looks like a fashion statement.
I pull up a stool next to him.
“Fabio,” he says, without much enthusiasm. “How’s business?”
“Predictable,” I say. “And you?”
“A rousing success,” he says, taking a swig of beer. I can’t tell if he’s being serious or facetious. Either way works, I suppose.
I run into Failure now and then, which isn’t surprising, considering most of my humans don’t earn a passing grade on life. Once in a while I find him hanging out with Addiction or Guilt or one of the other Lesser Sins. You don’t tend to find the Lesser Sins socializing with any of the Deadlies, who look down at the more venial vices as second-class sins.
We sit in silence while a bleached blonde with breast implants climbs up the dance pole, wraps her thighs around it, then slides down inverted until her hands are touching the stage. I’m not that impressed, but I throw a couple of dollar bills out for the effort. Besides, she’s going to need the money for liposuction treatment when she’s forty-five.
“So I hear you had a meeting with Jerry,” says Failure.
“That so?” I say. “Where did you hear that?”
Failure looks at me with an expression that says: Where else?
Gossip. That little whore. Can’t she ever mind her own business?
“So how’s Jerry?” he asks.
“Omnipotent as always,” I say. “Cracking the whip. Making sure I’m doing my job.”
“Really?” says Failure. “I always thought he was kind of a pussy.”
Somehow, Failure always seems to find a way of making conversation awkward.
“So what are you doing to keep yourself busy?” I ask.
“Oh, the usual,” says Failure. “High schools, racetracks, movie studios. Every now and then I take a trip down to D.C. to fuck with democracy, but that’s pretty much taking care of itself, so I don’t bother.”
Another stripper—this one a slender Korean who’ll be leaving her job as a flight attendant to pursue a career in pornography—joins the counterfeit blonde onstage and starts caressing her thighs.
“I hang out in places like this a lot,” says Failure, taking another pull from his Budweiser. “Not so much for the women. Most of them are just here to make some easy money. But most of the men come here because they’re failures at something. Work. Life. Sports. A lot of them are here because they’re failures at relationships.”
I glance around the club and can’t help but agree.
“They don’t know how to communicate with real women,” he says. “So they come here and feel like they’re successful because they can have a real conversation with a beautiful woman without taking the risk of rejection.”
I nod, though I suddenly don’t like where this conversation is going.
“It’s the ultimate in failure,” he says, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. “Even if they’re wealthy or physically fit, intelligent or fluent in three languages, they’re incapable of speaking the language of love. Of sharing themselves honestly with a woman.”
I signal to the bartender for another Jack and Coke. “Make it a double,” I say.
On the stage, a petite brunette with nipple rings and an undiagnosed case of cervical cancer crawls toward us on her hands and knees.
“They’re afraid of honesty,” says Failure. “They’re afraid of commitment. Of communication. Of intimacy. Of opening themselves up to something that requires more than just physical prowess or financial acumen or insightful witticisms.”
I’m wondering where the bartender is with my drink. And if Bambi is still available in the VIP room.
Failure turns to look at me. “Pretty pathetic, don’t you think?”
CHAPTER 13
I’m on the rooftop garden of my apartment building, sunbathing nude and thinking about Sara. Not in a sexual or French-maid-fantasy kind of way. I’m thinking about her smile and her walk and the way she crinkles her nose sometimes when she’s talking. I’m thinking about her scent and her voice
I pull up a stool next to him.
“Fabio,” he says, without much enthusiasm. “How’s business?”
“Predictable,” I say. “And you?”
“A rousing success,” he says, taking a swig of beer. I can’t tell if he’s being serious or facetious. Either way works, I suppose.
I run into Failure now and then, which isn’t surprising, considering most of my humans don’t earn a passing grade on life. Once in a while I find him hanging out with Addiction or Guilt or one of the other Lesser Sins. You don’t tend to find the Lesser Sins socializing with any of the Deadlies, who look down at the more venial vices as second-class sins.
We sit in silence while a bleached blonde with breast implants climbs up the dance pole, wraps her thighs around it, then slides down inverted until her hands are touching the stage. I’m not that impressed, but I throw a couple of dollar bills out for the effort. Besides, she’s going to need the money for liposuction treatment when she’s forty-five.
“So I hear you had a meeting with Jerry,” says Failure.
“That so?” I say. “Where did you hear that?”
Failure looks at me with an expression that says: Where else?
Gossip. That little whore. Can’t she ever mind her own business?
“So how’s Jerry?” he asks.
“Omnipotent as always,” I say. “Cracking the whip. Making sure I’m doing my job.”
“Really?” says Failure. “I always thought he was kind of a pussy.”
Somehow, Failure always seems to find a way of making conversation awkward.
“So what are you doing to keep yourself busy?” I ask.
“Oh, the usual,” says Failure. “High schools, racetracks, movie studios. Every now and then I take a trip down to D.C. to fuck with democracy, but that’s pretty much taking care of itself, so I don’t bother.”
Another stripper—this one a slender Korean who’ll be leaving her job as a flight attendant to pursue a career in pornography—joins the counterfeit blonde onstage and starts caressing her thighs.
“I hang out in places like this a lot,” says Failure, taking another pull from his Budweiser. “Not so much for the women. Most of them are just here to make some easy money. But most of the men come here because they’re failures at something. Work. Life. Sports. A lot of them are here because they’re failures at relationships.”
I glance around the club and can’t help but agree.
“They don’t know how to communicate with real women,” he says. “So they come here and feel like they’re successful because they can have a real conversation with a beautiful woman without taking the risk of rejection.”
I nod, though I suddenly don’t like where this conversation is going.
“It’s the ultimate in failure,” he says, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. “Even if they’re wealthy or physically fit, intelligent or fluent in three languages, they’re incapable of speaking the language of love. Of sharing themselves honestly with a woman.”
I signal to the bartender for another Jack and Coke. “Make it a double,” I say.
On the stage, a petite brunette with nipple rings and an undiagnosed case of cervical cancer crawls toward us on her hands and knees.
“They’re afraid of honesty,” says Failure. “They’re afraid of commitment. Of communication. Of intimacy. Of opening themselves up to something that requires more than just physical prowess or financial acumen or insightful witticisms.”
I’m wondering where the bartender is with my drink. And if Bambi is still available in the VIP room.
Failure turns to look at me. “Pretty pathetic, don’t you think?”
CHAPTER 13
I’m on the rooftop garden of my apartment building, sunbathing nude and thinking about Sara. Not in a sexual or French-maid-fantasy kind of way. I’m thinking about her smile and her walk and the way she crinkles her nose sometimes when she’s talking. I’m thinking about her scent and her voice
Similar Books
