Oliver's Story

'Hey, I won a big one.'

Dr London offered no congratulations. Yet he knew the action was significant since I'd referred to it in sessions past. So once again I had to abstract Channing v. Riverbank. The latter is the fancy condominium on East End Avenue, the former, Charles F. Channing, Jr, president of Magnitex, a former Penn State All-American, a prominent Republican … and also eminently black. His application for the purchase of the penthouse was denied for some odd reason. And that reason brought him to seek counsel. He chose J & M for our prestige. Old man Jonas gave his case to me.

We won it easily, invoking not the recent open housing laws — which have some ambiguities — but simply citing Jones v. Mayer, last year argued in the high court (392 U.S. 409). Herein the justices affirmed that 1866s civil rights act guaranteed to everyone the freedom to buy property. It was soundly rooted in the First Amendment. Riverbank was soundly routed. And my client moves in on the thirtieth.

'For once I even made some money for the firm,' I added. 'Channing is a millionaire.'

But London still withheld all comment.

'Old man Jonas took me out to lunch. Marsh — the other half — came by for coffee. They were hinting at a partnership … '

Still no comment. What exactly would impress this guy?

'I'm seducing Marcie Nash tonight!'

Aha. He coughed.

'Don't you wonder why?' I asked, my tone demanding a response.

He answered quietly. 'You like her.'

I began to laugh. He didn't understand. I then explained this was the only way to get the answers.

Crude as it may sound (and cynical), seduction is a potent way to truth. And when I've learned what Marcie has been hiding, I'll just tell her off, depart, and feel terrific.

Now if London dares to ask me for a fantasy, I'll walk right out.

He didn't. And instead he made me ask myself why I had been so self-congratulating. Why had I been strutting verbally like some damn peacock? Was my emphasis on legal triumph just to draw attention from some other … insecurities?

Of course not. Why should I be insecure?

She's just a girl.

Or isn't that the problem?

'Hey, I'm naked, Marcie.'

'What is that supposed to mean?'

'You caught me in the shower.'

'Shall I call you back? I wouldn't interrupt your monthly ritual.'

'Never mind,' I snarled, ignoring her remark. 'Just tell me where the hell you are.'

'The White Plains shopping center. In Binnendale's.'

'Then be outside the front in twenty minutes and I'll pick you up.'

'Oliver,' she said, 'it's fifteen miles away!'

'All right,' I casually replied. 'I'll pick you up in fifteen minutes.'

'But, Oliver, please do me one small favor.'

'What?' I said.

'Put on your clothes.'

Thanks to the mechanical perfection of my Targa 911S and also to my driving creativity (I even pass on center strips — the cops are always too impressed to stop me), I zoomed into the shopping center twenty-seven minutes later.

Marcie Nash was waiting (posing?) just where I had told her to. She had a package in her hand.

Her figure looked — if possible — more perfect than the other night.

'Hello,' she said. As I leaped out, she came and kissed me on the cheek. And put the package in my hand. 'Here's a little gift to mollify and butter you. And, by the way, I like your car.'

'It likes you too,' I said.

'Then let me drive.'

Oh, not my little Porsche. I couldn't …

'Next time, Marcie,' I said.

'Come on, I know the way,' she said.

'To where?'

'To where we're going. Please … '

'Marcie, no. It's much too delicate an instrument.'

'Don't sweat,' she said while climbing into the driver's seat. 'Your instrument will be in expert hands.'

And I confess it was. She drove like Jackie: Stewart. Only he would never take a hairpin turn as fast as Marcie did. Frankly, I confess to intermittent trepidation. And some total fear.

'Do you like it?' Marcie asked.

'What?' I said, pretending not to notice the speedometer.

'Your present,' Marcie said.

Oh, yeah. I had forgotten all about the butter-up. My panicked fingers were still clutching that unopened offering.

'Hey, unscrew your digits — open up and take a look.'

It was a soft black cashmere sweater with Alfa Romeo emblazoned on the chest. In vivid red.

'It's Emilio Ascarelli. He's the new Italian whiz kid.'

Clearly Marcie had the money to afford this kind of thing? But why'd she buy it? Guilt, I guess.

'Hey, this is gorgeous, Marcie. Thanks a lot.'

'I'm pleased you're pleased,' she said. 'Part of my business is to guess the public's taste.'

'Ah, you're a hooker,' I replied, with tiny smile to punctuate my witticism.

'Isn't everybody?' Marcie said. With charm. And grace.

And maybe truth?

One may well ask, since I'd been recently a bit uncertain of myself, how could I be so sure I would seduce Miss Marcie Nash.

Because its easier without emotional involvement. I know by definition making love implies affection. But often nowadays the act is merely a competitive event. In this regard I felt completely comfortable — psyched up, in fact — to handle Marcie Nash.

And yet the more I paid attention to the comely driver and forgot to watch the dash, the thoughts that London had evoked came back to me. Notwithstanding all the mystery and my ostensible hostility, did not I maybe slightly like this girl? And was I maybe faking myself out in order to reduce anxiety?

For was it really possible, once having made most tender love with Jenny Cavilleri, to dichotomize? Could I divide the act of love, be sensual yet insincere?

People can and do. As I would prove.

For in my present state, without involvement was the only way I thought I could.