off on a long vacation by himself, as though
he were some volatile political figure with enemies around every
corner waiting to pick him off. His personal manager, Arthur
Middoth, had practically had a panic attack. “Stew, please, a guy
like you can’t just drop everything and go for a road trip. Lemme
get’cha our best driver and a good vehicle,” the man had suggested
with some angst in his voice. “I have a car, Artie, a bunch of
them, and I don’t need a driver. I want to go by myself—that’s the
whole idea.” Artie pushed his fingers worriedly through his hair,
even though he didn’t have much. “Well then lemme send a couple of
our guys in a second car.” “A couple of our guys? ” Fanshawe
laughed. “I’m not a mafia don, Artie. I just need to get away for a
while, six months, maybe a year,” and then he’d added, “Period.”
What could any of them say? Fanshawe owned them in a sense.
Nevertheless, he felt skewed now, his insides diced up and shuffled
around like something in a wok. First time out of the office and
I don’t know which end is up. Then he looked back at Abbie.
He wanted to say something but couldn’t.
Their eyes locked, and several moments passed, but those several
moments seemed to Fanshawe like full minutes.
Abbie grinned again. The grin couldn’t have
been more full of a joy of life. “What?”
Fanshawe felt like someone speaking in a
cavern. “Can-can I take you out to dinner when you get off
work?”
Her pause seemed like shock. “I can’t. I
have to close tonight; we stay open till two when we have a
convention.”
“Oh.” He’d had no previous idea that he was
going to ask her out. Idiot. What was I thinking? I’m fifteen
years older than her probably, maybe twenty. I’m the OPPOSITE of
her. He struggled for something to say next, but then—
An uproar poured into the bar with no
warning; Fanshawe turned, startled. The professors, he
realized. At once the bar was filled with mostly long-haired,
bearded men ranging from their fifties to their seventies. Where
earlier they’d been wearing suits, now they wore jeans and
T-shirts, and the T-shirts were all emblazoned with prints of dour
faces, presumably philosophers. The men lined up at the bar,
ordering drinks in chaos, waving dollars bills in their hands. They’re like spring-breakers, Fanshawe thought, only…old . But one thing he didn’t like was loud
groups .
And he was embarrassed. Abbie had turned him
down.
Part of himself was oddly impressed, because
she already knew he was rich. But still…
It was past ten already, and his fatigue
from the long drive was taking its toll. “This is a little rowdy
for me,” he tried to tell her.
“Huh?” She was juggling bottles for
squawking customers, pouring two drinks at once. “Not to be born is
best!” someone howled; then someone responded, “Sophocles!”
“I’ve got to go,” he attempted again. “Can
you just put my drinks on my room bill?”
“They were on the house,” she raised her
voice over the revel, smiling as she was now operating several bar
taps simultaneously.
Fanshawe got nudged by a bearded gray-hair
whose T-shirt read TRANSCEND YOURSELF! and showed a print of St.
Augustine. “Pardon my Dasein,” the man said, then barked to Abbie.
“A Witch’s Moon Lager, please!” Pardon my WHAT? Fanshawe
wondered, aggravated. He left twenty on the bar as a tip, looked
once more to Abbie, and saw that she was swamped with demanding
customers. “See ya later,” he spoke up, waving, then slipped out of
his seat. She hadn’t heard him. I can’t even say goodnight to
her it’s so damn crowded. How can somebody as successful as me have
karma this bad? As he was shouldering his way out, he noticed
two attractive women chatting with some of the professors,
long-legged, vivaciously breasted. Their eyes glittered in a mild
buzz. It took a moment to realize he’d seen them before, but in
running apparel, not evening dresses. Harvard and
he were some volatile political figure with enemies around every
corner waiting to pick him off. His personal manager, Arthur
Middoth, had practically had a panic attack. “Stew, please, a guy
like you can’t just drop everything and go for a road trip. Lemme
get’cha our best driver and a good vehicle,” the man had suggested
with some angst in his voice. “I have a car, Artie, a bunch of
them, and I don’t need a driver. I want to go by myself—that’s the
whole idea.” Artie pushed his fingers worriedly through his hair,
even though he didn’t have much. “Well then lemme send a couple of
our guys in a second car.” “A couple of our guys? ” Fanshawe
laughed. “I’m not a mafia don, Artie. I just need to get away for a
while, six months, maybe a year,” and then he’d added, “Period.”
What could any of them say? Fanshawe owned them in a sense.
Nevertheless, he felt skewed now, his insides diced up and shuffled
around like something in a wok. First time out of the office and
I don’t know which end is up. Then he looked back at Abbie.
He wanted to say something but couldn’t.
Their eyes locked, and several moments passed, but those several
moments seemed to Fanshawe like full minutes.
Abbie grinned again. The grin couldn’t have
been more full of a joy of life. “What?”
Fanshawe felt like someone speaking in a
cavern. “Can-can I take you out to dinner when you get off
work?”
Her pause seemed like shock. “I can’t. I
have to close tonight; we stay open till two when we have a
convention.”
“Oh.” He’d had no previous idea that he was
going to ask her out. Idiot. What was I thinking? I’m fifteen
years older than her probably, maybe twenty. I’m the OPPOSITE of
her. He struggled for something to say next, but then—
An uproar poured into the bar with no
warning; Fanshawe turned, startled. The professors, he
realized. At once the bar was filled with mostly long-haired,
bearded men ranging from their fifties to their seventies. Where
earlier they’d been wearing suits, now they wore jeans and
T-shirts, and the T-shirts were all emblazoned with prints of dour
faces, presumably philosophers. The men lined up at the bar,
ordering drinks in chaos, waving dollars bills in their hands. They’re like spring-breakers, Fanshawe thought, only…old . But one thing he didn’t like was loud
groups .
And he was embarrassed. Abbie had turned him
down.
Part of himself was oddly impressed, because
she already knew he was rich. But still…
It was past ten already, and his fatigue
from the long drive was taking its toll. “This is a little rowdy
for me,” he tried to tell her.
“Huh?” She was juggling bottles for
squawking customers, pouring two drinks at once. “Not to be born is
best!” someone howled; then someone responded, “Sophocles!”
“I’ve got to go,” he attempted again. “Can
you just put my drinks on my room bill?”
“They were on the house,” she raised her
voice over the revel, smiling as she was now operating several bar
taps simultaneously.
Fanshawe got nudged by a bearded gray-hair
whose T-shirt read TRANSCEND YOURSELF! and showed a print of St.
Augustine. “Pardon my Dasein,” the man said, then barked to Abbie.
“A Witch’s Moon Lager, please!” Pardon my WHAT? Fanshawe
wondered, aggravated. He left twenty on the bar as a tip, looked
once more to Abbie, and saw that she was swamped with demanding
customers. “See ya later,” he spoke up, waving, then slipped out of
his seat. She hadn’t heard him. I can’t even say goodnight to
her it’s so damn crowded. How can somebody as successful as me have
karma this bad? As he was shouldering his way out, he noticed
two attractive women chatting with some of the professors,
long-legged, vivaciously breasted. Their eyes glittered in a mild
buzz. It took a moment to realize he’d seen them before, but in
running apparel, not evening dresses. Harvard and
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