometry. She still has her glasses on.
I
roll to the edge of the bed and rub my eyes. I’m awfully thirsty. I stumble to
the sink, my feet like uncooperative frogs, and unwrap one of those plastic
motel cups. When I reach for the tap, I find writing on the mirror, pink
lipstick, big looping letters.
Hi Hopkins. Thanks for a great night! By the
way, I’m 16.
--Nef
Photo by MJV
No comments:
Post a Comment