Soft-Mouthed Sandy

By the time Suzy arrived, I had regained my clothes and gone downstairs to change into a pair of cargo shorts and a 1935 Hebrew Orphans Asylum baseball t-shirt.

I was helping Fiona stack boxes in the hall, when her former roommate pulled up in a hatchback. Suzy was a pharmacy student. Brown-eyed, with her hair constantly changing color from vermillion to chartreuse. On this last moving day, it was a fresh-dyed shade of tangerine.

"You know," Suzy said as we loaded her cello into her Subaru. "Fi's got a thing for you."

"Na," I said. "Really? She's way outta my league."

Suzy smiled, waving her last goodbye to Fiona. "Whatever, Boss," she smiled. "I saw the drawings."

I closed the lid on her hatchback. "Don't be a stranger," I said. "I'll miss your tortilla soup at the complex potlucks."

"And I won't miss your Irish tacos," she said.

At 9 a.m., I logged on and pounded out my story for the paper as well as my notes from my interview with Sandy for Sam in special features.

Emails responded almost immediately with "Looks good" and "Feel better, Sean!" In the headers.

At 9:30, my blackberry buzzed with a message from Nan. "How'd it go w/ Grl Upstairs?"

I don't want you to hurt anybody...

I considered my response carefully.

"Well," I replied. "Talk this weekend?"

The ellipse danced a moment.

"Works for me. Xxx."

Fiona popped down at 10:45, and we listened to a few of my records while debating the proper ingredients and ratios of peanut butter to jelly and whether or not second dates could be impromptu brunches that didn't end in sex.

(I am pro-extra chunky. She is pro-sliced banana. We kept it above the clothes, so it was more of a summit talk than a debate.)

At 11, a black impala pulled into the parking lot. Betty was behind the wheel wearing a bikini top and Jean shorts.

"Sup, kiddos! Fresh from the impound lot." She smiled, presenting the car like Vana White as we went out to greet her (I was carrying a gym bag I had packed with my bathing suit and a towel). "Guess who's had his license suspended?"

She hopped out of the car and gave first Fiona and then me equally quick pecks on the cheek. "Dad's pissed," she smiled. "But since I'm moving, I get the Black Betty until further notice! What do you say, stud? Care for a joyride, later?"

I glanced at Fiona, who was already pulling a box from the Impala's back seat.

"I would," I said. "But I'm due to meet up with another friend. Raincheck?"

She smiled, grabbing what appeared to be an electric guitar case from the back seat of the Impala. "You're going t Sandy's pool party, right? I'm invited too. Fi, wanna be my plus one?"

"Sandy?" Fiona asked.

"Pool party?" I asked.

"Sean's director friend," Betty said to Fi. "And he's invited the whole production team to his apartment complex,p" she said to me. "Didn't you know? Oh, by the way, the A.D.-- Alan. He plays keyboard, and his roommate Toby plays drums and guitar. I hung out with them last night jamming and they said I should bring my guitars to the party. Oh, I got cast, by the way! Should have led with that, huh? Sandy dialed me up yesterday afternoon and offered me Roxanne!"

"Congratulations!" I said, giving her a legitimate lift-and-spin hug.

"He's going to be after you, next," Betty said, once I put her back on the ground. "You best get yourself fitted for a big prosthetic nose!"

Fiona pushed a box into my hands. "Well, we've got a few boxes to move before some of us scamper away," she said. Her tone was similar to the one she'd used to command me the night before.

"Of course," I said.

"Oh, by the way," Betty asked. "How'd you two's date go?"

Again I glanced at Fiona, who was ahead of me on the stairs. We reached the landing.

"Well," I said. "Betty, there's no easy way to say this, so I'll just say it."

Both Betty and Fiona paused at the door to their apartment, Fiona almost dropping the box of books she was carrying.

"I'm pregnant, and Fi's the father," I said with a shrug.

Betty laughed, turning to Fiona.

Fi let out a single soft laugh. "Um, it's true," she said. "I forced myself on him, Betty. No ifs, ands, or buts. But I insisted we're naming it after you. Now, come along. Sean has wild oats to sew!"

Betty turned back to me. "Talk about your long-shots," she smiled.

I shrugged, passing Betty her box. "Taking a chance on me."

Betty winked. "It's okay, slugger. Figured you as a one-time-only."

I bowed. "You do look hot in board shorts," I said.

"I know," she smiled. "Go help El Director get his party set up. I'll get settled and smooth things over with Fi. No friction on my end, Stud."

"Velda," I smiled. "You're one in a million."

"Remember that when I'm raising money for my top surgery? A brilliant actress like me deserves tits that are iconic, right?"

"Actually, I think you look fine just the way you a--"

"Bucky! Stop flirt with my boyfriend!"

"Right," she called. "I'm Bucky when she's mad. Good to know. Bye, my strictly platonic neighbor of little to no relevance!"

"Same to you, Pal!"

She made a crude gesture, tossing a genuine smile with it. "Hey, Fi," she called. "I hate your boyfriend, now!"

I laughed, going to my truck and climbing into the cab, tossing my gym bag on the passenger seat. I fired up, Old Blue, shaking my head. "The next one isn't going to be nearly as easy," I sighed.

I pulled out my blackberry and selected Sandy's number.

"Pool PARTY?" I sent.

The ellipses danced. Then: "felt like being social," he replied. "You're coming early, though. Right?"

"Omw, now," I texted.

"Good."

I shifted the truck into gear and backed out of my space, headed in the direction of Sandy's Apartment complex.

I pulled into the complex next to his little green Solstice and killed my engine. He must have been waiting because he appeared at his door, waving for me to wait for him on the curb as he tossed a towel and small duffle over his shoulder and locked the door behind him.

He joined me on the sidewalk, pulling on his smoked aviator glasses.

"Hey," he said.

"Hi," I said.

We fell into step together, walking towards the complex's large clubhouse in measured silence for a few moments.

"Got a question for ya," he said.

"No," I said.

"You don't even know the--"

"I can't be in your movie," I said. "It's a conflict of interest for a journalist to become part of a story they've covered."

He nodded. "I see. And buggering the director, that's not a conflict of interest?"

"So, a pool party?" I asked.

"Well, the only way to get privacy at the pool house is to reserve it for a private event," Sandy explained. "So I reserved it for the afternoon and figured, why not have people over. We can do a quick beer run before the others start to show up. Kind of a spur of the moment spring fling."

"How many others?"

"Perhaps a dozen or so, maybe more. I told everyone they could bring a friend. We've got until 1 pm officially before Alan shows up to set up with his "band" and Kiki works her magic with her catering connections."

"Band? Catering?"

"What, I can throw a party together quick," he smiled. "When I'm motivated."

I nodded. "And among those people invited?"

"Betty," he smiled. "She plays in Alan's band as of yesterday."

"You've also cast her in your Cyrano adaptation," I said.

"So she's the one who let it slip about the party." He smiled. "Is it awkward for you to have the two of us comparing notes?"

"Not at all," I said. "It's just that she's bringing her roommate."

"So? The more the merrier, right?"

I looked at him, waiting for him to read my expression.

"Oh," he blinked. "Your museum date?"

I nodded.

"I take it that went well, then?"

I did a quick two-step and spin.

He laughed. "Maybe instead of Cyrano I should cast you as Casanova? Suppose I shouldn't have just texted Nan before you pulled up. She said she and Cass can make it, too."

I stopped in my tracks.

He smiled, waving a card at a reader by the clubhouse gate and opening it for us. "An interesting situation, eh?" he said.

I blew out a breath. "Should you appear riding a pale horse?"

"Oh, come one," he said. "You're quick on your feet. I'm sure it'll be fine."

We entered the clubhouse and walked toward the changing rooms near the French doors leading out to the vast outdoor swimming pool.

He entered one changing room and I entered the other. In a minute we both came out. He in a pair of black speedo briefs and an open seersucker shirt, me sporting my Blue Hawaiian floral trunks, carrying my baseball shirt over my shoulder

"Hmm, doofus," he said. "It's the new sexy!"

"What?" I said looking down at myself.

"He held up a hand as if to shield his eyes against a powerful glare. "Perhaps we'll start with some sunbathing?"

It was true, I was painfully pale. It had been a long winter and despite the past few weeks of spring weather, I had been keeping mostly indoors.

I nodded and we went out to two reclining deck chairs by the pool. Sandy produced a bottle of Coppertone and tossed it to me.

"You do me, then I'll do you," he said.

"Oh, is that how it works?" I said.

He lay on his stomach and I squeezed a healthy portion of the tanning lotion into my palm. I looked around. There were numerous apartments with balconies facing the pool, but as it was mid-day on a Tuesday, the complex appeared deserted.

"Nobody's watching," Sandy said.

I slapped the lotion at the center of his back, between his shoulder blades and began rubbing it into his already evenly tanned skin.

"What if you pitched it to the paper like an expose? You know, a journalist embedded, kind of thing. Hell, we could even have mini cams on set, filming behind the scenes."

"You mean a documentary kind of thing?" I worked the lotion into his shoulders and down his back to the top of his swimming briefs.

"You gonna do my legs?" He asked.

I squirted more Coppertone into my palm. "It's an idea," I said.

"Pitch it! Send them an e-mail." He flipped and scooped the lotion out of my hand. "I can do my front. Go pitch it, then I'll grease you up."

I wiped the bit of lotion across my chest and went to get my blackberry out of my gym bag. I typed up the email in the shade of the cabana and sent it to Sam in features. I brought my bag and phone over to beside the deck chairs as Sandy squeezed lotion into his own hand.

"Assume the position, Fuck boi."

I shook my head and lay down on my front. The lotion quickly warmed as Sandy rubbed it into my shoulders he moved down over my back.

"My first summer job," I said. "I was a lifeguard at the community pool. I used to rub lotion into all my girl classmates from High School. Including Judy Belasco, the Queen of Neewollah."

"Ever ask Judy out?"

"She went for the captain of the wrestling team. I was relief short stop on the worst baseball team in the state, and barely on the swim team. Girls I dated were on the yearbook staff or in the school plays."

"Flip over," Sandy said.

I flipped. I had forgotten my sunglasses so I squinted at his shadow holding my hand up against the bright sun.

"I can manage my front," I said.

"Well, tough," he said. I caught the hint of a smile. "You're a pasty thing, but something tells me you were more of a jock in school than you let on."

He rubbed my chest down and passed me the bottle. "You can do the rest. I'll plug in some music."

I greased my forehead, nose, and cheeks, watching Sandy walk to the bar under the cabana. He plugged an Ipod nano into an unseen dock and made a selection.

Oasis's "Champagne Supernova" started playing through hidden speakers all around the pool area.

He came over and sat by me again. "If they go for the story, will you do it?"

"I suppose I'll have to," I shrugged. "But they'll never go for it."

My blackberry chimed. I picked it up to see an email replay from Sam. The header read "Greenlight!"

Sandy leaned back. "Now we just got to get a sword in your hands," he smirked. "You should learn to trust creative influences in your life. Fellini said experience is what you get while looking for something else. You were looking for an interview and now you're filming your first expose documentary. Congrats. I'm here to help if you need pointers."

I tossed the blackberry in my bag. "Are you ever not smug about being right?"

He laughed. "I set the timer," he said, pointing to his own phone. "I think 10 minutes should give you a good primer tan."

We sat. We sunned. We discussed his vision of the movie and he reminded me about parts of the story I had forgotten since catching the movie on late night TCM in the 90s.

"I forgot about the nose speech," I laughed. "Do you love the little birdies so much you give them this to perch on?"

"Laugh and the world laughs with you..."

"Sneeze and it's goodbye Seattle! That's Steve Martin not Jose Ferrer."

"Still a good line." The timer chimed. "Flip or you'll sear like an ahi tuna."

I flipped from my back onto my stomach. The sun was intense and we were both starting to sweat.

"Personally," I said. "I prefer 'he's got the whole world--

"Up his nose," Sandy sang. "You make me wish I had a notebook."

I reached in my bag and grabbed mine out, tossing it to him with a pen for good measure. "A true reporter is never without them," I said.

He clicked the pen and made some notes, tearing them out and stuffing them in his own bag.

"You like dogs?"

Sandy paused. "Why?"

"Because I always imagined Cyrano had a Giant Schnauzer."

"That's hokey."

I shrugged. "So it's hokey. Still, it's--"

"On the nose," he said along with me. "Fine I'm writing those down but we're not using them."

"No skin off my--"

"Stop!"

"I was going to say 'no skin off my back.'"

I reached for my bag and fished out a bottle of water. "Want one?"

He leaned forward and accepted it. I fished out a second bottle for myself, cracking the lid and sipping.

We sat for a minute or so in silence. He scrawled a few more notes.

"So," he said at length. "I have to ask. Was it just the one school production of Guys and Dolls?"

"I was also King Pellinore in Camelot," I said. "My High school girlfriend was Quinever. She ended up going to Homecoming with Lancelot."

He laughed. "Does Pellinore swordfight?"

"No," I said, rolling over to look at him. "And no, my High School did not have a fencing team."

"We'll work on it," he encouraged. "Every hero needs a challenge."

"Why did you pick Cyrano?" I asked.

"Because everyone else does Shakespeare," he said. "And more than a few people identify with the idea of unrequited love, feeling unworthy, feeling unattractive."

"I suppose that's true," I said.

He patted my leg. "Come on, you're about to burn. Let's go on that beer run."

"It's not even one," I said.

"Well, I'm worried if we don't do it now, it won't get done," he said. "And we need to correct your swimwear situation. I can't pretend to be turned on by a guy in Elvis-inspired board shorts."

"I like Blue Hawaii," I said, sitting up and pulling on my t-shirt.

"Come on," he smiled. "It'll take the hot tub a half-hour to get to temperature anyway."

"You're the boss," I said.

"Who or what is the Hebrew Orphans Asylum?"

"A charitable organization in the 1930s on the upper-west side of Manhattan. They had a baseball diamond."

"And that warrants a depressing t-shirt?"

I shook my head. "Satchel Paige, man. Didn't you have a grandpa or an uncle or someone who talked baseball?"

"I played right field peewee when I was 6," he said. "Spent a lot of time counting dandelions."

I rolled my eyes. "I take it I'm driving?"

"Considering the amount of beer we'll need, the pick-up will do nicely."

I grabbed my keys. "First Black Pitcher to cross the color barrier after Jackie Robinson," I said. "Played for the K.C. Monarchs and the Athletics. In exhibition games, Babe Ruth refused to bat against him!"

"Because he was black?"

"Because he was a right-handed howitzer!"

"If you say so," he said, holding up his hands.

"I'm talking Greek!"

"Είναι καλό που είσαι χαριτωμένος. Αντισταθμίζει την τρέλα."

I squinted at him. "What was that?"

"Greek," he said. "Roughly it translates to 'It's a good thing you're cute. It makes up for the insanity.'"

I nodded. "You know Greek. I know Baseball."

"Po-tay-to, po-tah-to." He said.

We bulled our pants on over our bathing suits and left the rest of our stuff in the clubhouse and hopped in Old Blue and he directed me to the nearest liquor store.

Climbing out of the cab he passed me a $50. "You get beer, mixers, and garnishes. You know, cherries, olives, what-have-yous," he said. "They let you rent coolers with a deposit. I'll handle the wine and spirits."

"Any preferences?"

"You're the frat-boy," he said. "I trust you. Get a variety, though. Not just four 30-packs of Bud and Bud Light."

I got a cart and made some selections. Returning to the counter in less than 10 minutes to see Sandy off in the wine section arguing with a clerk. I presented my purchases and the $50 to the girl at the register.

"Fussy," she said. "Apparently, he's got people to impress tonight."

I said nothing, accepting my change and the receipt. "Oh, and I'm guessing we'll need some coolers and ice."

She nodded, accepting a $20. "I'll have the boy meet you at your car," she said. "Four coolers? Four large ice bags? Sound right?"

I nodded.

I met the clerk and stocked the coolers in the back of the truck, loaded with ice when finally Sandy emerged with three boxes stuffed with an assortment of wine and liquor that would have wiped out a month's pay for me. He saw them loaded into the pick-up and then tipped the clerk before climbing into the cab.

"Drive," he said. "I'll direct you."

I shifted the truck into gear and backed out of the parking space. He directed me to a department store.

"Lean forward," he said.

I leaned forward and felt his fingers reach for the tag at the back of my swim trunks peaking out of my cargo shorts.

"Back in a mo," he said. "Guard the booze."

I shut off the engine and waited. He was in and out in under 8-minutes with a single shopping bag.

"You'll thank me," he said, tossing the bag at me. "Home, Jeeves."

We returned to the clubhouse and unloaded the coolers. He shooed me away to the changing room before going about selecting some of the bottles of wine to put on ice. "Put on everything in that bag," he said.

I made no protest. I went into the changing room, tried on the dark blue speedo briefs. They fit snuggly. I removed the tags and threw on the cloth bowling shirt of cream and sky blue. There was a third item in the bag, a pair of simple Ray-bans, black rims and lenses.

There was no mirror in the changing room, so I emerged feeling very self-conscious.

Sandy, who had removed his pants, was now just in his speedo and bowling shirt. A cocktail shaker stopped mid-shake.

He wolf-whistled.

"I feel ridiculous," I said, taking off the shades and tossing them on the counter.

"Nonsense," he said, pouring two martinis into glasses that had appeared from nowhere. "You're just a chest-wax and a few thousand push-ups shy of Steve Reeves," he said.

"Steve Reeves?"

"Google it," he said, sipping his martini. "What's your watch say?"

"It's 1:05," I said.

"Now," he said. "Remove the watch."

"Huh?"

"My grandfather, who was from Greece, had a saying. 'Those who track time don't live as long.' Take it off."

I unclasped my watch and tried putting it into my pocket. I immediately realized I had no pockets.

"Give it here," he said. "I'll toss it in your duffle. Go check the hot-tub."

"It feels like I'm taking a lot of orders lately," I said.

"Not orders," he said, passing me the second martini. "Simple directions." He looked at my wristwatch. "Curious," he said.