Hesitation, I determined, was the perfect hors d’oeuvre. “I’m afraid I’m busy tonight.” “How’s later this week? How’s tomorrow night?” “Let’s see,” I feigned. “That’s Tuesday?” “Scoobie-doobie-doose-day.” “Okay. Sounds fine.” Waiting out the pause, I imagined rhymes for eight (late), nine (fine). He threw me completely with seven/heaven. We said, see you soon (macaroon). I hung up and finally swallowed the coconut lodged in my throat. I had lied to Bongo. I had no date. But I did have a place to be; I had a beach to walk along. That evening I dreamed my future ten ways from Tuesday. Twenty-four hours later, I’d lassoed my ego, slapped it sober, and was staring down the muzzle of reality. I looked at the mirror. I was dressed and looked vaguely familiar. I looked at the clock. It said six-fifty-six. I shoved the ironing board in the bathroom and hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. The bathroom or the ironing board either. I heard a beep-beep and ran to the window in time to see my old lady neighbor’s Venetian blinds whip to the top of her window as she yanked the cord and stared, shamelessly, at the huge black Lincoln Continental. Which was parking. In front of my door. A car door closed. I heard a scream. I do not recall a great deal of what happened next. When I came to, I discovered myself at a small round table. The table had a white tablecloth, and across that tablecloth from me, in a suit so shiny it out- glowed the candle in the bottle between us, a man sat. Bongo. I recognized that I was in a restaurant. I was chewing something that tasted like steak and felt as if it had been my mouth for a long time. The throat below it felt tight, and in the pit of a stomach, my very own stomach, somewhere beneath the fear and the green beans, I found the unmistakable knowledge that I had to do something for Bongo, poor Bongo. I had to do something, quickly, because he was obviously in even worse shape than I was. Across from me, tap-a-tapping a french fry into the tartar sauce, my date was also rap-a-rap-a-rap-rap-rapping like a turntable gone berserk, spinning LPs at 78 speed. I had to administer psychological first aid, and fast. I backtracked, trying to figure out how I knew this. I could recall opening a door to a man in a shiny suit. I remembered my reflection surfacing on his mirrorous silver sunglass lenses. Then I was in a car, a vault whose interior was soft and foggy as my own senselessness. Bongo was driving, piloting us southward to ‘make a pit stop back at the pad.’ All the way to Daly City, conversation came at the platter-patter pace of a d.j., yet somehow I knew — this man was in a panic. His fingers did not tremble. They inserted the key into his front door. That key, the door’s unlocking, electronically triggered the stereo system. By the time we stood in the living room, the walls Clinton St. Quarterly 37
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