My Year of Casual Acquaintances (South Bay #1)

20.

The following week, Jax and I go clubbing at a different place – this time, a bar up near LAX. “I gotta check this place out. A friend of mine is a silent partner, and he wants me to come in as an assistant manager,” Jax says.

“I didn’t realize you had club experience too.”

“Oh yeah,” Jax says, without elaborating.

We’re both putting a positive spin on this, considering I’ve seen no evidence that Jax has any work experience outside of teaching hip-hop – although I’ve listened to extensive monologues in which he’s described a good many things he’s not doing. The silent partner is nowhere in evidence, nor does Jax know anyone else at the club. He slouches in a dejected pose, slurps down a super-sized Coke, and excuses himself to visit the men’s room. While he’s gone, a tall dark-haired man with the shoulders of a football player walks over from the bar and asks me to dance.

Why not? Hell could freeze over before Jax ever gives me a turn on the dance floor.

There’s no band here, just a deejay who’s playing a good dance track right now. We gyrate to the beat – and, having picked up some new moves after a few weeks of hip-hop instruction, I think I’m looking pretty fine. What would this guy do if he knew I was fifty? I’m guessing he’s in his early thirties. As I ponder his age, the music changes to a slow track and he draws me into a classic couples’ dance pose, one hand extended around my back, fingers spread, and the other holding my right hand. We haven’t spoken since he asked me to dance, but now he smiles and says, “Hey, what’s your name? I’m—”

“Curls here is with me,” says Jax, all macho man now, cutting in on us. He pulls me close to him, caressing my back with his right hand as Football Player Guy retreats to his barstool. Jax is only a few inches taller than I am, so we can dance cheek to cheek without him bending down to me. His cheek is warm, dry, and smooth. “Hey, girl, you look good on a dance floor,” he whispers in my ear.

“I’ve had expert instruction,” I say, thinking about how Jax exhibited zero interest in escorting me to any dance floor until another man beat him to the punch. Now he’s acting all proprietary as if we were fricking engaged or something. The dancing doesn’t last long. At the end of the slow number, Jax leads me back to the table. The guy with the shoulders has found a new partner, and they’re out there shimmying and shaking.

On the half-hour drive home, Jax describes yet another pipe dream that involves staging big dance parties after hours at Seaside Fitness and other health clubs. It’s not a bad idea – but with Jax, I never know whether he’s been engaged in serious discussions about this with club management or if he’s coming up with the whole scheme right this moment, off the top of his head.

When Jax pulls into a parking spot by my apartment, he gives me a lingering kiss on the lips for the first time. Then – as if pre-empting a possible invitation from me – he says, “I dig you, Curls. I’m into you, for sure. But I can’t come up to your place yet.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah—but it’s not you, it’s me.”

He really, truly says this.

“I gotta problem down in my junk.”

“Excuse me?”

He points to his crotch. “An infection. Down there. The doc, he put me on an antibiotic, but it didn’t work, so now I’m trying a new med.”

Sweet Jesus—just when I think I’ve heard everything.

Jax promises that as soon as the infection clears up, it’s game on. He’s into me, as duly noted. But after I say goodnight and step out of the car, I know with absolute certainty that it’s game off for me . . . even after such time that his pistol is firing again. It’s not so much the sick dick as it is the motor mouth that has caused my disenchantment. I’ve grown weary of listening to Jax’s long-winded and often incomprehensible rants about all the plans and schemes that will never materialize. He can’t embrace a single idea for more than a day, sometimes not for more than an hour. All I can think about is how best to avoid any further tiresome one-on-one contact with him.

The next morning, I place a long overdue call to Mrs. Ostrowski. We’ve been trading emails for a couple of months now, and I’ve received a few more missed calls from her number, though she has stopped leaving voicemails. But since I have vague stirrings of guilt over my intention to blow off the friendship with Jax, I try to shake off that “you’re-such-a-bad-person” flutter of self-loathing by making nice to my old neighbor.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mrs. Ostrowski. This is Mar Meyer calling.”

“Who?”

“Your former neighbor from the house next door.”

“Oh, you mean Margaret. Hello there.”

“Sorry I’ve been so impossible to reach.”

“I’m sure you’re awfully busy, dear. But I’m glad you called. I was hoping you might find a free hour to stop by.”

I avert my head from the phone so she doesn’t hear the sigh that involuntarily escapes my lips. “This week is crazy, but maybe we can figure out a good time in a week or two,” I say.

“That would be wonderful.”

“How are you doing? Like I said in my email, I’m so sorry about Mr. Ostrowski.”

“Oh, no need to be sorry,” she says, her tone breezy. “The man was a piece of shit.”

Whoa. Meek, timid little Mrs. Ostrowski is using the “s” word to describe her dearly departed husband? This proves you can never know anyone. “I—I guess you’re doing okay, then?”

“I’m fine, dear, thank you. The world is a better place without him.”

I am speechless.

“How is a week from Friday?” she asks. “You could come by for tea—say, around three?”

I check my calendar. “Three o’clock, Friday, next week. Perfect.” My voice is charged with newfound enthusiasm. What previously had all the earmarks of a bland condolence call has now acquired a much spicier flavor. I note the appointment on my cellphone calendar and find that I’m looking forward to paying a visit to my old neighbor.

. . .

I think it’s wise to avoid Jax’s class for a while. Damn, I’m going to miss hip-hop. Once again, I’m back to browsing the club exercise class schedule for a new alternative. I decide to investigate another dance class called NIA. The music resembles something you’d hear in a yoga class, and the teacher – a razor-thin man of indeterminate age with multiple tattoos, body piercings, and stringy dark hair tied back into a ponytail – leads the dancers in a series of long, fluid body motions. The ten or so people in the class, all women, are flapping their arms like swans preparing to take flight. Next, they sashay across the floor in long, twisty strides, and when they reach the far side of the room, they jump into a crouching position, arms extended and fists clenched as if poised for battle.

I’ve always considered it a serious breach of etiquette to walk out in the middle of a class, but no way can I tolerate an hour of this. I feign a gastric disturbance and run from the studio, clutching my stomach. Though I’m happy to have escaped, the relief is temporary. As I’m retreating from the gym, I run smack into Jax.

“Hey, Curls, you goin’ the wrong way. Class starts in half an hour.”

“I—I think I pulled something,” I say, my faux ailment migrating from stomach to spine. I bend one elbow and reach back my hand as if to support myself, grimacing as I do so.

“Girl, that looks bad.”

“Yep. Afraid I’ll need to take a break from hip-hop.” I back toward the exit with a little wave. “See you when I’m better.”

In truth, I’ve burned so many bridges at this club, there may be no turning back. When I count all the classes I can no longer attend and the various instructors and members I mustn’t cross paths with, I acknowledge that my once enjoyable health club experience has become an exercise in avoidance.

Effective today, there’ll be no more hanging out in the women’s locker room, no more group classes, no more dating. Definitely no more dating. Because, for all my bold talk about a sexual reawakening, was I really about to jump into the sack for a meaningless fling with a man I didn’t respect? Superficial one-night stands might have been okay for Henry on his out-of-town trips, but they are not okay for me. Trouble is, I’m not sure what is okay for me anymore, not sure how to plot a safe course. With Jax, I was navigating in waters too shallow – with Charlie, in waters too deep.