at the omelet station, waiting for someone to come up and
ask for one with a little of this and some of that. We also
happen to be talking about one of the waitresses, Naomi,
loud enough so she can’t help but overhear us.
She’s a sexy little thing. Dimples, perky breasts, nice
round butt. She drops a fork and picks it up without
bending her knees, which gives us more to talk about.
The next time she comes within ear shot, Spencer turns
to me and says, “Yeah, but would you respect her in the
morning?”
Naomi walks closer.
“You would not only respect me,” she tells us, “you
would be in awe.”
Hearing Things
I TAKE A SECOND, part-time job at a bookstore because I
really want that Suzuki. The store is in a shopping mall.
Malls are microcosms.
You get glimpses into all kinds of interactions—the
sad, the insecure, the intimate—all the time.
YOU HEAR A MAN approach the woman who waters all the
plants:
“Excuse me. I was wondering if I could speak to you a
moment. I’m a widower who’s forgotten how to approach
women and basically what I wanted was to ask you out to
dinner but I’ve forgotten how to do that. You’re probably
married, it seems like all the beautiful and intelligent
women around here are married. I do basically the same
thing you’re doing. I’m a gardener. No chance, huh?”
“No, I’m married.”
THEN WE’D BE HAPPY
YOU HEAR TWO WOMEN coming out of a restaurant after
lunch:
“She was so pretty I was embarrassed to look at her she
was just so pretty.”
“Oh, but, Linda, you have a hang up about that.”
“I know I do.”
“You really do.”
“I know I do because you’ve pointed that out to me
before.”
YOU HEAR TWO OTHER women in a bookstore:
“Oh, look, we could get Test Your IQ.”
“Or we could get Test Your Sex Appeal.”
“I’d rather test my IQ.”
IF, LIKE ME, YOU happen to work in the bookstore, you
get drawn into conversations like this:
“Why don’t you ask him? I bet he knows.”
“Can I help you?”
“No, no, no.”
“Yes, you can. It’s not for me. My fiancé would like to
know… Where are your books about sex?”
“Right over here.”
“Oh, good… where?”
31
AL RISKE
“What are you looking for?”
“Do you have any sex manuals?”
“Right here.”
“Like Joy of Sex? Oh, there it is. Here it is, honey!”
“There you go, Brad. Now you’ll know how to handle
me on our wedding night.”
I SMILE, SAY NOTHING. I just take it all in. All these
random encounters. All the confusion and frailty. The
clues. The hints. The almost-revealed secrets.
32
Spencer Has Plans
WE GO IN THROUGH the back door, past the dishwasher’s
station where dirty mixing bowls and scorched sauce pans
are starting to stack up. The cooks are not yet wearing the
hats they will have to put on once the doors open for
lunch, and the radio is cranked up as high as it will go
without distortion.
With a long wooden paddle, Patrick, the sous-chef,
fishes a single strand of fettuccini from a cauldron of
boiling water. Tasting it, he turns off the burner. The blue
flame disappears.
“Luke, give me a hand with this, will you?”
I pick up a clean, dry towel to use as a potholder, and
we lug the twenty-gallon cauldron to the nearest sink,
where we drain off the water, careful to hold our faces
back from the gush of steam we know is coming.
As we set the cauldron down, Spencer comes out of
the changing room. He is holding the jacket he left here
AL RISKE
last night—his phone and wallet still in their respective
pockets.
Lucky bastard.
him.
Standing on his toes, Patrick turns down the radio, an
old Panasonic that sits on a shelf high above the sink.
“You left here in a hurry last night,” he says. “What
were you thinking?”
Spencer grins and shrugs. We know he left with
Naomi, so we can guess what he was thinking.
“You guys working tonight?” Patrick asks.
I nod.
“You know I’d love to be here,” Spencer says, “but I’ve
got other plans.”
As we head out the back door, I can hear the envy in
Patrick’s voice.
“I’ll bet you do,” he says.
34
Bad Boy That I Am
I FIGURE THE MOTORCYCLE will make me happy and it
does at first.
It’s a black and red beauty I get from this guy on
Craig’s List. Only has seven hundred miles on it and runs
great. The guy is clearly sad to see it go.
“My wife gives me the silent treatment every time I
think about riding it,” he tells me.
So now the bike is mine.
First thing I do is ride it hard on the backroads through
the Santa Cruz Mountains to the beach. I’ve never felt so
free.
I’m especially happy when Tanya sees me park it in
downtown Mountain View. I can see her checking me
out—sexy bad boy that I am. There’s a ghost of a smile on
her lips.
I take off my helmet and wink at her.
She’s stunned.
AL RISKE
I give her a nod and walk away—oh, yeah—cool as can
be.
In retrospect, the wink bothers me. The wink may have
been over the top. I should have smiled. Or not, I don’t
know.
36
History of Heartache
I DATED QUITE A few girls in my school days. Short-lived
relationships with long dry spells in between. I remember
them all fondly now—Jennifer, Alison, Sydney, Zoe,
Heather, Tara, Brittany, Carrie, Kirsten—even though
most of them left me heartbroken.
I got myself into some sticky situations, too, hooking
up with girls I had no real interest in; I was just lonely. I’m
sure some of them hooked up with me for the same
reason—they were hurting and needed me to lick their
wounds—only I wasn’t smart enough to see it at the time.
Probably willful ignorance. I was always happier when I
was with someone, even the wrong someone.
My problem was I took it all too seriously. I fared
better when I lightened up. Sad to say, the ones I didn’t
take seriously, who I went out with just for kicks, are the
ones I think the most of now. I didn’t always treat them
well, if you want to know the truth, but it was easier if they
AL RISKE
left me. Now I think I messed up some really sweet
opportunities.
Mostly, though, I was smart enough to see when it
wasn’t going to work, and I would steer clear. Eve
n if I
was lonely. Mostly. I did say mostly. I don’t want to sound
like I’m contradicting myself, but I suppose I’ve often
contradicted myself where women are concerned.
I won’t be happy until I find The One.
I thought Tanya might be The One, and I was serious
about her, no matter what she says. I was just trying to
keep things light. My bad.
38
A Little Taste
TURNS OUT WE ALL like basketball, so we meet at this park
over by the Pruneyard in Campbell to see who’s got game.
We’re all decked out in our Converse hightops, big-dog
shorts, and mismatched T-shirts. Each of us brings a ball,
too, which means we’re knocking each other’s shots out of
the clear blue sky, all shooting at once. At first. Then we
get wise.
Spencer shows up late, driving a rusted old Bel Air
station wagon. We all give him shit for buying such a
beater, but he says he got a good deal and they don’t make
’em like that anymore.
“That thing will still be on the road when we’re in our
Then he takes his first shot, a high-arcing twenty-foot
jumper, and sinks it. Just like that. Nothing to it.
“Look at that!” Marty says. “He sure has his form
down on that jumper, doesn’t he?”
“He gets up there, too,” I say. “He’s got good springs.”
AL RISKE
“Wait a minute, you’re not saying he gets up there
higher than me, are you?”
“Well, Marty, his feet do leave the ground.”
We all laugh.
“Hey,” Marty says, “I have a bone to pick with you,
Spencer. You said you weren’t going out drinking last
night.”
“That’s right. I didn’t go out drinking.”
“You weren’t at home.”
“I didn’t say I was going straight home.”
“Oh-ho, did Spencer go over to Naomi’s again? I tell
you, Spencer, you are the most pussy-whipped guy I’ve
ever met.”
“Oh, thank you very much. I just want you to know,
Marty, that you are the most studly guy I’ve ever known.”
“I can accept that.”
Again, we all laugh.
“You know, Spence, you get a little taste and you turn
into a puppy dog.”
Spencer grins, drives left, pulls up, hits another jumper.
“You come out here and you’re the big ball player.”
“That’s right. I come out here and kick your ass.”
“Big ballplayer by day, puppy by night.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
40
Hook Up
THE BACKSTREET BAR & GRILL is my kind of place. A
funky little brew pub where you can get ale, porter, pilsner,
lager—whatever you want.
The menu is a giant chalkboard listing a dozen kinds of
sandwiches and a bunch of other stuff. Chili, nachos, beer-
steamed hot dogs.
You order at the counter and they fix your sandwich
(or whatever) while you wait. Then you seat yourself in a
booth or table and wander over to the bar to pick up a
pint.
If the weather is nice, you can take your stuff up on the
roof. That’s where Nita and I are on this unseasonably
warm day in early May, waiting for the rest of the gang to
arrive.
She wants to know if I’ve hooked up with Ariel yet. I
tell her no.
“Yes you have,” she says. “I know you have.”
I shake my head.
AL RISKE
“She tell you that?”
Nita sips her amber ale, wipes foam off her lips, and
smiles at me.
“You women talk about everything, don’t you?”
Her smile gets bigger. If she didn’t know before, she
knows now.
“Shit!”
“What’s the big secret? Everybody knows she’s been
wanting to bag you for months. Why shouldn’t you take a
little comfort in those mongo boobs?”
This makes me laugh. Ariel, you may recall, is the older
redhead from where I used to work and she does have
spectacular tits. They’re real, too.
“So, tell me,” Nita says. “Is it true that her husband
likes to watch?”
She says this as I’m trying to take a drink. Hefeweizen
shoots out my nose.
“He doesn’t even live there anymore,” I say. “They’re
getting a divorce.”
“That what she told you?”
“Ha ha, the place was emp...”
Nita looks doubtful.
“You’re just messing with me now,” I say. “Aren’t
you?”
42
Proud
AT THE MALL, A middle-aged woman returns a copy of a
book she bought a few days earlier.
“My husband made me bring it back because we don’t
have a dog and we’re not planning to get one, so I guess it
is kind of stupid to have a book about training dogs,” she
says.
“Do you have your receipt?”
“No, I don’t know what I did with it.”
“I can give you a store credit,” I say.
“Couldn’t you just give me cash?
“Sorry, store policy.”
“But it’s only twenty dollars.”
I shake my head.
“Fine,” she says.
When she’s gone, I mimic her entitled voice: “It’s only
twenty dollars.”
My coworker, who heard the whole thing, says, “What
about it?”
AL RISKE
“To me, twenty bucks is twenty bucks.”
“There’s no reason to be snobby about it.”
“Me? I thought she was the snobby one.”
“But really you are in your own way. Your problem,
Luke, is you’re proud of being poor.”
“Thanks for setting me straight.”
“Somebody has to.”
44
Waiting
A HIGH-PITCHED VOICE screams something. A few short
syllables. Totally unintelligible.
I am just coming over a wooden footbridge when I see
them in front of me to the left: A young man with short
black hair, dressed in gray sweatpants and a purple jacket
(Marty), and a young woman, also with dark hair, who
wears skinny jeans and a forest green hoodie (Jackie, I
think her name is).
I’m here to play a little one-on-one with Marty, but he’s
clearly busy and I don’t want to interrupt. I keep walking
and watch through the corner of my eyes. He tries to grab
her arm and she pulls away.
“No,” she says.
I glance over and see her pushing on his chest with
both fists.
“No.”
I am past them now but I glance back to see Marty
running. He carries a long navy duffel bag under his arm.
AL RISKE
As he reaches the crest of the arched bridge, he slows his
pace enough to look over his shoulder (to see if she is
chasing him?) and keeps going. He runs almost out of
sight before slowing to a walk. He stops and looks back,
then drops the bag on the grass and settles down beside it.
I don’t
think she can see him because of the bridge and
the trees in the way, but he can see if she gets up from
where she now sits cross-legged on the grass. I get the
feeling he is just waiting to see what she will do.
I’ve got the ball and could go shoot some hoops on my
own, but I circle behind the girl and find a seat on the
other side of the knoll because now I’m curious.
Then I see Marty’s head, his shoulders, his torso. He
stops. His hand goes up as if he has just dropped
something in front of her. (The duffel bag?) He spins
around and his frame sinks out of sight.
I blink and he’s back. His hand cuts the air horizontally
in a gesture of finality. So I think, That’s it. He’ll come find me
now and we’ll play some b-ball. But when I walk back around,
he is on one knee in front of her. Her head is down.
I hear her saying, “How do you know?”
And him saying, “Oh, boy… Oh, boy…”
He can’t believe she is questioning him.
For a long time they just sit there. She won’t even look
up at him. If they’re saying anything at all, it’s pretty quiet.
But all of a sudden he’s on his feet again and stalking
46
THEN WE’D BE HAPPY
away. Then he runs back grabs the duffel bag and starts
off once more. But once more, like a yo-yo on a short
string, he’s back, standing over her. He throws down the
bag and slowly peels off his jacket.
“Here, you want this, too?”
(The bag must be hers or in some way “theirs” but
certainly not his.)
He swings the jacket around once angrily while she,
head still down, ducks even further. Calmly, it seems, he
puts his arms back in the sleeves and raises them until the
jacket slides down around him. He turns and trots across
the bridge.
Instead of following the cement path this time, he turns
sharply to his left and follows the dry creek bed, watching
all the while to see if she will look up. She does not. She
only drops her head lower between her legs, letting her