“Aw, come on.” He lit another smoke. “You had to take this play, Debra. Who knows how many opportunities you get in life to do this?” He wasn’t talking just about her, of course, but himself, too—Alvis the failed writer, wasting his life selling Chevys, forever doomed to be the smartest guy on the lot.
“He said awful things.” Debra didn’t tell Alvis how Ron copped a feel （she could handle that herself） or that he’d called Alvis an old drunk. But she did tell him the other awful thing he said—You use people. You play with their lives and then treat them like they’re nothing—and as soon as she said the words, Debra began crying.
“Baby, baby.” He moved his chair and put his arm around her. “You’ll worry me if you start acting like this jackass is worth crying over.”
“I’m not crying over him.” Debra wiped her eyes. “But what if he’s right?”
“Jesus, Dee.” Alvis waved Harry Wong back over. “Harry. Do you see this sad knockout at my table?”
Harry Wong smiled and said that he did.
“Do you feel used by her?”
“Anytime she wants,” Harry said.
“That’s why you always get a second opinion,” Alvis said. “Now, Dr. Wong, is there anything you can prescribe for such delusions? And make them doubles, please.”
When Harry was gone, Alvis turned to her. “Listen to me, Mrs. Bender: Jackass Theater Director does not get to tell you who you are. Do you understand?”
She looked up in his calm, whiskey-brown eyes and nodded.
“All we have is the story we tell. Everything we do, every decision we make, our strength, weakness, motivation, history, and character—what we believe—none of it is real; it’s all part of the story we tell. But here’s the thing: it’s our goddamned story!”
Debra blushed at his boozy agitation; she knew it was mostly rum talking, but like so many of Alvis’s drunken rants, it made some kind of sense.
“Your parents don’t get to tell your story. Your sisters don’t. When he’s old enough, even Pat doesn’t get to tell your story. I’m your husband and I don’t even get to tell it. So I don’t care how lovesick this director is, he doesn’t tell it. Even fucking Richard Burton doesn’t get to tell your story!” Debra looked around nervously, a little stunned; they never mentioned that name—even when they were talking about whether they should eventually tell Pat the truth. “No one gets to tell you what your life means! Do you understand me?”
She kissed him hard, grateful but also trying to shut him up, and when she pulled away, another mai tai was waiting for them both. The love of her life? If Alvis was right and this was her story? Sure. Why not.
Dee stood shivering outside her open car door, staring up at the dark Space Needle, while Alvis slid into the Corvair. “Let’s see what the problem is.” Of course, the car started right away. He looked up at her and shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. Are you sure you turned the key all the way?”
She put a finger to her lip and did her Marilyn voice: “Gosh, Mister Mechanic, no one told me you had to turn the key.”
“Why’n’t you climb in the back with me, ma’am, and I’ll show you another feature of this fine car.”
She leaned over and kissed him—his hand found the buttoned front of her dress and he flicked a button and slid a hand in, across her belly and down her hip, his thumb pushing under the waistband of her pantyhose. She pulled away and reached down to take his hand. “My, you’re a fast mechanic.”
He climbed out of the car and gave her a long kiss, one hand behind her neck, the other at her waist.
“Come on, ten minutes in the backseat? The kids are all doing it.”
“What about the babysitter?”
“Why not? I’m game,” he said. “Think we can talk her into it?”
She’d known the joke was coming and still it made her laugh. She almost always knew what was coming with Alvis, and still she laughed.
“She’s gonna want four bucks an hour for that,” Debra said.
Still holding her, Alvis sighed deeply. “Baby, when you’re funny, it is the sexiest thing.” He closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and smiled as broadly as his thin face would allow. “Sometimes I wish we weren’t married so I could ask you again.”
“Ask anytime you want.”
“And risk you saying no?” He kissed her and then stepped away, swept his arm, and bowed. “Your chariot.” She curtsied and climbed into the cold Corvair. He pushed the door closed and stayed there, looking down into the car. She flicked the wipers and a slick of wet goo washed over the edge of the car and nearly hit Alvis.