Chapter Three
Three
The voice stops, the smoke detector lets off another weird little chirp, and he’s already halfway around the bed, reaching for the phone.
I’m sure it’s nothing, he says. I’ll just call down and ask for a few details.
She watches him, heart in her throat. She tries to avoid canned phrases like that when she writes, clichés and tired flourishes, but you know what, this one works, it pretty much exactly describes how her heart feels right now, stuffed way up in a space too small for it, hammering wildly, desperate to escape.
And go where, heart?
What’s the plan?
Hello, he says into the phone, this is…yes, I’ll hold.
He rolls his eyes at her like, these people. He must not be the only guest who, while sure it’s nothing, decided to call down for a few details. In dozens—hundreds?—of rooms like this one, up and down and all around, they stand at identical bedside tables, hold identical receivers, not nervous, not fricking saturated with apprehension, oh no. These chill information seekers are simply exercising their right as paying guests to ask questions, and to have those questions—
Yes, he says. This is Nicholas Holloway in room…that’s right. I’m not bad, thanks, but I am a little curious about…exactly.
Look at him. Phone to his ear, brow furrowed. Listening, nodding.
Mm-hmm, he says. Hmm. Mm-hmm.
This must be what he does every day. Standing in his office, astride the world, making calls, assessing the evidence. Asserting his prerogatives. Not shirtless and barefoot with his fly undone, but otherwise? Exactly like this.
I understand, he says, but surely…no no, you go ahead.
She makes fun of such men all the time. Makes fun, or rages against them. The supremely, oh-so-naturally entitled males of the species, with their brimming confidence, their—look at that wide stance, the fist on his hip!—power poses. Presented with a general announcement, anything preceded by a May I have your attention or, especially, any kind of chime or bell? Forget it. Those are for plebes, darling. No, these exalted beings will call down by God, they will insist on bespoke replies to their, let’s face it, probably pretty basic questions. They take their outsize portion as their due without a thought, a qualm. They’re infuriating.
But she can’t deny they’re handy to have around sometimes.
They execute.
And how long do you expect that to take? he asks.
Yes, he executes. And what does she do? She cedes. She asked him to call down earlier, when she’d rushed to the door like a loon. Why hadn’t she called? Reached for the phone, taking action to calm her own spastic worries, instead of deferring to, relying on, him? You can’t say spastic anymore. She had no idea until Charles’s assistant corrected her one day. It’s just, I have a cousin with cerebral palsy? And that word is really triggering. She was mortified! She never wants to be unkind. Though compared to some of the things they used to call each other when she was a kid…but of course, times change. For the better, mostly.
Well, maybe not mostly. Somewhat.
Somewhat for the better.
All right, he says. We’ll wait to hear more.
He hangs up. It’s a false alarm.
It is? They’re positive?
She can breathe again. They’re safe. Everything’s fine!
Almost positive, he says. False alarms have been popping up on different floors since they opened last week—an electrical glitch of some kind. They thought the problem had been fixed, but apparently not.
Almost? Apparently? She doesn’t like these words. They’re wishy-washy. Invertebrate.
They’re checking it out though, right? Investigating?
Absolutely, he says. But the woman I just spoke with said there’s no need to worry.
He comes back around the bed and takes her hands. Not a master of the universe, not an entitled jerk—he’s still the patient, generous guy who showed up a few minutes ago. Who clasped her head and kissed her and said, Where are you, Jenny? Where’d you go? Who chose to indulge her worries over his own pleasure.
It’s okay, he says.
He brushes her hair back, tucks a lock of it behind her ear, and she feels the pull. She wants to bite his hand, grab his ass and press herself against him, feel his tongue in her mouth. She’s fritzing with anxiety but still wants him to bend her over the arm of the sofa and—
Did the alarm come from inside a room or from a hallway? she asks.
The desk clerk didn’t say. Does it matter?
It might. A fire inside a room would be behind a door made to withstand heat and flames, I forget for how long. It’s in the fire code, the, you know, rules for building buildings? Are there even guest rooms on the fifth floor, or is it something else, like a parking garage? In bigger spaces a fire would have more oxygen to feed on, which would makeit—
Hey. He puts a hand on her shoulder, gives her a little shake. Fireman Phil. We’re safe. Whatever the configuration of the fifth floor is, it’s thirty-seven stories below us. The typical floor height of a high-rise is, what, nine feet? That means this nonexistent problem is at least three hundred and thirty-three feet away.
Did you just multiply that in your head? That fast?
I’m a genius, what can I say? So you can trust me and quit worrying.
Wait, she says. The fifth floor? We heard the alarms earlier. We couldn’t have if they were all the way down on the fifth floor.
Jenny…
But she’s moved away. She picks her skirt up from the floor.
We need to leave, Nick.
Look at her, taking her due. Executing. It feels good!
They asked us to sit tight, he points out. They wouldn’t have done that if there was a real problem.
What if they don’t know? she says. What if they’re wrong?
She wishes she didn’t sound so pleading and pathetic. Execute, woman! Power pose!
We were about to leave, she adds. You were ready to leave.
Because we didn’t know what was going on. Now we do. Jenny. Comeon.
She sighs. Still holding her skirt, she moves to the window. Come on, Jenny. Snow swirls on the other side of the glass. Be cool, Jenny. Get with the program. She doesn’t see any flashing lights. The street is too far down, even when she presses her forehead against the glass.
Comeoncomeoncomeon.
That fire in Midwood happened in winter, too. Imagine plunging from such heat into the freezing cold. Imagine choosing to do it, willingly leaving your no. That mother couldn’t have left all those babies. She must have been dragged out. Rescued.
Yeah, right. Rescued straight to hell.
Nick isn’t budging. Well you know what? She’ll go without him. Yes. She’ll run down and make sure everything’s all right. They usually leave separately anyway. She hates that part. It makes her feel…doesn’t matter. This is different. Let him stay and wait for the all-clear, passing his time however he likes. Drinking champagne. Doing lightning math.
Go. Doit.
Justgo.
She frowns at the snow. Bounces her forehead against the glass. She won’t go, not alone. She knows this even as she marshals all the reasons why she should. This is their night, their one whole lucky and long-awaited night together. To leave early, and without him, would feel consequential in some way she can’t put her finger on. It would be, what? A renunciation. Something she could never undo.
God, listen to her. A renunciation? She’s overwrought. Fraught and overwrought. The entire situation is so minor. Why is she flipping out?
This happens at the firm all the time, he says.
She turns from the window. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, dropping a few slivers of ice from the bucket into his champagne.
Fires? she says.
False alarms. One of the security guys comes over the intercom and tells us to stay put while they check out an alarm on the ninth floor, or the thirtieth, or what have you. A few minutes later he comes back to say everything’s fine. Some jackass burned their leftovers in an office microwave, or snuck a joint in a stairwell. It’s life in big buildings, you know?
He sets down his glass and holds out a hand. She walks over. He pulls her close so that she’s standing between his knees.
This is nothing, Jenny. And if it is something, it’s a very minor and faraway something, being dealt with by professionals. If we leave, we’ll have to take the stairs, since they’ve shut down the elevators—which is standard procedure, the woman told me. So we’d be schlepping down forty-two flights.
She nods. True. All true.
Here’s a final consideration, he says. I checked the weather for Houston tomorrow, and when I saw it was going to be seventy degrees, I left my winter coat at the office. Which means that if you make me go down and kick around on the sidewalk, I’ll freeze my balls off. Think of my balls, Jenny. Won’t you pity my poor testicles?
He points at his crotch, making a sad face, and she marvels at him. She really does. Imagine going through life, through this perilous world, with such ease! Reaching for the phone. Joking about his balls. Confident that everything will work out for him, because everything always has.
Must be nice.
Well, maybe it’s not just nice. Maybe it’s the key. Maybe she should take her due, she should execute, not by insisting they scurry down a skyscraper, but by following his supremely rational lead. By setting her fears aside and choosing—that’s it, choosing —to treat this situation as the mere inconvenience it almost certainly is. She’s a grown woman—you’re a grown-ass woman, Jennifer!—who shouldn’t spoil a long-anticipated evening because of some dumb superstition.
Because yeah, God’s really coming for you. And he’s going to get you by burning down a huge building.
You’re that important.
She takes a deep breath. Exhales.
You’re right, she says. We should stay.
He pours her a glass of champagne. She takes a sip.
Oh, it’s good. So cold.
Okay, but those alarms earlier, they must have been much closer than the fifth—
You sure? he asks.
Yes, she says. And she is. This is life in big buildings, in a big city. So she’s going to stop being a big baby, she’s going to drink more of this delicious fizzy water with bonus champagne flavor, and as soon as they’re given the all clear, they’ll—what was his phrase? Resume normal operations. He’s got such good phrases, all the witty words, he should be the writer not seriously that’s where you’re going right now? There?
Knock it off.
He finds two bathrobes in a closet, pristine and impossibly soft, sleeves tucked into their tightly furled belts. They shed the clothing they’d managed to put on before the announcement, swaddle themselves in the robes and return to bed, sitting up side by side against the headboard.
She sips her champagne. What should we do now?
Nothing strenuous, he says. Maybe a little light fellatio?
Nick!
He grins at her. She bursts out laughing.
Jenny laughs!
She’s fine. Thank Christ.
They don’t have to leave.
I think it could do both of us some good, he says.
Both of us, huh?
He’d never seen her like that. Poor girl. Welling up—her tears, then his tenderness. A new feeling, wanting to protect her. So he got on the horn, asking for an explanation, a timeline. Stern, but not yelling. Not even close. He yells at work. Acts the Big Boss. Partnerman. People must think he’s overcompensating, he’s wearing a mink thong and being regularly pissed on by a dominatrix in a Hell’s Kitchen dungeon or something, but no, sorry, he’s not that interesting. He’s just a dickhead lawyer.
Why not? he says. You love doingit.
She laughs again. Look at her! Totally at ease, she’s lost that hunted look. Now all he needs to do is keep her amused until those clowns downstairs get their shit together.
Love? she repeats. Let me tell you something. No woman on earth loves giving blow jobs.
No woman, he says. Not a single woman, in the history of human copulation, has ever been aroused by sucking a man’s dick.
Correct, she says.
Why did he go hunting for robes? She’s bundled up when he needs her naked. Even if he can’t touch her. Yet. It kills him when she’s so definite— correct, with that prim little smile, and earlier, her forceful We need to leave, Nick . He wanted to toss her onto the bed and—
But he restrained himself. He’s not a monster, he wouldn’t dream of trying to fuck her fears away.
Okay, he might dream of it, but he would never do it. Unless she was game.
Is she game? Might she…
No. It’s too soon.
Give her time.
He would have gone downstairs if she’d insisted. He never would have made her leave the room alone. It’s bad enough watching her go at the end of an ordinary evening. To have it happen tonight, after all his planning and anticipation, would have felt…
Never mind. Because it didn’t happen.
Still, she was spooked. He would have only made it worse if he’d shared a small correction the desk clerk had made. The alarm wasn’t triggered on the fifth floor, as the fire safety director had announced, but on the fifteenth. Which is nothing. Completely irrelevant, as far as they’re concerned. But telling Jenny would have complicated things, when it doesn’t matter. They’re still so far away.
From nothing. That’s the main point. There’s nothing down there.
So. Back to blow jobs.
Oral sex is fine, she’s saying. It can even be kind of fun, if the man we’re giving it to is super into it. But the act itself? Not a turn-on.
Speaking for all women now? he teases. Explaining yourselves? I thought you didn’t do that.
Yeah, well, this one’s a no-brainer, she says.
Is it? Because several women have told me that sucking cock is one of the great pleasures of their life.
Several, she says. Wow.
Three at least. Possibly four.
Were they assembled in a group when they announced this to you? she asks. Like a chorus? Chanting, or…
She’s mocking him! They’re bantering. She’s fine. Leaving would have been a waste of precious time, it would have been…oh, but they could have fucked in the stairwell. Glaring lights, the possibility of exposure. Her on the step above him, pinned against the wall, skirt rucked up, her cries echoing as he savagely—
Settle down.
Separate conversations, he says. They assured me. Swore up and down. How do you explain that?
They were lying to you. She holds out her glass. May I have more champagne?
He reaches for the bottle. Yes, my reluctant fellator.
She laughs. Right, I’m such a reluctant…whoa, that’s plenty. Thank you.
My pleasure. He eases the bottle back into the bucket. Now. Why would they lie?
Who, your harem of cocksuckers?
It’s his turn to laugh. Yes. My harem. Why would they lie about loving blow jobs?
She shrugs. To reassure you, maybe. To make you feel less ashamed about what you want.
I’m not ashamed about what I want.
Sure you are, she says. Deep down. We’re all ashamed, all the time, about everything. She sips her champagne. Though maybe they weren’t deliberately lying. Maybe they genuinely believe that giving head turns themon.
But they’re wrong?
Yes. They’ve been brainwashed.
To enjoy dicks in their mouths?
To please men, Nick.
Ah, right. He tops off his own glass. Because women are systematically indoctrinated, they’ve internalized misogyny, been warped by sexist propaganda, yadda yadda.
She stares at him. Yadda…yadda?
Danger zone!
Let me rephrase, he says. You’re referring to the indisputable fact that women in our culture are conditioned to serve the interests of men.
In all cultures, she says, and yes.
Meaning that any male-benefiting desire a woman expresses, such as for the aforementioned dick in the aforementioned mouth, is more likely the result of that woman being trained to want what men want her to want, than it is some inherent desire of her own.
Exactly, she says.
Okay, but why does that make her enjoyment of blow jobs less legitimate?
Why? Because, I mean, it’s literally not legitimate. It doesn’t arise naturally from her own inclination. Her innate self.
Her innate self, he says. What’s that?
Oh my God. You don’t believe in the self now?
Just hear me out.
She smiles, shaking her head. Just Hear Me Out: The Nick Holloway Story.
He refills their glasses. Good thing he brought two bottles. The way she’s shaking her head, resisting him. She’d resist him in the stairwell, too. Nick, no, someone might see! But she’d be playing. She’s as game as he is, as hungry, downright lascivious, a quality that shocked him when he first encountered it. Shocked and delighted him. So yes, she’d play, she’d sigh and succumb, he’d pin her against the railing, one hand on her lovely throat, his thumb pressing—lightly! lightly!—into the gorgeous hollow at its base while the other slides between her legs—
I’m just saying women aren’t the only ones who are brainwashed, he says. We all are. There is no innate, no natural human, quote-unquote. We’re each nothing more than the sum of the influences and norms and taboos that have been hammered into us since birth, most of which we’re completely unaware of, and all of which we’re powerless to change.
You don’t think people can change?
Nah, he says.
Why am I surprised? I’m talking to Mr. Negativity here.
How is that negative?
She chuckles. Gee, Nick. Let me think.
It’s realistic, he insists. We can become aware of what’s driving us, the conditioning, the brainwashing, we can wake up to it—some of us can, anyway. And that moment of recognition feels great. Oh my God, I get it now, forces are controlling me, and they’re inside me, they’re inside the building! Epiphanies like that are a blast. But they rarely cause people to alter their behavior. We’re too lazy, too…where are you going?
She’s out of bed, reaching for her sparkling water, abandoned on the coffee table.
Listening to all these deep thoughts is making me parched, she says.
He watches her wander to the window. Is she done with the chitchat? Can he drop the philosophical patter and seduce her, re-seduce her, taking immense care, making sure she comes this time? He would have kept trying if he’d known. Didn’t she realize that? He’s a selfish son of a bitch, no question, but to her he wants to give. And give and give. Which is why it bothered him that she lied. She’d led him to believe he’d satisfied her, only to later reveal—ha ha asshole, gotcha!—he’d failed. Golden boy. So much promise. Turns out you can’t even make a woman—
Oh let it go! She faked it and didn’t tell you, you got sad after coming and didn’t tell her. Everybody’s hiding something. What did she say? Everybody’s ashamed. He doesn’t know about that. Lonely after an orgasm—it’s ridiculous, but not shameful. Is she ashamed? She does have the whole religious thing to deal with. The Catholic guilt. Though how she can believe in, let alone continue to pay dues to, what’s basically a global crime syndicate…it’s baffling. He has zero spiritual leanings himself. Old-school WASP, church on Christmas and Easter, that’s it. Sometimes he wishes it were otherwise. All those strictures against carnal transgression must add a certain zest to life. He’d probably enjoy masturbating even more than he does if he’d been taught since childhood to find it filthy and wrong.
Oh well. Like Jesus, we all have our cross to bear.
She’s leaning close to the window, looking down. Then up. Then down again.
Jenny?
She returns, slipping into bed beside him.
So we’re stuck with ourselves, she says. We’re these, whatever, constructions, and we can’t change, and that’s not totally grim and defeating to you?
Not at all. Because it means we can relax. Quit lamenting how we’ve been warped and perverted, quit trying to parse out what aspects of our personalities are quote-unquote natural and quote-unquote authentic, and accept ourselves. Hapless, a little clueless, lacking free will, but alive.
Wait—we lack free will now, too?
Of course. And it’s wonderfully liberating. For example. Let’s say you feel the impulse to give a man a blow job. Some near-at-hand, compelling, deeply deserving man.
Don’t you dare, Nick.
My point is, you don’t have to interrogate that desire, worry about where it comes from, whether it’s real or some sexist construct. He loosens the belt of his robe. You just own it, you accept the urge, and—
She pushes at him, laughing. Put that thing away!
I can’t, Jenny. Like I said, I’m not in control here either.
Oh my God, stop waggling it atme!
That’s not me, he says. It’s the patriarchy. The patriarchy is waggling my dick at you.
Yeah, well, the patriarchy can kiss my ass, she says.
That’ll work too. Roll over and…where are you going now?
Because she’s out of bed once more, reaching for something on the sofa.