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Published 1995, Crown (My main character, Claire, is going on a blind date. Enough said.) "Let me guess," he says. "Clara?" He makes the fingers of his right hand into the shape of a gun and points it at her. "You can call me Kreskin," he tells her. "Actually, my name is Claire," she says. "Right, right," he tells her. "Bob Getchell." He extends a hand as if he were launching into a sales pitch. "Nice place," he says. "You rent or own?" "Own," she tells him. "Me and the bank." He shakes his head. "Place like this has probably dropped ten, maybe twelve percent in value in the last two years alone," he says. " People just don't want the upkeep, you know. I only mentioned it on account of I've got a party I'm working with currently that's in the market for a place like this." "I'm not selling," she says. How has she got to such a ridiculous point, so fast, she wonders? "You got a couple of rug rats, I understand?" he says. Bob has picked up Pete's signed Mo Vaughn baseball that he doesn't like anybody to touch. "I got two of them myself." "I'll just get my jacket and we can go," says Claire. She feels a hundred years old suddenly. She thinks longingly of her bathtub and her solitary bed. The sooner they get going, the sooner she can be home. He opens the car door for her -- a small, unexpected courtesy. Settling into his own seat he clicks a tape of Michael Bolton in the cassette player. "This guy sure can sing a song, huh?" he says. "I guess so," Claire says. "He's never been a favorite of mine." "You're kidding," says Bob. "I thought all you girls creamed in your pants over him." Let me out here, she's thinking. She could tell him she suddenly remembered she'd left the iron on, run into the house, lock the door and turn out the lights. After a while he'd give up and go away. "I gotta tell you," he says, "Pauline has hooked me up with some real bow-wows. I was actually gonna blow this one off, figuring you'd be another one, only she said ‘Trust me Bob, I've seen her in the steam room.' Boy was she right this time. " He is looking straight at her breasts as he says this. Claire imagines herself staring back at his crotch in a similar fashion, but she's afraid what she might see if she did. "So how old are your children?" she asks. "Girl thirteen, boy fifteen," he says. "Seems like every time I turn around their mother's asking me for more cash. Know what I mean?" "Kids that age need a lot of things that cost money," Claire says. "I bought my son a pair of sixty dollar cleats just last fall, and he already needs a new pair." She talks to fill the air, and to keep him from saying something worse. Keep the conversation on shoes, she figures. And real estate values. "Oh, sure, you got your necessary expenses," he says. "But some of these individuals out there just gouge you for all you're worth. Take my wife. She says the boy needs therapy at eighty bucks a pop. Now our daughter's supposed to see this dermatologist in Boston. Prescriptions alone run twenty, twenty five bucks. You think the kid ever heard of Clearasil? That was good enough for us, huh?" Claire says nothing. Michael Bolton is singing his rendition of "Since I Fell For You". Bob has pulled into the parking lot of a not very good Italian restaurant. He reaches across Claire's chest to undo her seat belt. "I can handle it myself," she says. "Yeah, there's some other things I'd like to see you handle," he tells her. "You know," she says, "I think I have to go home now." "Listen," he says. "It was just a joke. I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea. I know you gals are a little sensitive these days." "Fine," she says. "I'm just not feeling very well." "So let me give you a Tums," he tells her. "I keep them handy all the time, on account of my ulcer. I was going to warn you in fact. If you hear gurgling, not to worry, it's only my gut kicking up." "I have to be honest with you, Bob," she says. "This isn't going to work. So I think the best thing would be for you to take me home. Save your money." "I don't know what's the matter with women these days," he says. "Nobody's got a sense of humor anymore. One false move and a guy's dead meat. Look at a person sideways and she's slapping you with a sexual harrassment suit or some shit." Claire is getting out of the car now. "Actually, I think I'll call a friend to take me home," she says. "Fucking cunt," he calls out after her. "I give you three years, four tops, before your estrogen supply gives out, and you can't give a guy a hard-on to save your life."
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