Oliver's Story

I was in the midst of dreaming that I was asleep when — dammit — someone woke me on the telephone.

'Hi. Did I arouse, disturb or otherwise intrude?' The merry caller was Miss Marcie Nash. Her implication: was I having fun, or simply waiting doglike for her call.

'What I'm doing's strictly classified,' I said, implying I was into some lubricious bit of grab-ass.

'Where the hell are you?'

'I'm at the airport,' she replied, as if it was the truth.

'Who're you with?' I asked quite casually, in hope she would be caught off guard.

'Some tired businessmen,' she said.

I bet the business had been very tiring.

'Well, did you get a tan?' I asked.

'A what?' she said. 'Hey, Barrett, are you smoking? Clear your head and tell me if we're playing tennis in the morning?'

I squinted at my wrist watch on the table. It was almost 1 a.m.

'It's already "in the morning",' I replied, annoyed by what she'd done all week compounded by her waking me. And not biting at my baited questions. And the whole continuing enigma.

'Do we play at six a.m.?' she asked. 'Say yes or no.' I thought a lot for several miniseconds. Why the hell would she come back from fun and frolic in the tropics and yet want to go play tennis so damn early? Also, why not play with 'roommate'? Was I just her tennis pro? Or did he have to breakfast with his wife? I ought to tell her off and go to sleep.

'Yeah, I'll be there,' I said. Which wasn't quite what I'd intended.

I beat her to a pulp.

Next morning on the tennis court I showed no mercy whatsoever. I was wordless (save for 'Are you ready?') and extremely vicious. Add to this the fact that Marcie's game was slightly off. She looked a trifle pale. Did it rain down in Bermuda? Or did she spend too much time indoors? Well, that was none of my concern.

'Heigh ho,' she said with difficulty when the swift debacle ended. 'Pancho didn't humor me today.'

'I had a week to lose my sense of humor, Marcie.'

'Why?'

'I thought the Cleveland joke was just a little much.'

'What do you mean?' she said, and seemed ingenuous.

'Look, I'm too pissed off to even talk about it.'

Marcie seemed confused. I mean she acted like she didn't have a clue that I was on to her.

'Hey, aren't we adults?' she said. 'Why can't we talk about what's bugging you?'

'It isn't worth discussing, Marcie.'

'Okay,' she said, and sounded disappointed. 'Obviously, you don't want to go to dinner.'

'I was not aware there was a dinner.'

'Isn't that supposed to be the prize?' she said.

I thought a moment. Should I tell her now? Or should I enjoy a lavish meal at her expense and then tell her to go to hell?

'Yeah — buy me a dinner,' I replied, a trifle gruffly.

'When and where?' she said, apparently undaunted by my impoliteness.

'No, I'll just pick you up. At your place,' I said pointedly.

'I won't be home,' she answered. Yeah, a likely story.

'Marcie, I will pick you up if you're in Timbuktu.'

'Okay, Oliver. I'll call you at your house around six-thirty and I'll tell you where I am.'

'Suppose I'm not at home?' I said. A pretty cool riposte, I thought. To which I added, 'Sometimes I have clients who invite me to their offices in outer space.'

'Okay, I'll keep calling till your rocket lands.'

She started toward the ladies' locker room and turned. 'Oliver, you know I'm starting to believe you're really crazy?'