Their First Interview

Edgy Fiction

(Photography: “Dessert Wine,” Edsel Little; CC BY-SA 2.0)

Cold spring air bit at a full moon in the cloudless sky. The Annapolis bistro’s sizable outdoor courtyard was dotted with sparsely seated tables interspersed with several planters dripping with shade-loving perennial vines, spiked ferns, and one large orchid – each one of unique color, shape, and fragrance. Small, warm-white LED light strings along the tall fence and awning illuminated the venue. They complemented a delicate pyramid of wire-ringed votive candles resting in the center of each table. The patio canopy had been retracted, owing to an optimistic weather report.

Few couples remained at this hour. Seven patio heaters presided over the ensemble, but only three had been ignited. One group, of three older men in cyan-colored golf shirts and hats, swayed in one corner. The senior of them looked up and raised his arm, twirling a finger for another round. A passing server nodded and continued on beneath the awning and toward the brass-handled double doors which led into the main establishment.

The owner of the restaurant, a friend of the Governor, had contrived a mums-the-word smoking area within a nook on the periphery of the courtyard, reserved for suitable clientele. It was within this sanctuary where the couple sat, engaged in conversation. The man was polished-bald and sported a light linen dinner jacket and dark slacks. A long, smoldering cigarette lay in the ashtray. The auburn-haired woman wore a peach-colored cotton dress of indistinct pattern with a neckline that left little to the imagination. A thin gold pendant necklace fought for attention as an alternative object of inspection. The propane patio heater glowed a soft orange above their patio table. An umbrella hugged itself tightly around the central pole, which was also skirted by a white tablecloth.

“We’ve talked a while about pleasantries,” she said, “but I’d like to get back to our earlier topic. Men typically are driven by many different forces. Depending on their age, the point in their career path, their marital status. What do you see as the key driver for men?” She gave a quick glance to her iPhone resting on the table between them; the red record light was still on.

“All that men want?” he rephrased her question. “Why, sex, of course. Well, money and sex. But the money is ultimately to get more sex.” He placed his empty Sauternes glass next to his barely touched crème brûlée.

“Well, what is it, then, that women want?” she asked, smoothing away a strand of hair as she spoke.

“Women want money. They don’t care about the sex. They just want money so they can go shopping, to buy more things, to make themselves more desirable.”

“So they can get more sex?”

“Well, no. So they can get more money through sex.”

“Wait,” she followed up, although calmly, “so, to be clear, who’s doing the getting and the giving of sex here?” Her reserved tone belied her astonishment. “Each can’t be getting. Someone has to be giving.”

“Hmm,” he paused, unmoving. “You’re right. In the usual circumstance, the women just give. Men take. Sex, I mean. As for money, of course, it’s the other way around. Men give. Women take. Ultimately.” He looked up, nodded, and moved slightly as the server removed his dessert plate and wine glass.

After the server moved on, she probed: “You’re arguing that the key motivational force in the world is… sex?”

“No. Money.” he said, with little inflection. “Have I been unclear?”

“If it’s women who want money, then are you then implying,” — she paused, as if in deep thought — “are you saying that it is women who pull the strings?”

“It would so appear.” He leaned back a little. “I’m not afraid to say it: women are in charge in this country. I think it’s been said before. And I think that most – modern – men would agree with me. If they were honest.”

“What is sex, then, in your view?”

“In general, in the animal kingdom, sex is the sole means of perpetuating the species.” His grin was slight.

She chuckled. The waiter returned with two cappuccinos Amoretto. She slid her tired Sauternes glass slightly away, drew the new warm drink toward her, stirred it slowly with the tiny silver spoon. “I meant in our situation.” She looked up. “Human beings. What value, do you feel, is there for sex in our society, beyond the reproductive role?”

“It’s a commodity.”

She paused. “That’s a… well, a fairly pessimistic viewpoint.” She tapped her iPhone twice, to note in the recording a significant point in the interview.

“No. It is just realistic and honest.” He stared into her lavender eyes, glanced down, lifted and tapped off his cigarette, found her eyes again. With his other hand, he brought the aromatic drink to his lips effortlessly, staring at her all the while.

“What about the sacramental role for sex? Historically, marriages in most western societies were considered sacred, reverenced, between a man and a woman. And a premium was placed on virginity, at least for the woman. They also were not considered valid unless they were properly consummated.”

He paused. “This is a serious question you’re asking. About the marriage covenant. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Are you married?” he asked.

“No. Annulled.” Her response was swift.

He paused again. “There. Asked and answered.” He drew slowly on the cigarette. It glowed intense orange, the same color as the patio heater element.

She gazed at him for a long moment. Her glance drifted up the pole holding the heater, lingered on the glowing honeycomb filament pattern, then fell down toward the table, slowed as it traced over his face, and finally found her own half-full Sauternes glass. “More information than you need to know,” she began slowly, “more information than I would ever tell an interviewee. But this Sauternes. And the Petite Syrah with dinner. Both sublime.” She raised the glass to her lips, sipped, continued. “My ex? He was a lout and a philanderer, or so I learned. And he still is.” After a reflective pause, she added: “With my own best friend. And in our own bed, no less. While I was out covering the investigation after the shooting at my newspaper’s offices, nearly a year ago.” Her eyes welled. She blinked hard. “I still can’t believe it, to this day. And, his timing.”

“Hmmm.” He tapped the cigarette again on the ashtray. “First, I’m so sorry about that shooting. It was unconscionable. I followed your stories in the paper. Simply awful.” He took a short drag. “And your ex, I mean. What a schmuck. Do you have any kids? And why did you marry him in the first place?”

“No children. He was sterile. Thank God.” She took a deep breath, spoke through her exhale: “He was my realtor. He was charming. He sold me my house, which became our house, for a while at least. I married him for love, or so I thought. Didn’t even make it to the seven-year itch.”

“So, did he marry you for sex, or love? Were you a virgin?”

She politely ignored his question, returned to an earlier line of inquiry. “You could be described as a merchant of sex without love. I should suppose that you have a rather low opinion of Love, in general.” She glanced down again at her phone on the table, turned its base more toward his tight mouth, checked again to confirm that it was recording.

“My opinion of love? Just that love is a mythical force.” He took another long drag, exhaled up and away from the table, then snuffed out the cigarette. “That crazy little thing called Love, per se, exists only in the Ideal, and there is no Ideal. Not anymore, in this post-Romantic age.” After a slow sip of the cappuccino, he continued: “Love is just a word, used far too loosely, and equated mostly with sex. It is part of the disguise of sex.” He took another sip of the cappuccino, then let the cup linger for a moment near his mouth. “Marriage, as I just suggested, serves a similar role: it is sex for money disguised by religion and law.”

“Well, there goes five thousand years of Judeo-Christian symbolism and sacrament and tradition. Not to mention, the love of friends and family.”

“Come now, you surely know what I’m talking about.” He placed the cup down, leaned forward slightly. “Historically, there is an added bonus with marriage: monetary fluidity. And of course, the possibility of the ultimate prize: alimony.”

“The ultimate prize?”

“Yes, alimony. Money without sex.”

Another pause, during which she discreetly tapped the phone twice, a note to herself for future reference. “I know what you’re thinking. No sir. I get nothing from my ex. I asked for nothing. Besides the house, of course, which was mine to begin with. I even made him pay for a new king-sized bed in our – the – master bedroom. Where I caught him.”

“I thought you said that this interview wasn’t about you,” he retorted. “But in general, my dear, I have to say: alimony is still the ultimate prize. I can imagine that a number of women out there who divorced bastard philanderers would agree. It’s payback, literally.”

She paused a few beats, reached for her cappuccino. “Let’s look at another angle. You speak of money as if it were the end-all. And yet, there are so many examples of celebrities – Elvis, Robin Williams, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Marilyn Monroe, many others. You know: ‘Goodbye, Norma Jean.’ Elton says it all. These men and women who had all the money and sex and fame in the world, but couldn’t — but could not find true meaning in their lives. Take Elvis. Poor guy, he filled in all those empty spaces with drugs and alcohol, plus adulation from adoring fans. But ultimately, all he was, God bless him, was an aging pop legend gone soft.” She sipped. “Elvis was steeped in depression. He sought a certain… meaning, something which he could not attain. He lost himself, and not even that gospel-song-loving Mississippi farm boy deep inside could find it.” She sipped again.

“You know, I’m not a big Elvis fan,” he quipped. “But let’s get back to talking about — about you again.”

“Hey, I’m the one doing the interviewing here,” she bristled.

“No, wait. Hear me out.” He rested a long moment, without any display of exhaustion. “Let’s reallytalk about you. Now, you’re a famous newspaper reporter, at least within Maryland. You have a good gig with The Picayune, even a syndicated column with modest exposure nationally. That’s what this interview is for, correct? Do they pay you well?”

“Well enough.”

“They must, since you drive a black Tesla Model X. I saw you turn into the parking lot. You were hard to miss.” He reached for his water glass, raised it for a sip. “Even if you leased the Tesla, that’s not a cheap ride.” As he took a draught of water, his pinky finger slightly tucked. “You’re probably able to live in one of the nicer areas, I’m guessing, and it’s a decent home, not a duplex or a condo.”

She watched his eyes. “Go on.”

“I’m guessing… not water access, but near the bay.”

“Well yes, you could say I live right on the Chesapeake,” she confirmed.

“Probably a gated community. You’re a celebrity, or a kind of one, so you need your privacy. There are very few gated communities around here. I’m guessing, what, Chesapeake Cliffs?”

She paused a few beats, then smiled. “This is ridiculous. I suppose you just searched online. My address is surely in cyberspace somewhere.”

“Well, yes,” he began, grinned large, then continued, “I do my research, just as you do yours. And besides, you clearly don’t live in Eastport,” he surmised, “since you’re not into sailing.”

She blinked. “How could you possibly know that?”

He smoothed the tablecloth next to his water glass. “For one, you don’t have a sunburn on the back of your neck. Annapolitans who really sail are out there already, andwear their UV damage proudly. Besides, show me an Eastporter who doesn’t own a boat, and I’ll show you an idiot who paid way too much to reap the prestige benefits of living in this self-proclaimed ‘maritime capital’.”

“Okay,” she conceded, “you’re right, I don’t sail except on rare occasions, when our senior editor has a weekend workshop on the water. That’s what he likes to call them.” She reached for her ice water, took a long sip, then set it down. Her fingers lingered on the dewy glass, toying with the sheen of cool condensation. “I’m guessing that you have a point?” she asked, as politely as she could.

“Have you slept with him? Your editor? You know, to get ahead?”

Her hand went from her water glass to the chain around her neck bearing the pendant, a small gold crucifix. She clutched both chain and pendant. “This is supposed to be me interviewing you, may I remind.”

“Now, why did you do that?” he asked. Simultaneous with his words, his index finger raised up, pointed at her hand clutching the crucifix.

“You are truly fascinating,” she retorted, in a lower, restrained voice. Her hand released the crucifix and rested at table level. “We have so many questions now, don’t we.” Leaning forward, she continued: “I feel like a broken record: Who’s the interviewer here?”

“Forgive me, I was just a tad curious as to your reaction to my words. I make it a habit of carefully marking peoples’ reactions to what I say. It comes with the profession.” He folded his hands together, placed them in front of him on the table, and relaxed his shoulders, resting, as if awaiting the next round.

She glanced again at her iPhone on the table, leaned back a little, continued. “Now, earlier tonight, you mentioned that you have a Masters in Art History. Can you tell me a little more about that? You started talking, then the food came and we never got back to it.”

“Sure, whatever you like.” As he spoke, he reached into his coat, pulled out a cigarette tin, opened it in rehearsed fashion, extracted his next smoke, closed the case, and tapped down the filterless end. “Yes, a Masters in Art History from Cal State Long Beach.”

“That’s right, you’re a Southern California guy. Whatever prompted you to pursue Art History?”

He extracted his Zippo, flipped, and lit up with precision and economy. Closing the lighter with a minimal flick of his wrist, he went on: “That pre-med track that mom and dad preferred? Just didn’t quite work out. But art really spoke to me. And, the surfing wasn’t bad.” He drew, exhaled, continued. “The only thing that really interested me about medicine was human psychology, understanding people’s motivations and emotional pathology. But I could also see that through art. Rather dramatically.”

“Yea, I can see that.” She toyed with her wine glass. “Quite a change, though, from medicine to art.”

He inhaled slow, exhaled as he spoke. “I’d considered curation as a possible career. You know: the travel, the food, new faces, new places. It got me away from the disappointed parents — in fact, it got me as far as the Walters Art Gallery in Baltimore. For awhile, anyway.”

She grinned, her fingers now motionless on the glass, and cocked her head slightly. Glancing to the table, she moved the glass from in front of her and carefully drew the cappuccino closer, from across the white table cloth. Most of the white foam had dispersed. A swirl of dark wet cinnamon remained, floating in a curly-Q.

“You look as if you want to ask me why the hell I’m with you here, in my chosen profession, in this particular interview, and not being interviewed, say, in Baltimore as an Associate Curator at the Walters, or maybe here in Annapolis, as a new manager at the Maryland Hall for the Creative Arts.”

She raised her eyes to him. “That had crossed my mind, and it’s certainly part of the interview: to capture a glimpse of your past, as you permit, and to see how that projects into your current career.”

“Well, since you’ve promised anonymity, I feel fine telling you that some intimate interactions with a few rather well-heeled donors — how shall I say — made my bed for this new career opportunity.” Again the tight, satisfied smile.

“Most interesting,” she began, “given the givens of your profession, I suppose we can skirt the details. I do know a lot of folks in downtown Baltimore, particularly around The Peabody and Mount Vernon, and also around other hoity-toity neighborhoods in northern Baltimore, where the money lives. And I’ve heard about what can go on there.”

He snickered under his breath. “Are you wanting me to kiss and tell?”

She paused, flipped her wrist, glanced at her silver-and-diamond watch, continued: “in our remaining time, I’d rather ask you about — well, about art. As per your college degree.”

“Absolutely then. Ask away.” he draped one arm over the back of the chair and rested his other arm on the table, its hand bearing the cigarette.

“So, let’s go back a little bit, back to your — what you calledhonest, what I’ll call cynical — view of love. Tell me: What value do you see art as having in this post-Romantic age, this loveless society, as you described?”

His response was immediate. “Trappings.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Art has inherent value for its beauty, don’t get me wrong. But practically and sociologically, it’s merely that much more disguise for the mating ritual.” He waived his cigarette-containing hand dismissively. “The trappings men used to convince women to have sex. You know: the where-with-all to talk about Rembrandt or Picasso or Warhol so as to impress women, so that they’ll want to have sex. The Bach Adagio playing softly in the background, to provide a soundtrack for sex. The Robert Frost readings, to calm the mood before, or after, sex. And women, they use the Arts for the same basic reason, but in order to get money.”

“I’m having trouble agreeing with you.” Her hand twitched on the tablecloth, inadvertently jouncing her cappuccino. She glanced at it briefly, continued. “Some of the richest and most profound art in Western culture revolves around biblical themes. And I’m not talking about the truly bizarre, to-offend-is-to-succeed brand of so-called modern art: crucifixes in urine and all that. That crap is simply not art, I’m sorry.”

“I agree.”

She paused, registered, continued. “You agree…”

He interrupted: “I agree that such flagrant attempts to rile Joe and Josephine Average are not Art. They are merely a vile ooze vomited forth by puerile visual whores who are simply using the guise of Art to rile up half-to-three-quarters of the public, to get a rise and gain press. They’ll get more sales, more benefactors who feel they’re fighting for freedom of expression. That equals more money. They’ll even get more government grants for creations that no right-minded person would appreciate or understand. Fake-art whores. All to get more money.” He saw her eyebrows rising, her mouth opening, but persisted, “Yes, you did hear me say it: they’re whoring faux art for money.” He anticipated a reaction, raised his palm. “And the irony does not escape me. It’s almost like that sex-for-money thing, isn’t it. Only, just more abstract. It’s not a basic, brainstem reflex. Like sex is.”

She let his response wash over her for a long minute.

“So,” he continued, “back to true Art: what I said still stands. Just trappings. And it doesn’t matter whether it’s visual or musical or written, whether it’s religious or secular. More often than not, fluency in the Arts is a man’s way to enlist another tool for sex: fine sandpaper to soften rough edges, to ultimately convince women to have sex.”

“So, Michelangelo was whoring his gift for… sex?”

“The Church was Michelangelo’s benefactor. He was a kept man. The Sistine Chapel, David, the Pieta. If for the glory of God, there too was the glory of Michelangelo, and his wallet.”

“Which is it: Michelangelo was in it for the money, or for the sex?”

He shook his head slowly. “You misunderstand. Perhaps intentionally?” After tapping off the smoldering cigarette, he took a long drag and exhaled fast, only tilting his head and the smoke away from her as an afterthought. “Naturally, all artists are whores of a sort. Manipulating passions, weakening people’s souls, performing for money. What I’m talking about are those artists who abuse the Arts, twisting the hearts of patrons who are already thinking grandiose thoughts about modern art, just for show. All this, in order to extort even more money.” He looked straight into her lavender eyes.

She regarded him for a deep breath, clasped her hands, and leaned forward, elbows now resting on the tablecloth. “You have a dark view. It would then seem to be all a waste of time and money, to bother with Art anymore. At least modern art.Why not get straight to the sex, exchange the bucks, and get it over with?”

He didn't flinch at her amused though less-than-calm tone. “That’s too easy. And too unpleasant; too superficial. People don't like to believe themselves to be superficial. The hourly-motel, pay-as-you-go method for sex? Now that’s superficial. No artistry. There are disreputable people for that, found in certain districts of most fine cities. Both male and female, you know.” He winked.

She leaned forward even more. Her left index finger stabbed the air between them. “So tell me then, why did you choose to become a gigolo?” Her chest strained against the low-cut peach dress. The tiny gold crucifix dangled out on its fine gold chain, inhabiting the air below her neck and above the table.

“So, finally?” He drew again on his diminished cigarette, nearly down to the filter, pressed the remnants into the ash tray. “The blunt question you’ve been dying to ask: ‘What makes the Man Whore tick?’”

She leaned in even more, chin now resting on clasped hands. “Answering questions with more questions will not get you off the hook. Although, I can see that you love to put up a good fight.”

His eyes darted down to her neckline, lingered.

Her smile flattened. She sat up, eyes on his. Waited. Tapped deliberately on her phone, which kept recording.

“Ok, you’ve caught me, Ahab. The why? In large part: economics.” He drew a small sip of water. “Was it my damaged childhood? Did my mommy not love me? Or am I just a working guy, reasonably good-looking, talented in many ways, trying to make ends meet in a tight market for curators of Real Art, and seeing a golden opportunity?”

“A golden opportunity. So you’re using your knowledge of Art for sex, but really money. And it’s the sex that women want, but they really just want more money. But you’re only in it for the money.” She paused, bracing a thin crooked smile. “Have I got that right?”

“Oh no. That would be too crass.” To her parting half-smile he quickly parried: “There is a true art to this career, if you do it right. Don’t get me wrong.”

“Is this your euphemistic way of making what you do more palatable?”

He refused to answer, trapped her gaze instead.

A few beats passed. Then she persisted. “Your view, it just doesn’t make any sense. Why would there be gigolos if women don’t want sex, but only money?”

“I never said that women don’t want sex. Sex is primal. But money is at the root. Women claiming they’re not really in relationships for the money? Such women are just lying to themselves, that’s all. People are basically selfish, and our society pretends to abhor selfishness — except for a time in the mid-eighties, when greed was good — so people don’t want to believe themselves capable of selfishness. They want to believe that they are capable of needing things other than money. Indeed, that which society has defined as human needs. Such as love. Such as sex.”

“So women go to gigolos so as to not feel selfish, but to feel more human?”

“In a nutshell.” His eyes grazed over her auburn hair, her lavender eyes, and edged downward, following the convergent lines of her gold chain to the crucifix.

She saw him taking her in, ignored it. “But these women are selfish, nonetheless.”

“Basically. They want money. They also want to be able to live with themselves, to be able to look in the mirror beyond the dyed hair and the lavender contacts and the implants and see something somewhat likable. At least as far as society deems so.”

His words reverberated in their patio alcove.

After a time, she slowly sat up. “You have all the answers, don’t you.”

“No. I’m just an observer. I’m an observer of the male-female cycle of lies and deceptions in the name of Love and Art and, well, Humanity.” He reached for another cigarette, his eyes focused on hers. “And, I’m a bottom feeder.”

“And your motivation, then?” A server approached. She caught the server’s glance, raised an index finger and nodded, a simultaneous call both for the check and for privacy. “Yea, so, what is your motivation?” she repeated. “It can’t be money, as well? That would be too obvious.”

“No. Kindness.” He smiled ever so slightly.

“Kindness,” she repeated, with finality. “And you are entertaining me with this interview out of the goodness of your heart, as well?”

“Yes,” he said, softly, catching her eyes once more.

She reached down andtapped the stop recording button on her phone. Her eyes narrowed at him. She smiled seductively and again leaned forward.

His eyes darted briefly from hers and toward the V-neck of her dress.

Her voice lowered. “And how much would the full interview cost me?”

“For you? Seven notes. A grand for the whole evening.”

She raise her eyebrows. “Is that so. Sounds to me like you’re in it for the money.”

He smiled, shrugged his shoulders ever so slightly. “Not even the milk of human kindness will feed an honest man, you know.”

“Okay, just wondering.”

Both endured a long pause. Then a confused look passed over his face. “So, just to be clear: you are not requesting my attention?”

Just then, the server approached, handing her the guest check folder. She opened it, scanned the bill. Satisfied, she looked up into the server’s eyes and mouthed a gracious thank you, smiled big. The server walked away.

“I’m sorry,” she spoke with affected distraction, “you were saying?”

“I asked you whether we would be seeing each other later on tonight.”

“Why, no,” she said, her hand reaching up, clutching at the crucifix around her neck. “I’m already spoken for. Sorry to let you down.” Her eyes broke with his, scanned the patio.

He said nothing.

She smiled, eyes wide.

“But, you were a powerful interview,” she added, “one of my best ever. Perhaps we’ll talk again, by phone, if I need to tidy up any rough edges? Of the story.”

He paused a beat, maybe two. “So, this was only ever just an interview?”

“Yes. And, no worries, you’ll remain anonymous, as agreed. As will our location. I have to say, I’m not inclined to provide you any free advertising. No offense, but honestly, it’s against my religion.” She winked at him, slipped a credit card into the check folder, set it on the tablecloth.

“Oh, don’t fret, hon,” she continued, responding to an odd look passing over his face, “after all, you did get a free meal.”

(Photography: “Cappuccino Heart,” Dale Gillard; CC BY-SA 2.0)