In the Bag (16 page)
“No, I really do. But I don’t know anything about Jimmy Webb.”
“I bet you know his songs. He had some hits in the sev-enties.”
“Like what?”
“His most famous song was ‘Wichita Lineman.’ It was a big hit for Glen Campbell.”
“I’ve never heard of Glen Campbell,” I admitted. “Or that song.”
“Sure you have,” he said, and he began singing into an invisible microphone as we walked down the narrow sidewalk:
I am a lineman for the county and I drive the main road
Searchin’ in the sun for another overload.
I hear you singin’ in the wire, I can hear you through the whine
And the Wichita Lineman is still on the liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine.
I couldn’t stop laughing. He almost made me forget my stupid pink foam bra. Almost.
“That,” I said between laughs, “is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. But I don’t understand the lyrics. Is it about a phone repair guy listening to a woman talk on the phone? He can hear her singing through the wire? Who’s he listening to? Is he a stalker?”
“No idea,” he said. “The second verse is even weirder.”
“Sing it,” I said.
“Sorry,” he replied. He seemed embarrassed now. I shouldn’t have laughed.
“But I really want to hear it,” I said. “Please?”
“It’s not fair to Jimmy Webb,” he said. Then he pointed across the street. “Is that Internet café open? Let’s go look it up on YouTube.”
So we bought an hour’s worth of time and found Glen Campbell singing “Wichita Lineman.” We listened closely to the lyrics of the second verse:
And I need you more than want you, and I want you for all time.
And the Wichita Lineman is still on the line.
“He needs her more than wants her?” I asked. “Isn’t that sort of an insult?”
“I know,” Webb said. “Can’t you just picture an old guy in a terrible marriage? But he doesn’t know how to cook or where to find the clean towels, so he’s stuck with her.”
“But he wants her for all time,” I said. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Unless he likes needing her?” Webb suggested.
“Which makes him a codependent loser,” I said.
Why was I making fun of Webb’s namesake’s song?
“The melody is really pretty, though.”
“Yeah,” Webb said. “There’s something haunting about it. Listen to this.”
He downloaded a clip of R.E.M’s Michael Stipe singing “Wichita Lineman.”
“It’s pretty but sad,” I said when the song ended. “It’s like the guy’s in love, but there’s something missing. Why is he still on the line? I don’t get it.”
“Me neither,” he said. “Jimmy Webb also wrote ‘MacArthur Park.’ ”
I shrugged. “Never heard of it.”
“It’s the world’s most stupid song. It begins ‘Someone left the cake out in the rain.’ ”
“Oh, wait!” I shrieked. “I do know that song. It was a big disco song, right?”
We watched a YouTube video of Donna Summer singing it and howled. The guy at the computer next to us raised his eyebrows.
“We have to be quiet,” I said.
“Hold on,” Webb whispered. “You gotta see this.” He downloaded a video of Sammy Davis Jr. singing “MacArthur Park.” Then we watched Andy Williams sing it. And then Diana Ross. The Four Tops. Maynard Ferguson. Tony Bennett.
I was weak from laughing so hard. The guy next to us left, muttering something in French.
Webb slid over to the abandoned computer and typed,
This PC is infected. Please use another.
“What’re you doing?” I whispered.
“Just wait,” he said. He highlighted the words and translated them into French. “There. Now no one will bug us.”
God, he’s cool.
“You’re diabolical,” I said.
“Possibly,” he acknowledged. Then he bowed to me. “But my Blouse Girl needs her space.” He smiled. “Hey, this is almost like a date, y’know?”
“I know!” I said.
He went to the front counter and bought more computer time. When he returned, he downloaded Liza Minnelli singing “MacArthur Park.” He took my hands in his and sang along with the words while staring into my eyes. “ ‘I don’t think that I can make it, ’cause it took so long to bake it. And I’ll never have that recipe again.
Agaaaiiinnn
.’ ”
“It’s insane,” I said. “What makes it so funny is how seriously they sing it. It’s just nonsense right? I mean, who in the name of God would leave a cake out in the rain?”
We found more Jimmy Webb songs online, including “Up Up and Away.”
“I’ve heard this one,” I said. “Up, up and away in my beautiful balloon.”
“It’s about condoms,” Webb said.
“It
is
?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Ick,” I said. “Gross.”
Why was I sounding like such a prude?
“Show me your school,” he said, switching gears. So I pulled up my school’s website and took him on a virtual tour. He seemed impressed by the history of the school and the fact that my mom and grandparents had all gone there. Then I showed him some of the restaurants where my mom had worked. I also showed him our neighborhood association site, which had a picture of our house on it.
“Okay, enough about me,” I said. “Your turn.”
He downloaded his school’s website and clicked on the faculty page. Then he proceeded to tell me about all his teachers, including his favorite English teacher, Miss Fogerty, and his driver’s ed teacher, who was a perv.
“Oh my God,” I said. “Ours is a perv, too.”
“Seriously? You think it’s part of the job description?” Webb asked. “Our guy is so bad, I refused to take driver’s ed. I sent an e-mail to the principal, saying I was boycotting the class until they found a teacher who didn’t sexually harass the girls.”
“That’s so sweet,” I said. “So did you have to go to a private driving school?”
“Nah. I just skipped the whole driver’s license thing.”
“You skipped getting a
driver’s license
?”
“Yeah, I’d rather walk or take public transportation,” he said.
What a cool guy. Who cares if he’s seen my stupid pink foam-padded bra?
I clicked back to my school’s website so I could show him a picture of our driver’s ed teacher. We howled at how much they looked alike.
“We should take pictures of ourselves,” I said.
I held the camera out in front of us and snapped pictures of Webb and me with his school’s driver’s ed teacher in the background. Then I took one of us with my driver’s ed teacher.
“Let’s get one with Glen Campbell,” he said.
“Brilliant!” I said.
I’m not even thinking about my stupid pink bra!
He downloaded a video of Glen and played it while I set up the shot.
“Perfect,” I said. “We should get a picture in front of the Eiffel Tower. I mean, the real thing.”
“Great idea,” Webb said. “Do we have time?”
“What time is it? I don’t have my iPhone.”
“I don’t have my phone, either,” he said. “How do we find out . . . oh wait. Duh.”
He leaned in close to the computer and looked at the tiny clock in the lower right corner. “It’s almost three o’clock. My train leaves at ten after seven.”
“No problem,” I said. “I know how to get back to Gare de Lyon.”
He made a face. “Crap, I think I’m leaving from a different station. Gare de . . . something.”
“They’re all
gare de
something,” I said. “
Gare
is French for
station
.”
He slung his arm around my shoulder and whispered in my ear. “Mademoiselle Blouse is
zee
brilliant
ingénue.
” He paused. “Hey, am I speaking French?”
“No,” I said, laughing. “Where’s monsieur’s train schedule?”
He searched his pockets. “It’s here somewhere. Oh wait.”
“What?”
“I think I put it in your bag. Which is back at the apartment.”
“Which is where your bag is, too,” I said, laughing. “We better go back to Solange’s and figure out how to get to your train station.”
No need to tell him it had taken me an hour to figure out how to get to Gare de Lyon by Metro, and still I’d screwed up the return trip.
“C’mon,” he said. “I’ll race you.”
And before I knew it, there we were, hand in hand, running back to Solange’s apartment, singing Jimmy Webb songs and laughing like fools.
D
aisy and I found a small corner table in the wood-paneled hotel bar. After we ordered drinks, I excused myself to check on Webb.
“Everything okay?” Daisy asked when I returned.
“Asleep,” I reported. “Under a mountain of blankets.”
Should I confess my frustration with Webb? Would it be a betrayal of my son—or might Daisy have some insight into the minds of teenagers?
“He spends so much time in front of the damn computer,” I said, leaping recklessly into the subject of adolescent children. “I worry like hell he’s becoming antisocial. He has such . . . inertia. Even here, he’s spending hours in front of a computer, playing games. Or whatever they do.”
“My daughter’s the same way,” she said, taking a sip of wine. “But you know, I don’t think it’s all bad. With Coco—and I’m sure it’s the same with your son—they have friends all over the world because of these online groups and forums they join.”
“Right,” I agreed. “But can you really call those
friendships
? I’m not sure I buy all this connecting online stuff. It was like that museum show. Digital love depresses the hell out of me.”
Wait. Why was I being so negative? The bad bourbon was going straight to my head. Why did the Spanish import only the cheapest American bourbon? I should’ve eaten dinner. I should eat some olives and nuts. They’re on the table. That’s what they’re for.
I grabbed a handful of nuts and then dropped most of them. Daisy laughed. It was a deep, unself-conscious laugh, and it made her even more beautiful. She was the kind of woman who would grow more beautiful with age. I’d never understand why women tried to hide those pretty little laugh lines around their eyes.
“My son doesn’t even know how to make eye contact with people,” I said, sighing. “Maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on him. But we’re in Europe. Shouldn’t he be falling in love with some local girl he meets in a plaza—or at least admiring someone from afar?”
No need to mention slipping notes in the bags of attractive women one sees on planes.
“European romances can be overrated,” Daisy said, popping an olive in her mouth.
“You sound like you have some experience in that department.”
She looked at me and narrowed her eyes, as if wondering whether to explain herself.
“My daughter,” she finally said, “was conceived when I was in Paris attending culinary school.”
“Oh,” I replied.
“Yeah,” she said, her eyes widening.
“And . . . how’d that work out, if it’s not too personal to ask?”
“It was complicated,” she said. “He was a pastry chef. A master chef. He seemed happy when I told him I was pregnant. But he said he could never be monogamous.”
“Oh,” I said again.
“Yeah,” she said, smiling. “
Oh.
”
“At least he was honest?” I tried.
“At least,” she said. “Please, this is all ancient history. And so boring. I really can’t even remember the details. I have a weird kind of relationship Alzheimer’s.”
“Relationship Alzheimer’s?”
“Just what it sounds like. I forget everything as soon as it’s over. But one thing I do remember: after he told me, it made the whole thing easier for me. Because I knew I didn’t want to raise a child with him or marry him—not that he asked.”
“Sounds like a first-class ass,” I said.
WHY did I just say that? She’s going to connect the dots. She knows. Or she will know. Why did I write that stupid goddamn note on the plane?! Wait. She’s talking. Listen to her, you first-class ass!
“Does he keep in touch with you or your daughter?” I asked.
“No,” she answered. “Oh wait, he did send her a porcelain doll and a card for her fifth birthday.”
“Hmm,” I offered. “Too little too late?”
“You could say that,” Daisy replied. “Especially because she was seven at the time.” She smiled and shook her head at the memory. “I’m glad I had the sense to walk away from that. I’m pretty good at walking away from things—probably too good, in fact.”