HIS & HERS WATCHES - PART 2

They passed by what seemed like a quarter mile of doors that opened into little studios, packed with people. Bells and whistles. Cheering. Booing. Hooing.

“Sit tight,” Fredrickson said. Nodded towards a row of waiting-room-type chairs. Les shrugged and sat down. Thumbed anxiously through a People.

Fredrickson returned a half hour later. “Quick question. You single?”

“Not really. I’m pretty involved with a gal back home,” he said. Reached for his wallet, figured he might need photographic proof.

“Not necessary.” Fredrickson held up a palm. “Lemme ask you something. You had fun since you’ve been here?”

“Sure. I guess so,” Les said, chuckled. He wanted to be envisioned as a team player. A contestant who arrived, won, elevated the whole goddamn franchise.

“Yeah,” Fredrickson said. “So here’s the bad news. You can’t be on the show show.”

“The show show?”

“Yeah. You, uh, looking at your scores? You’re too good. The competition isn’t there.”

“Good.”

“Not good. We need more drama, less in the way of clean sweeps. View this as a compliment.”

“I’ll sit it out a day or two.”

“Let’s take a new direction,” Fredrickson suggested. “Ever hear of Set Me Up? It’s a dating show. Want in?”

“Huh? I said I’m taken.”

“Sure you are.” Fredrickson nodded, pursed his lips. He handed Les an envelope with $1,000 in it.

“I don’t get it.”

“Les, you’re Dale. From Covina. We’ll do a little hair and makeup. You love Datsun 280-Zs. Clean pools for a living.”

“I think I’d rather—”

“Christ.” Fredrickson dug into his pocket. “Here’s another $500. Do the show. You’re here for a date. That’s all. You won’t get picked. Just be yourself. Be Dale.”

“I’m Les.”

“Les, be yourself. Be Dale, too.”

Les looked at the money. “Are you sure?”

“Les,” Fredrickson explained. “Your friends? Family? They’ll never know. The makeup will be that good. Tell ’em we had a small fire here. We couldn’t shoot anything in the way of trivia.”

“Shit.”

“That’s the wrong attitude, Les.”

“OK.”

“We gotta bend the rules when need be. And today, according to Lasky, they need bending.”

“Who’s Lasky?”

“Never mind.”

“Fine. I’m Dale.”

“Nice to meet you. Now get down to 8H and ask for Lorna.”

Les wandered down to 8H with his $1,500 tucked into his jacket. Lorna smushed her cashmered D-cups in his face while he sat in the chair. She moussed his hair. Put some shitty glasses on him. A shirt whose pattern resembled how a mentally retarded person might attempt to explain a tornado.

“You look like a real tool now,” Lorna said. “Even more than when you came in.”

He went on set. The lights got hot. He was on TV, or at least, well, taping.

“Dale is from Covina,” the announcer said, “And Dale likes, Dale? It says here you like walnuts. Becky? Whaddaya think of that?”

“Boring.” The grubby voice came from behind a soft purple curtain. “I’m so not getting moist.” The crowd yukked.

“Yowza,” said the host.

“I drive a 280-Z,” Les said.

“It’s still his turn?” Becky asked. “I wanna know if there’s a black guy.”

“Sorry Dale,” said the host.

The permed organist closed his eyelids behind his peach-lensed eyeglasses. A tuba sound effect flozzled. Les sat there and got picked on by all the other bachelors.

“I can assure you I am no Dale,” one said.

Fred Fredrickson came up to him afterwards. Patted his jacket a little too hard. “Can you give me that extra $500 back?”

“Wait. We had a deal.”

“Actually, we found you a cheaper flight home. Antonio took the liberty of getting your stuff from the hotel. He’ll take you to LAX now.”

Les was excited, briefly, that he’d see her sooner. Then he remembered he was being sent home, as not even a loser. But as a noncompetitor. He got abused, then dismissed. Put out in the garage on a rope like a golden retriever with a faulty bladder.

Fredrickson patted him down. “Soooo... it’s not like you’ll need the extra cash, anyway.”

“Oh.”

“And I’m not technically supposed to be doing this, but I have a nice parting gift. Miubutti his and hers watches. An over-$1,000 value.”

“Lemme see.”

He handed them over. Velvet bags. “Lasky says no hard feelings.”

They were clunky in a good way. Big and gold. “The timepiece of today’s CEOs,” a tiny card read. Les felt maybe he could spring the ladies’ watch on her. Even if she blew him off, people would always remember the matching Miubuttis. “Les gave that to ya,” they’d say.

The more he looked at them, the more they said commitment. Love sans boundary. Or he could maybe sell them, too.

The ride to the airport was quick.

“So you blew it, huh, Frankie?” The driver asked.

“Shut up,” Les said palming the velvet bags.

“Wanna walk?”

“No.”

On the flight home, Les drank a couple of beers. He got up, went into the airplane’s tiny rest room. It reeked of chemicals, sour farts. He looked in the mirror, issued forth the ladies’ Miubutti. “A token,” he said, gestured. He said it again. Worked on the gesture. Then went back to his seat. Waited to land.

JEFF JOHNSON


What was the first thought that led to this story?

A guy who really wants to be in love.

How long did it take to write it?

I don’t know.

OK. Who is the best novelist ever?

I think many of the novelists now are near the top, writing those imaginative what-if stories where FDR could secretly walk and also had a time machine and went back and stabbed Rembrandt in the throat with a crucifix made of wicker. Or when a lawyer starts writing really good books about lawyering their way into the White House then accidentally suffocating a young intern on a private plane and letting their gambling-addicted friend come in and sweep up all of the pieces.

And who is the best living novelist now?

The best living novelist will be the person who writes a slash-fiction story about kidnapping Mallard Fillmore and fattening him up, then turning his liver into foie gras and using it as lube to make love to his creator in the ass.

Jesus Christ, Jeff.


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