There’s this seesaw of anger and amusement.A shrug and a grin win out, all the starch and stiffness forgotten for a moment, and I get a glimpse of who Sammy Yarmark is when he’s in his undershorts.Figuratively speaking, although that image wouldn’t be hard on the eyes.
“Fortunately,” I tell him, “you’re off the market for the foreseeable future.But some pointers, just in case: be confident, be playful.I know you didn’t really get a chance, but you looked like you were wound so tight you were going to haul that poor girl into an interview room and try to sweat some answers out of her.”
He gives the glass another quarter turn.“I didn’t know what to say.”
“Well, you want to find something you feel comfortable saying.”
Sam pauses, and there’s something in the way he’s watching me that’s like a poke—like he’s trying to rile me up.“Hey you, let’s smash.”
Another laugh erupts out of me.“That one works sometimes.Probably better in the Pretty Pretty than with a nice, respectable co-ed.You’re this sweet, responsible straight guy, though, so maybe a polite compliment, or something you noticed about them.You can ask questions too.Actually, that’s a big part of it—asking questions, paying attention, responding.People get hung up on the endpoint, like if they don’t take this person home, they’ve wasted their time, or there’s this desperate need to score.People can sense desperation.So, you’ve got to enjoy the conversation for what it is.If it leads to something else, great.If not, have fun anyway.”
Now the look is downright skeptical.“That’s what you do when you’re trying to pick up a guy.”
“Well, Idon’tpick up guys anymore, for the record, because I’ve cleaned up my act and I’m a model citizen now.”
Sammy actually snorts.
“If you want to hook up, there are apps for that.Why waste your time and money coming to a bar?”
Shaking his head, Sam sits back and takes another, slower drink.His Adam’s apple moves in his throat.He’s got a nice neck—not overdeveloped, like a juicehead, but strong and defined and masculine.
“I like that sweatshirt by the way,” I say.“It looks good on you.”
He frowns like he’s waiting for the trap to spring shut.Then he says, “Thanks.”
“The understated look works for you.”
Again, that wariness, like he’s expecting—I don’t know, for me to make fun of him.Which actually makes me feel surprisingly shitty for a moment.But he says, “I copied Mr.Somerset.”
“He doesn’t wear that brand.”I grin.“Emery wouldn’t let him buy it because it’s too expensive.I know because I was there for the argument.”
A startled smile breaks out, and Sam touches the sweatshirt like he’s just noticed it.“I wanted something that looked, you know, nice.”
“It’s a good pick.”
He says, “Thanks,” again, but this time it’s softer.
“You didn’t grow up here, did you?”
Sam shakes his head.“Iberia.”
“God, what was that like?”
“All right, I guess.”But then he says, “Too small.Everybody knows everybody’s business.”
“You might be the first person who ever moved to Wahredua for the big city experience.”
“I like the size.I know people still know most of each other’s business, but it’s big enough you can have your own space, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I get that.I grew up in Springfield.Wahredua is smaller, but not too small.”
“Do you like it here?”
“Even after I got my face blown off?”I ask.
Sam sits up straight, a flush running through his face.“No—no, I didn’t—”
“I’m kidding.I know that’s not what you were asking.Yeah, I like it.I mean, would I move if I had a chance?”I try to think about it, but I can’t.“Maybe.I don’t know.I guess it’s home now in a lot of ways.There’s something about—about everything that’s happened, I guess, that makes me feel like I’m invested.It’s my town, you know?”
