else, anywhere else, back to her own room, anywhere. But Walter believed in true love and was apparently fearful of laying a hand on Patty before he was sure his was reciprocated. He led her right on into the apartment, where Richard was sitting in the living room with his bare feet up on the coffee table, a guitar across his lap, and a spiral notebook beside him on the sofa. He was watching a war movie and working on a jumbo Pepsi and spitting tobacco juice into a 28-ounce tomato can. The room was otherwise neat and uncluttered.
“I thought you were at a show,” Walter said.
“Show sucked,” Richard said.
“You remember Patty, right?”
Patty shyly crutched herself into better view. “Hi, Richard.”
“Patty who is not considered tall,” Richard said.
“That’s me.”
“And yet you are quite tall. I’m glad to see Walter finally lured you over here. I was beginning to fear it would never happen.”
“Patty’s thinking of living here this summer,” Walter said.
Richard raised his eyebrows. “Really.”
He was thinner and younger and sexier than she remembered. It was terrible how suddenly she wanted to deny that she’d been thinking of living here with Walter or expecting to go to bed with him that night. But there was no denying the evidence of her standing there. “I’m looking for someplace convenient to the gym,” she said.
“Of course. Makes sense.”
“She was hoping to see your room,” Walter said.
“Room’s a bit of a mess right now.”
“You say that as if there were times when it’s not a mess,” Walter said with a happy laugh.
“There are periods of relative unmessiness,” Richard said. He extinguished the TV with an extended toe. “How’s your little friend Eliza?” he asked Patty.
“She’s not my friend anymore.”
“I told you that,” Walter said.
“I wanted it from the horse’s mouth. She’s a fucked-up little chick, isn’t she? The extent of it wasn’t immediately apparent, but, man. It became apparent.”
“I made the same mistake,” Patty said.
“Only Walter saw the truth from day one. The Truth About Eliza. That’s not a bad title.”
“I had the advantage of her hating me at first sight,” Walter said. “I could see her more clearly.”
Richard closed his notebook and spat brown saliva into his can. “I will leave you kids alone.”
“What are you working on?” Patty asked.
“The usual unlistenable shit. I was trying to do something with this chick Margaret Thatcher. The new prime minister of England?”
“Chick is a far-fetched word for Margaret Thatcher,” Walter said. “Dowager is more like it.”
“How do you feel about the word ‘chick’?” Richard asked Patty.
“Oh, I’m not a picky person.”
“Walter says I shouldn’t use it. He says it’s demeaning, although, in my experience, the chicks themselves don’t seem to mind.”
“It makes you sound like you’re from the sixties,” Patty said.
“It makes him sound Neanderthal,” Walter said.
“The Neanderthals reportedly had very large craniums,” Richard said.
“So do oxen,” Walter said. “And other cud-chewing animals.”
Richard laughed.
“I didn’t think anybody but baseball players chewed tobacco anymore,” Patty said. “What’s it like?”
“You’re free to try some, if you’re in the mood to vomit,” Richard said, standing up. “I’m going to head back out. Leave you guys alone.”
“Wait, I want to try it,” Patty said.
“Really not a good idea,” Richard said.
“No, I definitely want to try it.”
The mood she’d been in with Walter was irreparably broken, and now she was curious to see if she had the power to make Richard stay. She’d finally found her opportunity to demonstrate what she’d been trying to explain to Walter since the night they first met—that she wasn’t a good enough person for him. It was also, of course, an opportunity for Walter to whip off his glasses and behave fiendishly and drive away his rival. But Walter, then as ever, only wanted Patty to have what she wanted.
“Let her try it,” he said.
She gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Walter.”
The chew was mint-flavored and burned her gums shockingly. Walter brought her a coffee mug to spit in, and she sat on the sofa like an experimental subject, waiting for the nicotine to take effect, enjoying the attention. But Walter was paying attention to Richard, too, and as her heart began to race she flashed on Eliza’s contention that Walter had a thing for his friend; she remembered Eliza’s jealousy.
“Richard’s excited about Margaret Thatcher,” Walter said. “He thinks she represents the excesses of capitalism that will inevitably lead to its self-destruction. I’m guessing he’s writing a love song.”
“You know me well,” Richard said. “A love song to the lady with the hair.”
“We disagree about the likelihood of a Marxist Revolution,” Walter explained to Patty.
“Mm,” she said, spitting.
“Walter thinks the liberal state can self-correct,” Richard said. “He thinks the American bourgeoisie will voluntarily accept increasing restrictions on its personal freedoms.”
“I have all these great ideas for songs that Richard inexplicably keeps rejecting.”
“The fuel-efficiency song. The public-transportation song. The nationalized-health-care song. The baby-tax song.”
“It’s pretty much virgin territory, in terms of rock-song content,” Walter said.
“Two Kids Good, Four Kids Bad.”
“Two Kids Good—No Kids Better.”
“I can already see the masses taking to the streets.”
“You just have to become unbelievably famous,” Walter said. “Then people will listen.”
“I’ll make a note to do that.” Richard turned to Patty. “How you doing there?”
