The Evil B.B. Chow & Other Stories by Steve Almond

kiss her, just a glancing kiss, a swift brush of my mouth across hers, but Mandy needed more than that. She grasped my thigh and let out a stagy moan and shook loose the chopstick, so that her hair fell free. There was something in these gestures, a certain rehearsed quality, that made me sad. I felt suddenly, irretrievably sorry for both of us, for Mandy, who viewed her sexuality as a bright new user option only obscurely related to her heart, and for me, who was losing hair in clumps and couldn’t even give my wife a decent poking anymore. I wanted to have a good cry right then, preferably with my head nuzzled somewhere warm.
    But before I could do any such thing there was a knock on the door. I leapt backwards, smashed my tailbone against the edge of my desk. The door swung open a crack and I could see Brendan Mahoney standing there with his visor in one hand and a cookie in the other. He reeked of pot.
    I lunged toward him and flung the door the rest of the way, so that he could see the entire office, Mandy seated across from my desk with all her clothes on and so forth.
    â€œHey,” he said.
    â€œBrendan!”
    â€œI didn’t realize you were with someone.”
    â€œJust finishing!” I said.
    â€œHey Mandy,” he said, and waved his cookie.
    Mandy was already rebinding her hair, gathering up her purse. She slipped past Brendan without looking at him.
    Brendan remained in the hallway.
    â€œDid you want to come in?” I said.
    â€œYeah. Okay. Sure.”
    He stepped in the office and sat down.
    â€œWhat’s up?” I said.
    But Brendan had spotted the antidrug poster, which showed a kid lying on the ground facedown, with his head bleeding. The legend underneath read: drugs sure are glamorous.
    â€œThat’s not mine,” I said.
    â€œIt isn’t?”
    â€œNo. I don’t believe drugs are that bad.”
    Brendan seemed to consider this. “Huh,” he said finally. “Yeah. I guess I’m still sort of undecided on the issue.”
    â€œTell me why you’re here,” I said.
    There was a long lag time on the answer. I wondered if Brendan might be under the influence of a more powerful sedative, such as rophynol, and where he might have gotten them and whether he had any in his pocket. He was now examining the naked Plato sketch.
    â€œIs that you?” he said finally.
    â€œPlato,” I said.
    â€œRight. Plato.” He sat up and began to nod. Then he slumped down again, in that way characteristic of young men who haven’t quite grown into their height.
    â€œSo,” I said.
    â€œYeah. I guess I wanted to apologize. Like, for all the stuff in class today. Sometimes I kind of get going on an idea and just don’t stop. Mandy must have been pretty pissed.”
    â€œOn the contrary,” I said. “She appreciated how seriously you took her work.”
    â€œI know Emily was pissed.”
    There was another lengthy pause. It occurred to me that I was getting something of a contact high. Everything had started moving more slowly, more interestingly. The events of the day were coming to seem somehow related. Brendan looked up at me with his sorry, bloodshot eyes.
    â€œMe and her were involved, you know.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œYeah. We just broke up. A couple of weeks ago.”
    â€œThat’s rough,” I said.
    â€œIt was weird, man. I mean, I don’t know if I want to lay it all out.”
    â€œYour call,” I said.
    â€œI assume, like, whatever I said would stay between us. Like, on the DL. The Down Low. Anyway, she’s a nice girl.I’ve got nothing against her. But she wanted to do weird stuff.” Brendan sat there, fingering the top of his cookie. “She liked to touch my ass, man. Put stuff up there. Weird. She had these balls made out of, like, mercury or something. And a string of pearls. And all this lube. Man, she was the queen of lubes. She was like, ‘Come on. Be an