“I just turned twenty,” I said. “I’m not ‘in my twenties’ yet.”
“Okay, well, I’m only forty,” he said.
I remember looking closely at his face while he smiled at me. He looked at least fifteen to twenty years older than forty, but he didn’t have any gray hair and his teeth were very white.
OM:?How were you feeling at this point? In your body, I mean.
FEW:?A little drunk and uncomfortable—but not because of his story. I became uncomfortable when I realized the waitstaff didn’t like him. At one point, our server’s veneer cracked for a second and I could see that she despised him. I think she let it crack on purpose, for my benefit. She wanted to let me know what she thought of him. Also, he’d bragged about having a personal relationship with the chef, but when the chef came out of the kitchen to chat with some of the customers, he deliberately avoided our table, even though Keith waved him over.
OM:?Okay, so you felt judged by the staff.
FEW:?Not especially, but I’m sure they were wondering what I was doing with him. Anyway, he paid the bill and we were on the sidewalk. He kept looking at his watch. I thanked him for dinner and said I’d see him around. “Where?” he said. I said I’d see him at the bar. “I really wish you’d come see my house so you’ll know I’m not full of shit,” he said. He looked so sad. His elaborate seduction charade had taken a lot out of him. “Please,” he begged. “It’s a beautiful night. Let’s sit in my garden and have a glass of cognac. I only live a mile away, just south of the park, and I have great roommates. They’re probably having a party right now.” I said I thought he owned his house, the “giant Victorian mansion” he’d done a lot of hand-waving about over dinner. “I do own it,” he said, “but I rent rooms to a few friends, because it felt strange to live alone after being locked up for so long.” He looked at his watch again. He seemed anxious to leave—with or without me—and was already walking to his truck, a legitimate work truck full of equipment, and so I climbed into the passenger seat, which was covered in fast-food wrappers.
OM:?Were you scared?
FEW:?Not really. I hoped the garden existed, and I hoped it was full of beautiful wooden furniture, and if it was, I decided I would be extra nice to him the next time he came into the bar.
OM:?And if it wasn’t?
FEW:?I’d refuse to wait on him again. Or maybe I’d have him banned from the bar.
OM:?Okay.
FEW:?Let me ask you, do you think there was a garden?
OM:?I’m picturing a pathetic lawn and a few shrubs.
FEW:?Well, first there was the house—a huge, brightly painted Victorian, like he said. Unfortunately, you had to walk through the house to get to the garden. As I climbed the steps to the porch, I felt a weird pain in my stomach. I figured it was indigestion, but what I was probably feeling was dread. He hurried inside and held the door open for me. I could sense right away that the inside of the house was a dark, scary dump, but he seemed so relieved to be home. He immediately disappeared into the kitchen. I looked around for someplace to sit, but all the furniture was piled with dirty clothes and garbage, except for the love seat, which had just one thing on it, a large dark lump that turned out to be a dog. The dog looked at me but didn’t move.
OM:?What kind of dog?
FEW:?An obese chocolate Lab with bloodshot eyes. Keith came back into the living room carrying a wineglass and a bottle of cheap pinot grigio. “Whose dog is this?” I asked. “Mine,” he said.
The dog looked like it had given up being a dog a long time ago. It wasn’t even going through the motions. I’ve never seen a more depressed animal in all my life, not even in India—
OM:?You’ve been to India?
“God!” Greta said.
FEW:?Yes, I’ve been to India a few times.
OM:?What part?
“Are you fucking kidding me,” Greta said.
FEW:?The north, mostly.
OM:?Me too. [PAUSE] Go on.
FEW:?He poured the wine and took me through the kitchen, which was disgusting, and I wondered if his “roommates” were men like him. Ex-cons. I asked where they were, and he said they were probably upstairs. We were standing outside now, and he was fiddling with a light switch. “The lights aren’t working, unfortunately, but can you see?” He seemed nervous. I could make out that it was a large, lush garden, about the size of the house, and very beautiful, actually. He told me the garden looked better from the balcony upstairs. So, I followed him back into the house and up the stairs. [PAUSE] That’s on me. I chose to go up there.
OM:?You don’t look well. Do you want to stop? We can stop whenever you want.
FEW:?I just need some water.
[LONG SILENCE DURING WHICH PATIENT GUZZLES WATER]
OM:?You okay?
[MORE WATER GUZZLING]
OM:?Take some deep breaths if you need to.
FEW:?I’m fine. There were four or five bedrooms upstairs, and all the doors were shut. I couldn’t hear any people. When I saw the padlock on his bedroom door, I realized I was in a halfway house of some kind. He didn’t own this house. His roommates were not his friends. I didn’t say anything while he removed the padlock, because—well, I didn’t know what to say. Suddenly, I felt extremely uncomfortable in the hallway—exposed—so I stepped into his room and looked around at the mess. The only thing I really remember is all the boxes of Just for Men. Dark brown. I looked at his hair and realized it had been recently dyed. The room smelled like ammonia and Speed Stick. He was sitting on a saggy twin bed, calmly removing his shoes and socks, and that’s when I saw the ankle bracelet.
OM:?What?
FEW:?An electronic ankle bracelet. I asked him why he was wearing one, because I was under the impression that he’d been out of prison for years, and he said he was on probation. “I got into it with some Latin people,” he said, “and they called the cops on me. It just means I have a curfew now.” And I remember thinking, Latin people?
Then he tried to kiss me. He took my face in his huge hands and kissed my mouth. I stepped back. He pulled me toward him by my shirt, and I laughed. “Nope,” I said. “Nope!”
“Why not,” he said.
“I’m not attracted to you,” I said.
“Then why are you here?”
I didn’t have an answer. Morbid curiosity? I couldn’t say that. Why are you here? I kept repeating to myself. It was a good question. Meanwhile, he was telling me how amazing he was at oral sex, how he’s known for it all over town, how women tell him he’s the best they’ve ever had—
“Don’t ever say that again,” I said, and laughed. “It’s like telling someone you’re an excellent driver. Or easygoing.”
“But it’s true,” he said, exasperated. “I’m the best!”
He looked dumbfounded when I tried to leave. Then, a flash of anger. He dug his fingers into my arm and grabbed me by the hair. Since there’s literally nothing I hate more than having my hair pulled, I snapped at him. I called him a dumb piece of shit.
Then I said, “I hope you’re not planning to rape me. That would be a very bad idea.”
That’s when everything changed. He punched me square in the face two or three times. I was on the floor now, and he was on top of me. Suddenly he was threatening to kill me, and said he’d rather walk the yard for murder than rape. He’d never, ever walk the yard for rape, he kept saying. He kept punching my face. He seemed certain that killing me was his only option now, even though I hadn’t mentioned the police or pressing charges or anything like that. I’d only said the word “rape.” In his mind, he was already going back to prison—that much was settled—now it was just a matter of how he’d get there.