Free The Pleasure of My Company by Steve Martin Page B

case, I chose to
plan a face-to-face encounter with Elizabeth the Realtor. I had on one occasion
written her a “get to know me” letter that I never sent because no matter how
much I approached it, how I rewrote it, I always sounded like a stalker. “I
have observed you from my window…” “Your license plate, REALTR, amused me….”
It all sounded too observant and creepy. Which made me ask myself whether I
actually was too observant and creepy, but the answer came up no, because I
know my own heart.
    I had
to admit that my previous plans to impress her had backfired like a
motorcycle. It was time to do the manly thing: to meet her without deception,
without forethought. I decided to present myself as an interested renter, one
who is looking to move up to a two-bedroom to make room for an office, in which
I would be working with the renowned writer Sue Dowd on a biography of Mao.
This seemed to be the honest thing to do.
    I
called the number on the rental sign, expecting to get, and prepared to deftly
handle, the instructions that would take me through the telephonic maze that
would finally connect me to her voice mail. But a miracle happened. She
answered. Crackle pop, she was on a cell phone in her car. I explained
who I was, Daniel Cambridge (a swell-sounding name when I leave out the Pecan),
that I live near the Rose Crest, and that I was looking to move up. I left out
the part about the Mao bio because, jeez, she’s not an idiot.
    She
told me she was between appointments, had twenty minutes free, and could meet
me there in ten. I hardly had time to bathe. Well, okay, I said. I could
postpone my conference call, I said. I hung up and cranked on my shower with
stunning accuracy. Perfect temperature with one swing of the wrist. I stepped
in, knowing I was on the clock, and yet I still experienced one recurring
sensation intractably linked to my morning shower. The flowing, ropey hot
water sent me back in time to home, to Texas, to the early hours of the
morning. To save money, my mother had always turned off the heat at night,
which made our house into an ice hotel. Every wintry morning, as a frosted-over
adolescent, I made the chilly jaunt from bedroom to spare bathroom. Stepping
into the steamy shower was the equivalent of being cuddled in a warm towel by a
loving aunt, and now I’m sometimes rendered immobile by an eerie nostalgia in
the first few moments of even a quick rinse. This sensation slowed me down like
an atom at absolute zero, even though Elizabeth was at this very moment probably
running yellow lights to fit me in.
    I was towelling
off at the window when Elizabeth the Realtor pulled up in front of the Rose
Crest. She remained in the car for several minutes talking to herself. I
realized she was probably using the hands-free car phone, at least I hoped she
was, as one nut in the family would be enough. I threw on some clothes and scampered
down the stairs, skipping across the street at the driveways. I was overcome
with an impression of myself as an English schoolboy. I might as well have
been wearing a beanie and short pants. As Elizabeth got out of her car, I
appeared from behind her and greeted her with a “Hello y’all, I’m Daniel
Cambridge.” I had not intended the slight country twang that affected my
speech. And I do not know, if I perceived myself as an English schoolboy, why
my greeting came out as though it were spoken by the cook on a wagon train. I
suppose I was confused about just who I actually was at that moment. I had now
committed myself to a drawl, and I was rapidly trying to uncommit. So over the
next few sentences I fell into a brogue, then a kind of high nasal English thing,
then migrated through the Bronx, searching until I found my own voice. I
finally did, but not before Elizabeth had asked, “Where are you from?” to which
I saved myself with, “I’m an army brat.”
    I
followed Elizabeth up one flight of stairs. She reached into her purse,
producing a daunting ring