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Every Saturday afternoon, I head to the mall to have lunch at the bar of the upscale burger joint. Since I only go there to catch up with Pierre the bartender, he gives me the employee discount. He says I’m his American therapist. I keep trying to convince him to give me a French makeover, but he just winces and says that I’m beyond hope. That and if he had that kind of talent, he wouldn’t be serving drinks.
Since it’s all said in French, it doesn’t sound nearly as mean as it does in English. The French have a certain fondness for the ugly beautiful, but Pierre assures me that’s not me. I’m… unaffiliated would be the closest word, I guess. My beauty will shine through when I embrace my true self. When I told him that sounded more like a Chinese fortune cookie, he rolled his eyes as only a gay French man can do.
In desperate hope of avoiding the scrutiny of a certain manager, I stopped by the drugstore on my way home last night. An hour later, I’m considering shaving all my hair off. I’m not sure where I went wrong. I read the directions extremely carefully. Twice. But somehow, in my efforts to return to being blonde, the universe decided to find out what happens if I resemble a calico cat. The black is gone, true. But now I have patches of peachy blonde, some ashy blonde, and far more gray than my twenty-one years warrant.
When I take my usual seat at the end of the bar at 2:30, when the lunch rush has finally died down, Pierre doesn’t say a word. He simply slides a giant peach margarita in front of me and waits.
After two unsophisticated gulps of the sweet drink, I spill my guts. In French, which means I have to think more carefully. But my groan of despair works in any language.
“Stop trying to be like other people, Lélé. It only results in…” Pierre pauses as if the word he wants to say is simply too rude to vocalize.
“Catastrophe? Disaster?” I offer.
“Confusion,” he concludes slowly.
“But I am confused!” I wail softly. “Lélé sounds like a sweet French girl who wears sexy underwear under charming vintage dresses. While Leanne is stuck picking over the sales rack, assessing for the morally gray area of business casual. And everyone at work thinks I’m weird and I have no friends,” I finish glumly.
“But your accent is impeccable and you speak five languages fluently, so you’re obviously intelligent enough to sort this out. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Lélé.” Pierre steps away to serve another customer and I stare into the mirror at the back of the bar.
As usual, Pierre is right. I watch my reflection accept that with resignation. Pierre returns, sliding a cocktail napkin in front of me. There’s a name on it.Mariealongside the name of the store in the mall that’s too expensive even for window shopping. “She’s expecting you in twenty minutes, so drink up, chérie,” Pierre tells me calmly, ignoring my stare of disbelief.
“But…”
“Go. See. Her.” He annunciates carefully in English, meaning he’s dead serious. I nod cautiously. He returns to French, “Now quickly, tell me again about the restaurant at ACI — what is the mood, the vibe of the place?”
Pierre has an interview at the Farmhouse next week. He’d have gotten it without me with his credentials, but I gave him the employee referral, anyway. I tell him everything I know. Again. Gulp the last of my drink and dash off to find Marie.
3
Dom
Years ago I thought nothing of spending eight hours staring a militant combatant down until he started talking to break the tension. Now, two hours in the mall shopping for a Halloween costume and I’m a broken man. There were no giraffes to be had and after criss-crossing the entire pavilion to revisit the top contenders for a third time, I called a halt. Naturally, Cass decides on the zebra costume all the way back on the other side.
Costume purchased for an exorbitant sum I no longer care about, we’re sitting in a booth in one of the nicer restaurants. Instead of Cass’s vote for the craziness of the food court because this place was closest. Cass’s eyes are drooping and I’m just about to ask for a box for her uneaten burger when a sultry woman’s voice goes straight to my cock.
I’m serious. My pants are tenting beneath the table before my brain can even register that she’s speaking French. I turn my head slightly to get a glimpse of her, but the high back of the booth blocks my view. She’s seated at the bar — that much I can determine. And her voice is like expensive whiskey. You simply want to linger in it, observe all the color it has to offer. Ineedto see her.
“Dad?” Cass drags me back to my reality while munching on one more fry. “Can we go home now?”
“Absolutely. Want to take your burger for later?”
“No. They put mayonnaise on it.”
I roll my eyes. God forbid. But Cass has strict rules for that condiment. It’s allowed to go in potato salad and on a turkey sandwich, but nothing else. And I hardly want to encourage her to eat more of it, so…
“Let’s go then. I need a nap, even if you don’t,” I mutter dryly, making her giggle.
My head immediately swivels toward the bar as I stand up, but the French-speaking siren is gone. I catch a glimpse of oddly colored hair darting down the outside steps as we leave, but I couldn’t say if that was her. The hair certainly doesn’t seem to go with that voice.
Back at home, Cass puts some cartoons on TV and I allow it for once because I can tell she’s going to be asleep in about five minutes. When she doesn’t stir after I turn the TV off, I cover her with a throw and leave her be.
I have research to do for Damien on the next set of guys he’s planning to write about. Everyone has a story and everyone has secrets. Even if those tidbits wouldn’t be all that shocking to the rest of the world. I have to walk the line with what I uncover between making the dossier personal enough to relate to without leaving the guy feeling exposed. It’s harder than you might think. One of these guys, for example, tried out for a male revue dance group when he was seventeen. He couldn’t dance and he was underage, so he went into the Navy instead. Nobody needs to know about that. I suspect it was on a dare, anyway, but once you know you can’t unsee it.
By the time I’ve wrapped up three of them, it’s getting late and Cass is starting to stir on the couch. I put one of my mom’s casseroles in the oven to heat and think about that woman’s voice again. It’s too bad I don’t have a recording because there is solid voice recognition software out there and then maybe I could figure out who she is. And why the hell I’m so fascinated.
Leanne
Marie is a force of nature. Before I can even get a word out, she has me naked in the most elegant changing room I’ve ever seen. It’s cream and robin’s egg blue with delicate accents of burnished gold. My calico hair looks completely out of place, reflected back in all the mirrors. As does my rather confused expression.
