The Beach Club (29 page)

Jem finished his drink. Neil said, “Do you want another?”

Jem shrugged. “Are you going to quit making fun of me?”

“Ooooh,” Neil said. “I hurt his feelings. I’m sorry.” He disappeared into the room, leaving Jem to stare at the water. Then he reappeared with fresh drinks. “You know what I was doing when I was your age? I was backpacking through Southeast Asia. Kathmandu, Bangkok, Koh Samui, Singapore, two months on Bali. I spent a penny a night in the teahouses in the Himalayas. Four bucks a night for a room in Thailand plus all the
paad thai
I could eat. I didn’t shower for a month and when I finally saw a mirror I barely recognized myself. And guess what? I was the happiest I’ve ever been. Now look at me. I assume you know how much I’m paying for this room—more than I spent on my entire trip through Asia! And I’m no fucking happier than I was watching the sun go down on Kuta Beach, drinking Bintang beer. That’s the truth.”

Jem chewed on a piece of ice. “I’ve worked hard for my money this summer,” he said. “I’m not going to waste it traveling.”

“Waste it!” Neil said. “You wouldn’t be wasting it, my friend. You’d be giving yourself something you can take to the grave. And I’m not feeding you a sales pitch. You couldn’t afford my tours and you wouldn’t enjoy them. I’m saying you should go on your own, while you’re young. See the Taj Mahal, the Nile River, the Raffles Hotel.”

“My parents are going to be upset enough about California,” Jem said. “Never mind Timbuktu.”

Neil looked at Jem over his glasses. “Surely you don’t still listen to your parents.”

“I don’t want to piss them off,” Jem said. “Probably sounds childish to you, but that’s how I feel.” Jem watched the sun sink behind a bank of clouds. “I should go,” he said.

“He should go, he says. Yes, by all means, go home. Get away from the old geezer who’s putting ideas in your head.”

The next morning, Jem was standing outside watering the roses when Maribel jogged over, her body glistening with sweat.

“Hit me with the hose,” she said.

Jem sprayed a light mist in her direction.

“I’m hot, Jem,” she said. “I mean it. Get me wet.”

“Okay,” Jem said. He pulled the trigger of the hose and the water hit her chest, her bare stomach, her legs. She turned around and he hosed off her shoulders, her back, her ass, until she was soaked and Jem had an erection.

“What if I wanted to take you on a trip through Southeast Asia?” he said. “Would you go with me? We could stay at the Raffles Hotel.”

Water dripped off the end of Maribel’s ponytail. “You’re sweet,” she said. “Thanks for the shower.” She jogged away. Maribel probably didn’t mean to tease him, but each time he saw her inspired hope, and then the hope was shot down. It was just like his sister, Gwennie. She ate a meal, and helped Jem’s mother with the dishes, drying the plates with a tea towel and nesting them away. But then she retreated to the upstairs bathroom, turning on the noisy exhaust fan. “Putting on my makeup,” she’d say. When she emerged, ten, fifteen minutes later, the bathroom smelled too piney, freshener fresh.

Jem gathered up the hose and went into the lobby. Love said, “You have a message. I can’t believe this. There’s finally a handsome, single man staying in the hotel alone, and he’s after you.” She handed Jem a pink message slip that said:“Happy hour? NR.” “And since you’re going over there, you might as well tell him he has two messages. I put his blinker on a long time ago but he hasn’t responded.”

“He doesn’t want any messages,” Jem said. “But, whatever, I’ll take them.”

Love handed two message slips to Jem, and he shoved them in his pants pocket. Then he popped out the side door and read them. It was like reading someone’s mail, but Jem wanted to know a little more about the guy before he had drinks with him again. The first message said, “Your girlfriend called. 11:05
A.M.
” and the box that said “Please call” was checked. The second message was from a Dr. Kenton. Dr. Kenton was probably his psychiatrist. Since coming to Nantucket, Jem learned that everyone in New York saw a psychiatrist. Or Dr. Kenton could be a client who wanted Neil to set up a golf vacation in Tahiti. Jem crumpled both messages and put them back in his pocket.

After work, Jem knocked on the door of room 5. This time Neil was awake, smoking a joint.

“You wanna smoke?” Neil asked.

“Sure,” Jem said. First, though, he sat in the leather chair. He’d stripped this room at least twenty times, and every time he wanted to sink into the chair. It felt like a giant hand. He pinched the joint between his thumb and index finger and inhaled. He held the smoke for as long as he could, and then he passed the joint back.

“Have you given any more thought to traveling?” Neil asked. “Because I was thinking about it after you left yesterday. If you’re set on Cali, that’s fine, but you should travel first.”

“What do you care?” Jem said. “I mean, not to be rude, but what difference does it make to you if I go or not? You said I couldn’t afford your tours and I’m sure you’re right.”

“I care as a fellow human being,” Neil said. “When I look at you I see a young person with his whole life ahead of him, and I say to myself, ‘Man, if I had it to do over, I’d go back. That trip is one thing I don’t regret.’”

“So because you don’t regret it, I have to go?” Jem said.

Neil smoked the joint down. “If you went, I promise you’d thank me. Guaranteed.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?” Jem said. He went over to the dresser, which had become a makeshift bar, and poured himself a Ketel One.

“Go right ahead,” Neil said.

“Why did you come on vacation alone? Obviously it’s not to be by yourself otherwise you wouldn’t keep inviting me here.”

“Why did I come alone? Why do I keep inviting you here?” Neil threw his hands over his head, fell back onto the bed and addressed the rafters. “I have problems. A few small ones and a big one and I came here to think them through. Now, sometimes you want to think things through alone, but sometimes you want another input. An impartial input. You don’t know me. I don’t know you. You don’t have to sit here and drink with me, but you’ve agreed to. Maybe that’s because you want another hundred-dollar tip. Maybe you’re doing this out of altruism. I don’t know the reason why you’re here. I asked you here because I need a disinterested third party. Do you know the difference between disinterested and uninterested?”

Jem shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m interested.”

“He’s interested, he says. Okay, fine. Do you think I’m married?”

“No,” Jem said. He remembered the crumpled message slip in his pocket.
Your girlfriend
. Now would be the time to pull the message out and show it to Neil, but he didn’t.

“Why not?”

“You don’t strike me as the marrying type,” Jem said. “You seem too free-wheeling.”

“I’m not married,” Neil said. “I live with a woman in New York. Her name is Desirée. Desirée, desire, that whole thing. If my life were a play, it’d be called ‘A Girlfriend Named Desire.’ Whoa!” He wobbled a little as he stood to fix himself a drink. “We have a baby together, a little girl.”

“That’s nice,” Jem said. He laughed, although nothing was funny.

“Desirée isn’t Jewish and she doesn’t want to convert. This means my daughter, my only child, won’t be raised Jewish.”

“Is that the big problem?” Jem asked.

“That’s a little problem,” Neil said. “Another little problem is whether or not I should marry Desirée. I desire her, yes, but do I love her? Do I love her enough to make her my wife? Or, do I get married for my daughter’s sake?”

Jem was receiving hazy messages, mixed-up messages that weren’t making it from his brain to his tongue. He couldn’t speak. He remembered Maribel that afternoon,
You’re sweet
. And then he realized that she came into the parking lot and left without seeing Mack. “I love a woman named Maribel,” Jem said. “I love her like crazy. But she’s engaged to someone else. She’s engaged to my fucking
boss
.”

“You love her?” Neil said. “When you wake up she’s the first thing on your mind?”

“She’s before the first thing,” Jem said. “I dated her for two weeks. I kissed her and held her hand, and I’ve seen her breasts.” He leaned his head back against the chair. “This woman
infiltrated
.”

“I’m going to roll another joint,” Neil said. He found a station with jazz music on the clock radio. “The first thing on my mind when I wake up is an image of my favorite place—Pangboche, Nepal—in the Himalayas. That place defines peace, man. That’s what I expect heaven to look like.” Neil rolled the joint, licked it, lit it. Jem couldn’t smoke anything else. He waved the joint away. Neil took a drag and talked in a pinched voice while he held his breath. “Second thing on my mind is my little girl, Zoe.” He exhaled. “There’s nothing better than having a woman-child. I’m forty-two years old and I’ve had my problems with women just like everybody else. And then I find myself the father of a woman-child. Finally, a woman who loves me unconditionally. It’s a grand feeling.” Neil took another hit off the joint; Jem’s head reeled just watching him. “Third or fourth thing on my mind is maybe Desirée, if I’m lucky. If you’ve found a woman who’s your first thing, man, you should go after her.”

“I’ve tried,” Jem said.

“Have you tried ignoring her?” Neil asked. “That works like a dream.”

“I can’t ignore her,” Jem said. “It would be impossible.”

“You must do it!” Neil said. “If you want her, you must shun her.”

“She wants me to shun her,” Jem said. “Because she’s engaged to someone else. She has a diamond ring.”

“Engagements get broken every day,” Neil said. “Rings get returned.”

“It’ll never happen,” Jem said.

“You have to ignore her,” Neil said. “Starting right now.” He gently pressed the joint into the sole of his flip-flop. “Let’s go.”

They walked the mile into town, and Neil devised a simple plan: they would start drinking at the bars closest to the harbor and work their way up Main Street. And so they went: a beer at Rope Walk, a goombay smash at Straight Wharf, a Cap’n Cooler at the Bamboo Bar, vodka cranberries at the Club Car. Neil brought his disposable camera, and at each bar, he took a picture of himself and Jem by holding the camera out and pushing the button. Jem wished he wasn’t wearing his clownish uniform; he didn’t exactly want to be remembered as looking like he worked on the Love Boat.

When they stepped out of the Club Car, it was dark. Jem had told Neil about his fuck-up with Mr. G and he told the Mr. Feeney toilet story. He was bone-dry on funny stories, except for the Mrs. Worley story, which only now, after five drinks, seemed even remotely funny. They walked over to the Boarding House for martinis and Jem told Neil about Mrs. Worley, about the moment of shock and horror when he opened the door and found her there, shorts sagging around her ankles, the desperate expression on her face as she reached for the door. They laughed until they were bent over on their barstools, hiccuping.

“We need food,” Neil said.

At Languedoc, they ordered steaks, and by the time Jem’s food arrived, he realized he’d barely thought of Maribel all night.

“Here’s what I think you should do about Desirée,” Jem said. He was so drunk he didn’t know what he was going to say next. It sounded like he was about to give Neil Rosenblum advice about his woman problem, something he was ridiculously unqualified to do. “I think you should ask her to raise Zoe Jewish—ask her nicely—and if she refuses, then I think you should raise Zoe Jewish yourself.”

“I can’t do it,” Neil said. “The mother has to be Jewish. That’s how it works.”

“Oh,” Jem said. “That sucks.”

“Yeah,” Neil said. “I’d really like to resolve this. You want to know your kids are going to be okay.” He got a serious look on his face, and Jem sensed the evening about to cave in, as though all the drinking and smoking might wash over them in an unpleasant way. But then Neil rebounded. He smiled. “Let’s go dancing,” he said.

They caught a cab on Water Street and went to the Muse, a dark, smoky club bar with live music. As soon as they stepped in the door, Jem spotted a group of women his age. Neil nudged him. “Here we go,” he said. “
Good-bye, Maribel
.”

The girls were all looking at Jem. He picked out the prettiest one—a brunette who was wearing a baseball hat backward, a man’s plain white T-shirt, jeans, and Birkenstocks. Jem approached her. “I need a glass of water,” he said. “How about you? Can I buy you a glass of water?”

“I’m drinking Rolling Rock,” she said, holding her bottle up.

“I need a glass of water,” he said. “The inside of my mouth feels like a fur coat.”

The girl smiled wanly, took a swig of her beer, and mouthed something to one of her girlfriends. Probably,
Help me!
Neil talked to two blondes, both wearing black dresses. Or maybe Jem was seeing double. Neil leaned across the bar waving a twenty, then he picked up three beers and handed one to each of the blondes. Definitely two girls there. Jem suddenly felt alone. He put his hand on the brunette’s shoulder.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Dee Dee.”

“I’m Jem. Do you want to dance?”

“No, I want to sit and talk.”

Jem stared at his shoes. They were covered with bar sludge. He wondered what people would think at work tomorrow.

Dee Dee put her beer down. “I’m only kidding,” she said. “I want to dance.”

They threaded their way through the crowd. The band was loud, funky—it was music without words. That was fine; Jem was suffering from sensory overload as it was. All these people! He wedged in close to Dee Dee and started to move his arms and legs. He was dancing, he thought. Soon Neil was dancing next to him with the blondes and he snapped a picture of Jem and Dee Dee with his disposable camera.

Good-bye, Maribel
, Jem thought. He wanted worse than anything to be out of this bar and at Maribel’s house. He just wanted to look at her.

He shouted into Dee Dee’s ear, “I have to go.” He stumbled off the dance floor and out into the parking lot, where throngs of people slouched and smoked, slurred their words. A police officer waited in a car across the street.