Chapter Twelve: The Date
I’m still in the parking lot of Golden trying to feel something. There isn’t even hate or anything. What happens when you don’t get to confront your abuser before they die? It’s pretty hollow I’ll tell ya. The only solace is in the fact she can’t hurt me or anyone else anymore.
The big black phone will never ring again.
In the rear view mirror there’s my strange face. Plump lips. High cheekbones. Slender, elegant nose. Soft hair. Plucked eyebrows. Absent dark circles like I’d always gotten 8 hours of sleep and exercised every day instead of eating loaves of powdered toast. Unnaturally white teeth in perfectly pink gums like a set of dentures. No fillings like I’d never eaten pounds of sour patch kids. Newborn skin. The more I do that’s required of me the more the unsympathetic hot chick fairy improves my appearance.
Crazy but for a moment I dreamed once they took mother’s body away the mask would slip, and I’d shrivel into my old self. Imagined like the Portrait of Dorian Gray Mom’s slow and painful shriveling away added to me what she’d wished I was. If the implications of Magnanimous’ were to be believed, that was exactly what was happening.
Conventionally beautiful. I recall pretending it, but never really being it.
Next to me on the seat is a shoebox of mothers things from the home. Denture cream. Preparation-H. Old empty atomizer with a dying hint of Chanel. Norvostat. Valium. Ativan. Colace. Red nail polish all dried up. A thicket of Christmas cards all strangled in the middle by a rubber band. Opening her ratty leather purse, it’s filled with used crusty tissues. Along with the smell of ammonia, a swarm of fruit flies plumes out. I open the window to let them out. Delicately moving the contents around I find several peach pits with sprouts growing across the bottom searching for light in the dark place. I shut the purse and put it on the floor.
Jeffrey texts: I’m headed to the restaurant now.
I text back: Mother died.
Rather than texting sorry to hear, or sorry for your loss, Jeff texts: please don’t cancel. We need to talk about all this.
I text: about all what? Not that I was going to cancel. But about what?
He texts: There’s no other way to tell you this other than to show you but...
He sends me a website clip of a yacht fire off the coast of Fiji. Two charred husks hang overboard like Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru in Star Wars. A gas leak killed two prominent members of some yuppie yacht club leaving their fortune to their only son. But the way the shards of metal are upturned curling out and roasted it looks like it was hit by a missile.
He texts: Those are my parents.
I text: I’m coming.
He texts: I thought you’d say that.
Leaving Golden on the long country road the officer at the speed trap eyes and devours me again. He doesn’t even wave for me to slow down this time, just enjoys the view with a big smile. Life’s easy going when you’re hotter than a supernova. You can go first at a 4-way stop, cut someone off, and they’ll apologize to you. Same goes for the rest of the trip into town. People honk and wave. All streetlights change to green on my approach. Leaves rustle. Doves fly across the roadway. The evening skies are clear, and the air is warm. No matter how open the window is, my hair stays runway perfect.
Pulling into the restaurant, I’m greeted by gawking teenage valets, their faces oozing and greasy. They lend me a hand out of the car, the delicate flower I am, and I hand off the keys and a hundred. Inside the maître-d, Cameron, greets me with a dripping smile and before I can even say who I am or who I’m meeting he’s leading me to a private booth in the rear. A tuxedoed pianist plays Chopin on a tinkly harpsichord. Down between the other patrons quacking, clattering wine glasses, and cracking crème brûlée, Cameron has his hands behind his back, the one clenched in the other as if holding back the desire to grope or squeeze me.
Behind red velvet ropes and curtains I’m led to a single booth where instead of Jeffrey’s usual sulking, balding visage is a Ken-doll with deep chestnut hair and blue eyes. In the middle of a sip of red wine, he eyes me over the rim, gulps, sets down the glass and stammers to politely stand and bow, almost falling over. It’s like he drank the Hollywood Kool-Aid and overnight he’s Chris Evans. Cameron bows and tries to walk away. I stop him and hand him a hundred to fill those idle hands.
With sudden apologetic bedroom eyes, Jeffrey says, “I wasn’t lying. I promise. I’m just as confused as you are.”
Hadn’t sent him any of my transformation photos. Kinda figured he’d think it was a joke me saying I’m an ugly troll. He’s exactly what mother would want for me. For the NOW me. Still, it seems she has her claws in my life, and I can’t let go of the mystery. Are we vampires? Immortals? Like a perfect gentleman he gives me his hand to sit down. I take it. His hand is soft like it’s never washed a dish, stocked shelves, or dug in a garden. Whatever he is on the outside somehow, I know it’s Jeffrey on the inside. Bumbling, clumsy, apologetic, and kind.
Before I can speak a runner approaches with a cart. Pours me a glass of sparkling water, then a glass of Bordeaux, his thumb in the dimple of the bottle. From the cart he shuffles off a charcuterie of sweating aged meats, cheeses, leaves, dried fruits, and jellies. Jeffrey rolls his eyes as if to say sorry it’s what you get when your blood is blue. The runner ignites two candles in the middle of the table and leaves. The candles do nothing to the atmosphere but make it eerier.
I say, “you look good for someone who just lost his parents.”
Rolling his wine around on his tongue, like as if it were something he’d seen in a movie or charm school, Jeffrey grimaces, coughs, says, “you too.” Looking me up and down he asks, “when did it start?” As if the buttery pretense of hashing out all the implications was done the moment we saw each other.
I say, “This morning. My warts started to disappear.”
Nodding, Jeffrey says, “my hemorrhoids are gone. I’ve never sat so easy in all my life.” To demonstrate this, he hops in the seat a few times, laughs dryly, says, “have you got noticed yet?”
“It’s all that’s happened,” I say, then, “I hate it.”
Jeffrey nods.
In the intervening days since we first started talking, Jeff’s regular customers, truckers, drunks, meth heads, homeless, and teenagers out for a late night cruise kept saying how he’s changed from looking like a shaded-glasses serial killer to permanent gym dweller they’d let ruin their life if given the chance. His Peter Parker to Spiderman transformation led him to test his strength by dead lifting the front end of his old Jeep by the frame. Went up like a trick. He’d called out for a few days, worried his coworkers wouldn’t recognize him, and what’s worse, people began to treat him differently because of his looks.
“Even the other day,” he says after slurping down an oyster, “I got chased out of Costco by a group of TikToker’s thinking I was Armie Hammer.”
He eats a few slabs of meat and cheese on some bruschetta, swallows, shrugs, says, “but, I look fantastic. I feel fantastic. You look fantastic,” stammering, he says, “I would have gone on this date with you no matter what though. I thought you were beautiful either way. I just… I don’t know what I’m trying to say. This whole week has been so fucked up. From waking up looking like an avenger to mom and dad… then the money, the everything.” Reaching out for a square of parmesan he pops it into his mouth, says, “do you know I haven’t been able to eat cheese my entire life? Normally, it gives me diarrhea. Gluten gives me flare ups. Wine puts me into a coma… but now.”
I ask, “are you scared at all? Sad?”
He says, “little bit. More like excited. Do you suddenly have a positive outlook on life? Like nothing could go wrong now?”
Breaking my immobility, I nod, I reach out for the wine, sip it. It’s dulcet and savory. Not like the gas station acid in my fridge. The prosciutto is like how meat’s supposed to be. So too the muscone, Havarti, and blue cheeses, are smooth like all the better things in life have always been just around the corner. I’ve just been ignoring it forever. Have I really tortured myself by eating pop tarts with butter on them? Was I actually ugly or had I always made myself ugly? If only Bradford could tell me.
“What do you do for the foundation?” I ask.
“Pfft,” he says, “I haven’t worked for them in years.”
I ask, “what do you do for my dads company?”
He says, “I haven’t worked for him in years either.”
I ask, “what do you do now?”
He says, “I’m a gas station attendant at a Cumberland Farms.”
He hates the nonsense of being healthy and wealthy. Eats beef jerky with diet coke and E-Z cheese on Ritz Crackers. Reads Stephen King novels and can name all the numerous connections between them by heart. Owns a small easy to maintain home in one of the nearby townships. Like me, he shuts his shades and dislikes human contact except for a few work friends. I tell him about JoJo and Yuri, and he laughs ‘cause his best work friend Dave, is an autist who wears earmuffs to block loud noises. The customers hate him, but Jeff loves him. Dave was the first person to notice the changes in Jeff. Told him like a robot about when Jeff walks in the door by the measuring tape by the door it’s always read 5’9” now it reads 6’2”.
Jeff heaps away his trust fund by paying for all gas, wine, and cigarette charges all day, pays off Costco layaways, buys out disadvantaged children’s Christmas wish lists, rents out hotels for weeks for alleyways full of camping homeless and pays for their groceries, anonymously pays off mortgages in foreclosure, gives away truckloads of turkeys on thanksgiving, owns a 100 unit complex of renewed but de-gentrified apartments in the city that rents unreasonably low to underprivileged families of color, funds counseling services for combat veterans with PTSD, buys their prosthetic limbs and pays for their therapy, with the charitable tax cuts he pays off cancer treatments, organ transplants, all manner of life saving surgeries, but most of all he’s remained a lifelong virgin, punishing himself for some subconscious reason. Even Mr. Beast would have to kneel to Jeffrey’s goodness because aside for a few, like me, trusted individuals, and silent partners, no one knows he does it.
I’m wetter than a cow on Tuesday.
But there’s still the question.
I ask, “what the hell is happening to us?”
Reaching under the table he attempts to take out a crumpled item too large for the decorative pocket. It takes him a second to shuffle it out and when he does, I’m not surprised at all to see the same book I’d been reading all day. My non-surprise tells him what he already knows. Asks if I believe in it. Asks like front step and college campus dwellers selling Jesus with a megaphone. I shrug. Asks if I’d read the part about us having a cruel duty to perform like we’re all unwilling slave masters. Harvey floats through my mind.
He says, “I’ve always made the choice to be good even though I don’t have to.”
I say, “but now it’s like the choice is being taken away from us.”
Jeff nods furiously, asks, “what can we do?”
Our waiter returns, fills our glasses, and from another cart he takes two perfectly browned beef wellington, sets them in front of us, says, “Bon Appetit,” then kisses the tips of his fingers, walks away.
Jeff says, “sorry, I ordered before you came so they would leave us alone.”
My menu never came.
Befuddled, Jeff says, “you can send it back… if you want.”
He raises his hand to signal the waiter and I signal him to stop.
“No. It’s okay,” I say.
After my father I’d never let a man decide anything for me. Like not even in a life threatening emergency. But my curiosity abounds overtaking my staunch individuality. I cut the beef and take a bite. Order squid and all manner of throat gagging textures and I’ll eat it, Jeffrey. Though I’ve had the chance, I’ve never ordered one of these. It’s like a breath of fresh air after all the Toaster Strudels with cans of frosting on them.
When someone is born with all the cheat codes turned on their personality is unfortunately lacking. Not that anyone would notice ‘cause they’re distracted by the beauty. They’ll kill dogs and people will still love them. Don’t groan at me, you know I’m right. The more recent influx of films depicting serial killers with their handsome exterior fooling even the most suspicious of victims serves as evidence.
But Jeffrey’s snorting laugh is cacophonous, his table manners atrocious, his mannerisms nerdy and reflective. He’s polite, kind, excitable and most of all good. This man, he may look like what mother would want for me, but inside he’s castle gardens with cropped topiaries and breathy cozy libraries of hidden knowledge waiting to be learned. Oh, what a twisted game of chess mother plays and her last move was a check that can’t be unchecked. I’m exposed.
We spent time comparing notes. Soberly tell him about Bradford and how he’d died.
“I had a beautiful little sister who committed suicide also,” he says with a glimmer of tears in his eyes.
Through a wet throat barely able to choke down the wellington, he explains about the Mensa, fencing, gymnastics, karate, track and field, academic decathlons, biology, physics, chemistry, philosophy, political science, art, debate team, NASA camp, strict diets of muscle toning ketosis and brain foods, massage therapists, blood doping and hormone therapy, and coaches with gold medals in their eyes. This girl, this Aubrey could rotate her arms tied behind her back to the front with no pain from the dislocation, and relocation. Home schooled; she’d never personally known another boy besides her brother and father and the two comprised the alien culture of hairy chests, beards, and masculinity.
Aside from them Aubrey was never alone. Not even to shower.
I reach over the table then and touch his hand. His surprising blue eyes meet mine like we knew the same thing at the same time. The suffering we’d been forced to witness and couldn’t do anything about. We’d taken Aubrey and Bradford’s lashes on ourselves even after their anguish ended like an extended life sentence and now, we’re supposedly free? It doesn’t compute.
After wiping a few tears, Jeffrey says, “we don’t deserve any of this.”
I say, “maybe we do.”
Jeffrey compiles some parts of Magnanimous’ book I’d skimmed over. Probably, surely, this all had to do with the implications of his work at The Foundation and the subsequent conditioning and treatments at The Retreat.
He says, “I know what my LinkedIn says about my education and work, but it’s not quite true.” With a sharp inhale, he says, “I mostly compiled data about DNA sequences.”
I remove my hand from his hand then put it back. After his crying I let down my guard. One lie was okay, I guess. After all, I spent my life pretending not to be a Hampton’s-wealthy trust fund baby.
Jeff explains, it’s been long known that catching any virus alters your genetics even if you’re no longer host to them. Some like HPV, HIV, Chicken Pox, and rabies can lay dormant for years before awakening to wreak havoc on an unsuspecting victim. Magnanimous said the goal of the foundation’s work was to imbue certain hosts with compliments of irrevocably perfect genes. The main purpose of which was to create humans worthy of leaving the planet.
He says, “and it makes sense with what’s happening to us. Who gets hot overnight?”
The fungal infection on my feet is gone. Jeff’s healed butthole. My boobs a perky C cup. Gone from Jeff’s face was his unibrow. No longer wavy meat curtains, my labia are taught unfurled flower petals and Jeff’s imagined naked body floats through my mind. No longer did I have to do Kegels to keep my pee in when I laugh.
I say, “so being hot makes one worthy?”
He says, “no, no, but stronger bones, muscles, better eyesight, longevity, analytical abilities, the ability to survive through hardships like starvation, lack of shelter, lack of water, and solitude are the things that make one worthy. Being attractive is the catalyst. Anyone can have children, but attractive people are more likely to have more sex, and usually exclusively choose attractive partners. The thing that makes us want to bang so we then confer said stronger and stronger attributes on to the next generation.”
What he’s saying, it legit sounds like high school bullshit. A silly male peacock bounded through my mind, dancing for his peahen mate. Deer and beetles interlocking horns. Frogs with their intolerable mating calls. Human men strutting chests out proud like greasy morons. Jeff’d already won my animal sexual interest. However, my thinking mind overrode the desire. He needs to be more than just a good jawline and taut ass. Needs to be a good person. Which he very obviously was. No serial killer here. But, oh, mother, I cannot, and will not bring a child into this horrifying world.
“I know it sounds like bullshit,” Jeff says, reading my mind again, “but the more science-y guys in the foundation explained it’s true whether we like it or not.” He says, “I hope you don’t mind me saying so but I’m conflicted. On the one hand there’s the rationalization that bringing more children into the world breeds more suffering. In that same hand is what I witnessed with my parents and my sister. The torture they put her through and the belief that I’ll ruin any and all children I have. But on the other hand, I’ve never felt so attracted to someone in my entire life.” As he says the last part he looks down into his plate, embarrassed, then, “do you feel it too?” Then looks up with puppy dog eyes.
I agree with Jeff’s question. I feel it too. Let him know with a flick of an eye that this date will indeed end with whatever hot and wet machinations have been floating around in his mind for 40 years. He deserves it doesn’t he? We deserve it.
By the time we finished the wellingtons and move on to the third course of oysters Jeff had spent most of his time talking about The Retreat. The way he moves seamlessly from a tearful reflective older brother to an astute lecturer is so flawless I barely notice until hours later. Seems he’s been itching to tell someone, anyone about his duties at The Foundation who might understand. Finally, he could let loose the torrent of misery he believes he’s wrought on unsuspecting children and young adults. Possibly even his own sister, my brother…me. Had to remind him several times to prevent another tearful outburst, he’s just another knucklebone, a cog in the machine of our world.
After Mk Ultra and other failures of our government to condition subjects, The Westington foundation was given license to perfect any and all forms of subconscious mind control. At first their efforts created an entire graduating class of well to do silent generationers and boomers who were emotionally stunted enough to hatefully abuse their own children and say it was for the greater good. To call it love. My mother traipsed across the cold linoleum floor of my mind with an armload of pop-tarts and butter. In turn it was learned the next generation Millennials and Gen-Z-ers, us, were fully prepared anti-natalists.
Gagging down an oyster, like a mouthful of seawater, I ask, “that makes no sense. Why condition us to not want children if they want us to pass on our so called perfect genes?”
Putting up a halting finger, downing the slimy horror, and belching loudly, Jeff says, “that’s the trick ya see. The more horrible our parents were and the more terrifying the conditioning the more likely we were to be excellent to our children out of spite…” he paused, says, “if we had them,” he paused again says, “which we won’t.”
I say, “you make it sound like we’re supposed to discover all this.”
He says, “you know governments can’t keep secrets.” He taps the book aside him, says, “perhaps even the discovery of the secret is part of the plan. Like your brother and my sister. Like our unwillingness to abuse power, our virginity, our non-desire to have children, our foisting away of our money, our discovery of the book, or our parents dying, and even our meeting, everything down to the words were saying right now.”
Bite my lip on the word virginity. Dunno if I’ve told him or not. Dunno if he notices but if he did, he doesn’t say anything about it. Just kept on eating with his mouth open. Peanut butter soup for me, pumpkin soup for him. Gets some on his tie and doesn’t notice that either. It’s adorable the way he dribbles. Reaching over I wet my napkin in the sparkling water and dab the orange stain. Like an embarrassed little boy trying to impress a girl with a handful of broken daisies he’d plucked from a yard, he fumbles and sighs.
I say, “so we’re not free. Not really anyway.”
Still looking down at the pale stain he shrugs.
I say, “Let’s have some fun in the meantime.”
Looking at the stain again, he appraises my work, smiles on one side of his face. Charmingly-innocent. Can’t help myself then. Coming around the other side of the table, I lift his chin and kiss him unannounced. Then like he’s seen it in a movie, or practiced on a mannequin, he puts both his hands on the side of my face and kisses back, pulls away, and kisses again. Not bad for his first time.
We pay and leave, not caring about the other courses or overpriced wine. In the lot is where I learn he doesn’t own a car. Had taken an uber ‘cause he says not owning a car cancels out his carbon emissions. That’s probably not true but either way we hop into my BMW and make out for a while. His fearful fingers attempt my thighs, so I wrangle them and put them under my dress where feeling the warmth of my cage, he moans, shivers, laughs, covers his lap, and pulls away.
Looking down at the wet stain on his thigh, I say, “jeez, you really haven’t done this before.”
He says, “I’m sorry. I’ll go home now. If you’ll take me, please.”
Was I taking advantage of him? Was I a haughty teacher trying to press a student into something they couldn’t give? I was a moment mulling and he reaches for the handle.
I say, “how much cash do you have lying around?”