Love Monkey by Kyle Smith

a construction worker. The cast-iron palms of a construction worker. The sun-hammered skin of a construction worker.
    â€œInterior decorator,” I say.
    Julia chuckles.
    â€œNo,” he says. “Guess again.”
    â€œOh, sorry. How could I have been so dumb? Interior de sign er.”
    â€œNah, something totally different.”
    â€œSymphony conductor.”
    Another giggle from Julia.
    â€œNo,” John says. “Come on.”
    â€œTae Bo instructor?”
    â€œNah. Come on, I’m the foreman of a construction crew.”
    â€œYou put up buildings,” I say.
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œI respect that,” I say, and I do. “You’re going to be able to walk around this city with your grandchildren and say, ‘I built that. I built that.’ But every word we wrote in the paper this whole year will be forgotten.”
    Julia seems to approve of this. She’s done with her drink. I order her another.
    â€œMore of the Courage for you?” says the barkeep.
    Sure. For all Julia knows, I could be an impressive individual. Forthright, sincere. A wit, keen dresser, and friend to the workingman. Now all I have to do is work in a few lines about my love for animals.
    â€œHey, where you from?” John says. “You’re from Manhattan, I’ll bet. I’m from the Island.”
    â€œActually, I’m from D.C.” I always tell people this, to make them think I’m a senator’s son from Georgetown, when in reality my dad was an air-conditioner repairman in Rockville, Maryland, a man who considered french fries to be vegetables. I had to pretend to live with my rich aunt so I could attend the Potomac schools, wherethe kids appeared born in their Tretorn sneakers and Benetton sweaters. Mr. Farrell’s wardrobe? Exclusively by the Husky Boys’ department at Sears, right down to the tan work boots that said “maximum dork” then and yet would become inexplicably cool with this city’s fashion-wise uptown kids by the time I hit thirty. (I, of course, can never wear them again, or corduroys, or flared-leg jeans—which means my cycle of uncool continues.) We couldn’t even afford real Oreos: we were one of those Hydrox families. Every drinking glass in our house bore the image of Hamburglar or Mayor McCheese. (Whatever happened to Grimace? Was he too gay? Or did he just reinvent himself as Barney?) Senior year of high school, I hoarded the ten-dollar bills my dad gave me every time I mowed the lawn and traded them for a cut-price Member’s Only windbreaker, only to discover that they had become about as fly as the canasta tournament at the Topeka Country Club. Thus did I learn my first lesson about fashion: by the time I can afford it, it’s over.
    â€œSo what’d your father do?” John says, calculating the size of my trust fund in his head.
    â€œThat, I’m afraid,” I say, “is a national security issue.”
    Julia laughs.
    And my hard-on is clanging in my pants.
    Time for a break.
    In the men’s room, I look at the mirror and think, It’s been an hour and a half. Julia is sticking. She could be planning to leave any second since she still hasn’t taken her coat off, but we’re kind of near the door and it’s kind of chilly and anyway she’s sticking . My God, my God: do I actually have a chance with this girl? The thing is, when I first saw her, I thought, No biggie. Just another beauty in her don’t-touch-me force field. She didn’t get to me that much. But now I’m thinking: this is it. Maybe every guy gets one chance.
    Time for a chat with the man. The top dog. Mr. Underneath. My A-Rod.
    â€”So.
    â€” So.
    â€”How do you feel?
    â€” How do I feel? How do I look?
    â€”You’re plumping like a Ballpark Frank.
    â€” Swelling often accompanies fever.
    â€”Settle down. That’s not what we’re here for. I can’t if you’re