THE BRO-MAGNET (16 page)

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

Me, the guy in the Cary Grant shawl-collared tux with the white silk Henry Fonda scarf and my palms are sweating. Geez. When was the last time I went on a date? Hell if I can remember. If this really is a date.

Helen opens the door and damn she looks pretty. She’s wearing one of those snug-fitting cardigans that have come into fashion. This one’s a vivid red with some swirling black sequins and sparkly shit. The way the top buttons are open to reveal the hint of a low-cut black tank top, the way the button that strains across the breast area screams
There are breasts under here!
– man, this is
not
your grandma’s cardigan. I’ve never taken an interest in women’s fashion before but now I see it definitely has its merits.

“Wow,” she says by way of greeting, “you’re wearing a tux.”

“Yeah, well, the opera.” I shrug.
And that’s when my gaze travels downward and I see, not the black skirt or black slacks I’m expecting to see beneath the lovely breast cardigan, but rather, faded jeans and a tattered pair of sneakers.

Sneakers
? Really? She’s wearing
sneakers
?

Doesn’t this woman know how to dress for the opera?

* * *

I been driving all night, my hands wet on the wheel…

It really does feel like I’ve been driving all night, the place the opera’s at being clear across the state. And my hands are definitely wet on the wheel – still a bundle of nerves.

It doesn’t help that the wheel is an unfamiliar wheel. Sam’s fault. Sam said, “No way can you pick up Helga for a first date in your work truck.” Sam said, “What – she’s going to be wearing a fancy gown or something and you’re going to have her driving around in a vehicle that advertises your painting business on the side? Really classy.” Sam said, “You need something that looks cool, something that will impress the chick.” Then Sam made me go to a car rental place where she managed to find me a yellow Porsche for the night.

I feel like I’m driving a banana.

This is nothing like the cool red Porsche that Monte Carlo had.

And now the radio on the rental is stuck so it only gets one station where all they seem to play is old ‘80s rock, the kind of stuff you’d be excited to hear if you were in a smoke-filled bar getting ready to shoot some pool.

I apologize for the lack of opera or classical music to get us in the mood for the big show, but Helen is being a good sport about it.

“That’s OK,” she says, drumming the dashboard and playing a pretty decent air guitar. “I love this kind of music. ‘Red-eyed Love’ is a classic.”

What is it with women that they can never get the title of that song right? Sam always makes the same mistake and I always correct her by pointing out, “What the hell does red-eyed love even mean? Like that’s something to aspire to?” To which she always replies in her typical childish fashion, “Oh, yeah? Like ‘Radar Love’ makes so much more sense?”

But I don’t correct Helen like I would if she were, say, Sam. Helen may not know how to dress for the opera. Helen may not know the right title of a song. But who cares?

She’s here.

With me.

* * *

The fact that the radio is stuck on one station turns out to be a good thing because for the two-hour drive Helen seems happy to just listen to the music, which saves me from having to make conversation. Maury said I should ask her questions about herself, but I don’t know what to ask, and now at least I can feel like my date’s having a good time without me even having to do anything.

But when we arrive at 2 Grand Junction, the address for the opera, I’m confused.

It’s not just that we’re in some podunk Connecticut town I never even heard of before this week, but we’re on a lonely stretch of rough road and the hand-painted wooden sign at 2 Grand Junction reads Verdee Farm.

“This can’t be right,” I say, peering down a long dirt driveway. Are those bales of hay in the distance? The GPS says this is where we’re supposed to be but it makes no sense.

“What’s wrong?” Helen stops singing along with Fleetwood Mac’s “Sweet Little Lies” long enough to ask me.

“This place.” I squint. “Is that an actual farmhouse back there? Are those cows?”

“Um, John,” she says. “When you found this place on the Internet, didn’t you look around the website at all?”

“No, not really. I saw that they were offering a performance of
Tosca
and how to order tickets.”

“Oh. Well, when you invited me, I took the time to google and I read all about this place. It’s a real farm.”

“No sh – ” I correct myself. “No shenanigans?” I can’t believe I just said shenanigans. “Really? I figured the Verdee part was after that guy who writes a lot of opera. And the farm part – I don’t know, I guess I just figured it was some kind of affected opera thing. Like maybe they were trying to downplay the elegance, thereby somehow making it more elegant.”

“That guy who writes a lot of opera spells his name V-E-R-D-I.”

Who knew?

Apparently Helen did.

I nose the Porsche into the drive and I’m nearly at the farmhouse when a gray-haired man in overalls ambles over toward the car, standing right in front until I pull to a stop. I see him eye the front plate, which is a New York plate, and then peer at me in my tux. I could swear I see his mouth utter the words “City slicker.” I roll down the window.

“We’re here for the, um, opera?” I say.

He walks to my side of the car.

“Well, of course you are, but you need to park over there.” He points far to the right. “Performance is in the barn. Do you have your tickets?”

I reach into my pocket, pull out the e-tickets to show him.

“Good for you,” he says. “Riffraff’re always trying to sneak in to see the show for free. You go on now. I’m Vern, by the way.” He tips his hat at Helen. “The missus, Dee, is in the barn. She’ll take your tickets.”

I drive over to where Vern pointed and park the yellow Porsche between two pickup trucks. Quickly I stride over to the passenger side and hand Helen out of the car. Then I offer her my arm. When she tucks her hand in the crook, it feels good. As we walk toward the barn we see other people – or should I say folks? – strolling in the same direction. They all have on jeans with flannel shirts or T-shirts, work boots or sneakers on their feet. As we near the barn I see a sign that says,
Tosca – 2Nite!

I lean down a bit and whisper, “Am I the only one who feels like I wandered into an old
I Love Lucy
episode? Do you think if I refuse to marry the farmer’s daughter I’ll get thrown in the hoosegow?”

“Don’t worry.” Helen pats my arm. “If you do, I’ll get you out.”

* * *

Dee turns out to be a short woman, her jeans belted high over a firm mound of belly, her red checked cowgirl shirt tucked in, a bandana around her neck. She’s got Dolly Parton hair.

“Nice to see a man who knows how to dress for the opera,” Dee says, assessing me approvingly.

“Is this, um, a real opera?” I ask handing her the tickets.

“Oh yes,” she says. “We have operas here all through the months that the big operas are closed. No one can make a living as just a farmer anymore. Gotta find new ways to innovate. Popcorn?”

Behind her is a machine, steadily popping away. I hadn’t been planning on eating popcorn at the opera. I look down at Helen, raise my eyebrows and she nods.

“Sure,” I say.

“What size?” Dee says. “We’ve got The Little Buckaroo, The Medium Calf and The Large Red Hen and The Jumbo Squealer, which is an extra-good value – it comes in a souvenir bucket.” She holds up a massive cardboard bucket that has
Tosca!
printed on it. Dee’s a good salesperson.

I reach for my wallet. “I’ll take the, um, Jumbo Squealer,” I say, because I don’t want to appear stingy plus I can’t bring myself to utter the words ‘Little Buckaroo.’

“Good choice,” Dee says, filling the bucket to overflowing and taking my money. She hands me two programs, which are really just folded sheets of colored paper. “Vern’ll show you to your seats.”

Vern has a flashlight, just like a real usher. As he leads us through the barn I notice the rafters are decorated with little white Christmas lights. When we get to a wooden ladder, Vern gestures with his flashlight. “You ordered the deluxe tickets. You’re in the balcony.”

It takes a moment to realize he means for us to climb the wooden ladder. Helen figures it out first actually and I realize the ladder’s no hardship as I follow behind her, watching her backside sway in a fetching manner, although it’s not all that easy negotiating the wooden steps while holding The Jumbo Squealer in one arm. When we get to the top, I discover that “balcony” here means “hay loft.” Helen gets comfortable right away, sitting down and crossing her legs in what used to be called Indian style before it became wrong to say that. It’s a little more awkward for me to get into that position what with my high-polish see-yourself-in-the-shine black patent leather Douglas Fairbanks Jr. shoes; yep, Maury talked me into the shoes. It was either the Douglas Fairbanks Jr. pair or the Jay-Z pair with the sequins.

“This is kind of, um,
nice
, isn’t it?” I say to Helen, offering her the popcorn.

“It is,” she says, taking a large handful. That makes me happy. I always think it’s strange eating with women who will hardly eat anything in front of you, like they think if you don’t actually
see
them consume anything you won’t
see
the effects on their bodies of what they do consume when you’re not around. Me, I like to eat and see people eat.

“But I can’t believe,” Helen continues, “that you didn’t investigate that website more carefully. You weren’t expecting any of this, were you?”

“I can assure you,” I say, picking a piece of straw out of a Douglas Fairbanks Jr., “I did not.”

“It’s OK.” She smiles. “It’s nice here and Dee’s right. The tux looks good on you.”

Then she bends her head to study the program and I do the same.

“Do you see any names you recognize here?” I ask. Then, to show off, I add, “Like Luciano Pavarotti?”

I’ve been doing some homework on opera.

“Pavarotti’s dead,” she says without looking up.

Clearly, I haven’t been doing
enough
homework.

I note that there’s nine main characters in the opera, one female and eight males. The female, Floria Tosca, a celebrated singer, is to be played by Sally Pickett. The eight male characters? They’re all to be played by Brick Pickett. Somehow Brick’s got to be a tenor, a baritone, and a bass, and, when he’s A Shepherd-Boy, an alto. I don’t know much about singing, except for what I do in the shower, but even I can tell: that can’t be easy.

“Wow,” I say. “Low-budget production.” Inside I’m wondering if Sally and Brick are also going to play the soldiers, police agents, altar boys, noblemen and women, townsfolk and artisans. If so, they’ll bring new meaning to the word ‘virtuoso.’

“Pickett is the last name of Vern and Dee,” Helen informs me. “Sally and Brick are their children. Really, didn’t you read anything on that website?”

No, but clearly someone else read
everything
on that website.

“You knew it was going to be like this?” I ask.

“Well, no,” she says. “I don’t think that even having read about this place I could have envisioned anything quite like this.”

Then it hits me. She knew, or at least had some inkling, of how bizarre this was going to be. And yet, still she came.

“Shh,” she says as the Christmas lights dim and Vern shines his flashlight on a clearing at the center of the barn. “Show’s about to start.”

* * *

“Have you seen this one before?” I whisper to Helen.

“If I have,” Helen says, eyes glued to the stage, “I never saw it like this.”

Should I hold her hand? Should I not hold her hand? Does she want me to? Will she get upset if I do? Will she get upset if I don’t?

   
What are you, Smith,
I say to myself in disgust,
twelve?

I don’t hold her hand.

* * *

“Wow,” Helen says when the Christmas lights are turned on, much strangeness and several arias later, “that was different.”

“I know, right?” I agree. “It was particularly strange when Brick was playing Sally’s lover, them being brother and sister and all, but at least they didn’t kiss.”

“I know, right?” she says right back at me. “Still, it’s amazing what good singers they were, especially Brick.”

“No sh – ” I stop myself again, and find myself still unable to come up with anything better than, “No shenanigans. He and Sally really sang their little hearts out.”

They did. In fact, they were actually shockingly good. Which somehow made everything that much weirder. 

As we reach the bottom of the ladder, Vern makes his way over to us, accompanied by Brick. I’m surprised the kid doesn’t look exhausted. Playing all those parts, even though he wore the same costume for each one – jeans, work shirt, boots – must’ve been a real workout.

“My son says you were a real inspiration to him tonight,” Vern says to me.

“It was awesome,” Brick says. “Seeing you up there in that tux, I felt like I was singing in a real opera house.”

“Can you come back again next month?” Vern says. “The kids’re doing
Aida
. I can get you a discount on your tickets.”

Geez, maybe Sam’s right about me. Even I’m beginning to think it’s a little bizarre, the effect I have on other men. If only I could have that same effect on women. Or at least one woman.

I’m thinking the last thing in the world I want to do is come back here next month in my tux and watch Sally and Brick play lovers again. Well, maybe not the last thing I want. That would be getting a horrible disease. Or having the Yankees win the World Series again. But I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, so instead I say, “Maybe. I’ll have to see how my schedule looks.”

“Good man,” Vern says.

* * *

The moon is lying on its back as we exit the barn.

“You want to get something to eat before the long drive back?” I ask Helen.