Read by Gloria Saunders
I saw that. I wasn’t being provocative. I was being practical. You do understand what I mean, I hope, about not sending the wrong signals.
You have a nice smile. Sure, sit down.
You’re sales, right? Me, too. Good. Then I don’t have to explain that knowing which signals to send pays for my Jaguar, and - by the looks of you - yours too, I’d say.
Scotch, on the rocks, please. Thanks.
People like us, people who travel for a living, we give up certain amenities and abandon certain formalities, don’t we? So you’ll understand that applying a little after-a-long-day-of-meetings’ lipstick in this less-than-elegant bar means nothing to me, just so you’ll not think I’m a tease. Fact is, I’m a bottom-line kind of woman, if you want to know the truth.
I didn’t say bottom of the line, thank you very much. Bottom line. That look says you’re not listening. All right.
Sooo. Let’s get straight to it, okay? After all, that’s what both of us want. Here it is, bottom line. Pay attention—not to my chest, to what I’m saying. Come on, we’re in the same game, you’ll appreciate this. I can sum up these little contract negotiations in two sentences: You’re software. I’m hardware. Think about it.
*
Thanks for the light. I do like the give and take. Everything is give and take, right? Seduction. Salary talks. Plea bargains. Boxing matches. Marriages.
I made you laugh, that’s a good sign. But you’re not listening. You still don’t get it, do you? Uhm.
Consider the obvious. We work the same territory, right? We’ve probably soiled the same hotel sheets. So we know where this little encounter is headed. We’re at that point in this cheap little ritual where we’ve completed the prelims, yes? I’ll have another drink in a minute, when I’m finished. You see, before this masquerade goes any farther, you should know this about me: I have resolute standards. And like everybody else, I want most what I get least. Fortunately for you, I require but one thing: a little honesty, a tiny bit of truth. Not to judge, mind you. An ounce of truth, I’ve found, has become the rarest of commodities, thus the thing I covet. If you’re lucky, you’ll know soon enough that I’m the last to judge.
No comment, huh? Tell the bartender I'll have that Scotch now.
*
Let me demonstrate. Let’s consider a universal truth, okay? In case you haven't figured it out, at some subconscious level women are always checking out the front of you guys’ pants. It's a curiosity that starts when we're maybe four years old, when we realize there’s something down there we don’t have. By adolescence, we're into spy trigonometry, our glances as speedy and accurate as a CIA photo. For me, a man’s penis need not be a big one. That’s mostly a male hang-up anyway. His cock is my objective correlative for a truth, doesn’t have to be a big one, you see. I just want to know there’s something of substance there. Ah-ha. You like a woman with brains. Big words like “objective correlative” make you hot. Try this one: mayonnaise.
Cigarette? Help yourself.
As for sex - as opposed to making love - the truth is simple, and simple is good. Sex is always about power. Ask any honest woman who is seriously into giving head what gets her off. And since you want to know, I can give and take from both ends and like it, get into it. Just for the record.
You think I'm a little loony. That's your problem.
Loosen up. Take off your tie, for god’s sake. Here, let me help. We can talk about anything you want. Except buying, selling, or dumb blondes.
When you’re not thinking about it, you have a nice laugh.
Christ, I’m horny for meaningful, honest conversation.
*
I've not finished this one. And just in case you think I'm some air-head nympho power tripper, I'll tell you something about love. Love is about giving up power, relinquishing it. And about learning to live without regret in order to maybe love again.
O-kay. I'll play. Here goes: You show me a woman who claims not to apply some quality assurance standards in bed, and I'll show you a Puritan. Or a porn queen.
You do make money on that smile, don’t you? You’re a man composed of push-buttons, do you know that? That’s all you are. You can change the conversation. I wish you would, could. Something other than sex.
I thought not.
Okay. But know this. I'm not a woman who gives much of a shit about your ego. I want what I can get. We work hard, and we earn every perk we enjoy for the traveling life. Commission, right? We like it and we’re good at it. We’re realists. We keep our expectations reasonable — high, but reasonable.
Commission, sins of. Omission, sins of. Yes.
Soon, you think, I’ll shut up, we'll skitter off to my hotel or yours--which by the way I'm not choosy about--and we'll do the wild thing and you'll feel the thrill of conquest. Not that I give much of a shit what you feel. I want to know what you think. You think this is all prep for sex, some state-of-the-art sex talk. You'd of course be wrong. My need is for anything beyond the world of market economies and global lies. I just want a transcendent hour or two of real life outside this faithless world.
But, let's face facts. That’s all you understand, facts and statistics. Your religion is grounded in the theology of numbers. Fact: I have these. I'm in control here.
Wait. Listen: You and I, we've been in meetings for three solid days, right? Telling lies and listening to lies, right? And now all I want is some little truth in a not too romantic bar. Some really satisfying sex would help me sleep, but I've got pills for that if I need them. The sex, believe me, is optional; the straight talk isn't.
If you are worth going down on, you'll know that a woman who is honest with you is always a better lover.
We’re working way too hard at this.
*
You are a tit man. All men are tit men. You can say so. But the power is down there, isn't it? With one of these, I can have as many of those as I want. In case you’re interested, I have lovely nipples, deep brown and responsive. Having said that, I feel them getting hard. I can be honest about my sexuality. Not that I'm picky about people who lie or don't lie to themselves about sex. Or about anything else, so long as they can be honest-to-God truthful about one thing, just one thing that is of value, one thing that matters.
As you and I know, sex is a thing that matters. With the right man, I like to fuck with a capital F. But that man has to be a person, not a gadget. Everybody has to be truthful about one part of their life. Love or the loss of it, maybe. Could be anything so long as the sentiment is unerringly sincere. But now I see you're losing the erection that you had going a minute ago. Sorry.
We can talk about my nipples if you want, provided you can do it without the crap, in your own words, in a sequence that is yours, not some cheap imitation, some clever sales pitch. I’ve heard them all.
Can you do that? Just one authentic syllable unrelated to the business world and I’ll suck your cock. But please, I don’t need another statement of fact. I’m drowning in information. If I hear one more statistic, see one more chart, read one more report, my tits will shrivel and turn to dust. No more facts. To quote a dead poet, John Lennon: All I want is some truth. Here’s what I mean: Most dogs have four legs. Statement of fact. I’m not the woman I used to be. Truth.
*
I don't know if you've ever been in love or not, and it's none of my business either way. But let me give you a little insider trader's advice. If you ever fall in love, never go into the toilet when your lover is in there. One sure way to ruin love is to lose sight of the distinctions between the intimate and the familiar. See, that is a truth. A tiny truth. Now do you have one, a truth? Time is running out. And I only need one, one good one would do it. Don’t order me another drink.
*
Did they turn the lights down? It’s suddenly dark in here.
The place just - emptied, didn’t it? Gone. They’re all gone. They’re all goners.
Goodbye, happy hour. Goodbye.
I like the candles.
Do you find that a thing like dancing, something maybe you never really cared about, acquires an importance it never had? Me, too. Or a meal, for Christ's sake. Just having someone to look at and talk to across from you at dinner.
Thanks for the drink.
Give me your hand.
Do you know what sin is? Look at me. No, we’ve left the land of the lascivious for a minute. I’m changing the subject. I’m serious, listen. Nearness to God is virtue, righteousness, correct? Then distance from God is sin. Distance from God is isolation. Isolation is sin. Loneliness is sin, the great sin.
Don’t like my syllogism, huh? What? No. Syl-lo … Mayonnaise.
Maybe just dinner then? No strings attached.
Where’s that prize-winning smile?
Let me tell you a true story. When I first started traveling, flying across the continents, I'd end up beside some salesman, and no matter how I said buzz off, he'd force a conversation on me. I don't do that, or at least I hope I don't. But I understand where that behavior comes from. You are, by the way, absolutely free to walk out any time you want. No obligation. Join your fellow goners. You could have left while my knickers were around my ankles five minutes ago. I invest in underwear the way some men invest in golf clubs. If you don't care to dance or to have dinner right now, we’ll return to sex - or masturbation, something all traveling people know far too much about, huh?
One thing about love, a thing that is true, is this. When you make love to somebody you love, you only want to be there when it happens. La petite mort. But it’s a rare thing. A gift.
I own a vibrator, but I'm not in love with it. Do understand, we've had some very special moments together, but I prefer the human touch, even if it's mine.
This is what it’s like to tell the truth. Before the life gets sucked out of you. Maybe you’re already a goner. Tell me, where do all the goners go?
No, thanks. I need sustenance. All you’d have to say is, “There are some things I just can’t talk about.” That would be a truth. Then we could proceed in the pleasures of sin. Then you could tell all the lies you want. Say it. Admit that you are a hollow and lonely man. That’s all I’m asking. Say it. Say, “I’m lonely too.”
Okay, you make your call.
Hey.
If you don’t come back you’ll never know. You’ll never know. And twenty years from now you’ll sit alone in a strange bar and remember and wonder. You’ll order another drink. And as you stare into the bottom of your glass, you’ll remember a women, another lost moment in your life of regrets. But know this: I’m not a goner. I’m not. Not now. Not then.
Happy Hour by Phillip Gardner was read by Gloria Saunders at the Liars' League Give & Take event on Tuesday, December 13th, 2011, at The Albany, Great Portland Street, London.
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