A Firing Offense

SEVENTEEN




I FIRST MET KAREN in a bar in Southeast, a new wave club near the Eastern Market run by an Arab named Haddad whom everyone called HaDaddy-O.

This was late in ’79 or early in 1980, the watershed years that saw the debut release of the Pretenders, Graham Parker’s Squeezing Out Sparks, and Elvis Costello’s Get Happy, three of the finest albums ever produced. That I get nostalgic now when I hear “You Can’t Be Too Strong” or “New Amsterdam,” or when I smell cigarette smoke in a bar or feel sweat drip down my back in a hot club, may seem incredible today—especially to those who get misty-eyed over Sinatra, or even at the first few chords of “Satisfaction”—but I’m talking about my generation.

Because this club was in a potentially rough section of town, it discouraged the closet Billy Joel lovers and frat boys out to pick up “punk chicks.” Mostly the patrons consisted of liberal arts majors, waiters who were aspiring actors and writers, and rummies who fell in off the street.

In that particular year the pin-up girl for our crowd was Chrissie Hynde. When I first saw Karen, leaning against the service bar in jeans, short boots, and a black leather motorcycle jacket, it was the only time that the sight of a woman has literally taken my breath away. With her slightly off-center smile, full lips, and heavy black eyeliner, she had that bitch look that I have always chased.

I felt sharp that night—black workboots, 501 jeans, a blue oxford, skinny black tie, and a charcoal patterned sportcoat—but when I approached her and offered to buy her a drink (hardly original, but I was, after all, in awe), she declined. I cockily explained that she was blowing a good opportunity.

“Then some day,” she said solemnly, “I’ll look back on this moment with deep regret.” And walked away.

But soon after that I caught her checking me out in the barroom mirror.

A few beers later, keeping an eye on what she was doing and what she was drinking, I watched her walk out the back door, alone, to a patio behind the club. Hurrying up to the bar, I ordered her drink (Bombay with a splash of tonic and two limes) and a beer, and followed her outside.

She smiled and accepted the drink and my company. We sat in wrought-iron garden furniture, drinking and smoking cigarettes and some Lebanese hash I kept in the fold of my wallet for special occasions.

As the band grew trashier (a local female rocker who made up for a serious lack of tone by rubbing her crotch throughout the set) and the joint filled up, that time of night came when men were in the ladies’ room pissing in the sink and several minor fights were breaking out. But at this point Karen and I were only concentrating on each other.

Two rounds later we were in the men’s room stall, doing coke off the commode (a half Karen scored from the bartender), laughing because we couldn’t even see the white on white. We dragged each other out of the place and, climbing into another old Chrysler product I was driving at the time, headed across town.

Then we were on the George Washington Parkway, screaming north at eighty miles per, all four windows down, and listening to Madness’s “Night Boat to Cairo” at maximum volume with the radio dead set on 102.3, the old home of the then-ballsy HFS. We were twisted out of our minds and higher than hippies, and Karen had already unzipped my fly and dug in, and I knew it was going to be amazing, that night and maybe longer.

And it was, but only for about six months. By that time I had graduated from college and we had impulse-married and rented a portion of a house on the east side of the Hill. Soon Karen began wearing her hair differently and lost the eye makeup. She diagnosed me (correctly) as a childish romantic, and pushed me to be more assertive at work and “go for” management, which I grudgingly did.

We split up less than a year after we were married. Though it seems as if the explanation for our failed marriage should be more complicated, I know it to be just that simple.


WHEN KAREN OPENED the door of her apartment, located in old Arlington, the look of disappointment was plain upon her face. I had cleaned up early Tuesday morning, keeping the bandages on as an alternative to the damage underneath. But the area below both eyes had begun to swell and discolor.

“Don’t look so happy,” I said. “I thought you wanted to see me.”

“I did, but not like this. What the hell happened to you, Nicky?”

“Can’t I come in?”

“Sure,” she said, waving me forward with her hand. “I’m sorry.”

She had on jeans and an oversized pocket T-shirt, which she dowdily wore outside the jeans. As I followed her into the kitchen, I noticed that her hips and bottom were a little fuller, though she carried it well. The wedge cut she was sporting was shaven high and tight on the back of her neck, this year’s stylish but not over-the-top hairstyle for the career woman.

There were many labeled cartons lining the hall but no furniture in the apartment. The kitchen was empty except for a live coffeemaker and one cup. There were no chairs so I sat on the linoleum floor, my back against a base cabinet.

Karen washed out the cup in the sink, then handed it to me, filled with fresh coffee. I took a sip and rested the cup on my knee. She had a seat across from me against the bare white wall, and crossed one leg over the other. She still had a look about her.

“Now I know why you’ve been calling,” I said. “You’re leaving, right?”

“Yes. The company’s moving me to Philadelphia this week.”

“Congratulations,” I said, careful to omit any hint of sarcasm. “I assume it’s a good move for you.”

“It’s an excellent opportunity. I got a substantial raise, and something like a signing bonus. I’m looking forward to the change.”

“I’m sure you’ll do well.”

“I’ve been trying to call you,” she said. “I mean, I wouldn’t have left without saying good-bye.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you. There’s so much been going on.”

“I can see,” she said. “Are you all right?”

“My nose is broken. In the last week I’ve been beaten up, twice. Yesterday I lost my job at Nathan’s. I’m not exactly on the fast track.”

“Shit, Nicky.” She shook her head slowly. I hadn’t meant to go for sympathy, but her news had made me bitter.

We sat for a while without speaking. I listened to the tick of my watch.

“You look good,” I said, cutting the silence. We had often sat like this without awkwardness.

“Thanks. But I’ve put on a few.”

She leaned forward to stand. I looked down her loose T-shirt guiltlessly. Karen had truly beautiful breasts. I remembered waking before her some mornings and admiring them, slightly flattened as she lay sleeping on her back.

I turned down her offer for more coffee. She washed the cup, and with her back to me said, “What are you going to do now?”

“I’ve got a couple of grand in my retirement account. That will get me through the bills for a while. In the meantime, I was hired by this old guy to find his missing grandson.”

“That why you got beaten up?”

“Yeah.”

“A detective now,” she stated flatly, though she might as well have told me just to grow up. I must have looked pathetic, sitting on the floor wearing my little adhesive nose mask. She rubbed her hands dry with a paper towel. Looking down at her feet, she said, “I’m sorry, Nick. But I’ve got an awful lot to do today, with moving and all.”

“Sure, Karen,” I said, laboring to my feet. “I should get going too.”

As she walked me to the door, I felt unsteady, as if another piece of my youth was being torn away. She faced me. The edge in her eyes, the dark side of her that had attracted me, was gone.

“Take care of yourself, Nicky,” she said. “I’ll write from Philly when I get settled.”

“So long,” I said, and kissed her mouth. I felt her warm exhale on my face when she withdrew.

I stepped out and down the walkway. The sound of her door closing behind me was final, like that of a vault.

* * *



I CROSSED THE RIVER via Chain Bridge and took Nebraska Avenue through to Connecticut, where I turned right and headed south a few blocks to Pence’s building. One look at my battered face convinced him that I was indeed “on the case”; he stroked me an expense check without flinching.

“Good luck, son!” he shouted, as I bolted out the door.

I spent the remainder of my day doing laundry, listening to music, and taking codeine siestas. By evening I had spoken to my landlord as to the location of the cat food and litter box, and packed my knapsack and overnight bag. When I was done, I phoned McGinnes at his apartment.

“What’s going on, Johnny?”

“I’m on vacation till the weekend.”

“Brandon give you a few days off to think about things?”

“Yeah,” he said, “but the little prick wants me back on the floor by Saturday, so he can make his numbers. How’s your early retirement going?”

“Keeping busy. Some guys tried to warn me off the Broda thing yesterday. One of them put a boot to my face to make his point.”

“What now?”

“I’m leaving town for a couple of days to check out a lead. I could use some company.”

He thought it over. “It beats sucking down draughts in the Zebra Room.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up at eight, tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll pack the cooler,” he said.

“Fine. And bring a swimsuit.”

“Now you’re talkin’. Where we headed?”

“Elizabeth City,” I said. “North Carolina.”