Baxter - Theres something I want you to do : stories

When she was a teenager, her junior year, her favorite trick involved riding in cars with at least two other girls. You needed a female cluster in there, and you needed to have the plainest one driving. Theyd cruise University Avenue in Palo Alto until they spotted some boys together near a street corner. Boys were always ganged up at high-visibility intersections, marking territory and giving off cigarette smoke and musk. At the red light, shed roll down the window and shout, Hey, you guys! The boys would turn toward the car slowlyvery slowlytrying for cool. Smoke emerged from their faces, from the nose or mouth. Hey! Do you think were pretty? shed shout. Do you think were cute?

Except for the plain one behind the wheel, the girls she consorted with were cute, so the question wasnt really a test. The light would turn green, and theyd speed away before the boys could answer. The pleasure was in seeing them flummoxed. Usually one of the guys, probably the sweetest, or the most eager, would nod and raise his hand to wave. Susan would spy him, the sweet one, through the back window, and shed smile so that hed have that smile to hold on to all night. The not-so-sweet good-looking guys just stood there. They were accustomed to being teased, and they always liked it. As for the other boyswell, no one ever cared about them.

Despite what other girls said, boys were not all alike: you had to make your way through their variables blindly, guessing at hidden qualities, the ones you could live with.

Years later, in college, her roommate said to her, You always go for the kind ones, the considerate ones, those types. I mean, wheres the fun? I hate those guys. Theyre so humane, and shit like that. Give me a troublemaker any day.

Yeah, but a troublemaker will give you trouble. She was painting her toenails, even though the guys she dated never noticed her toenails. Trouble comes home. It moves in. Its contagious.

I can take it. Im an old-fashioned girl, her roommate said with her complicated irony.

Susan married one of the sweet ones, the kind of man who waved at you. At a San Francisco art gallery on Van Ness, gazing at a painting of a giant pointed index finger with icicles hanging from it, she had felt her concentration jarred when a guy standing next to her said, Do you smell something?

He sniffed and glanced up at the ceiling. Metaphor, irony, a come-on? As a pickup line, that one was new to her. In fact, she had smelled a slightly rotten-egg scent, so she nodded. We should get out of here, he said, gesturing toward the door, past the table with the wineglasses and the sign-in book. Its a gas leak. Before the explosion.

But maybe its the paintings, she said.

The paintings? Giving off explosive gas? Thats an odd theory.

Could be. Part of the modernist assault on the audience?

He shrugged. Well, its rotten eggs or natural gas, one of the two. I dont like the odds. Lets leave.

On the way out, he introduced himself as Elijah, and she laughed and spilled some white wine (she had forgotten she was holding a glass of it) onto her dress just above the hemline. He handed her a monogrammed handkerchief that he had pulled out of some pocket or other, and the first letter on it was E, so he probably was an Elijah after all. A monogrammed handkerchief! Maybe he had money. Here, he said. Go ahead. Sop it up. He hadnt tried to press his advantage by touching the handkerchief against the dress; he just handed it over, and she pretended to use it to soak up the wine. With the pedestrians passing by and an overhead neon sign audibly humming, he gave off a blue-eyed air of benevolence, but he also looked on guard, hypervigilant, as if he were an ex-Marine. God knows where he had found the benevolence, or where any man ever found it.