Steve Almond is the author of the non-fiction book Candyfreak,

Almond, Candy
© Harvest

as well as the short story collections My Life in Heavy Metal

Almond, My life
© Grove

and The Evil B.B. Chow.

Almond, Evil BB
© Algonquin

To find out what kind of music he listens to, check out www.bbchow.com.

A Happy Dream

posted Jun 2, 2005

Henry was out in front of the Brattle waiting for his sister, Marla, who was late, on the verge of standing him up actually, when he saw a woman zip across the street on a ten-speed bike. This was crazy. It was early February, the roads were still layered with dirty snow. The woman bonked into a parking meter, locked the bike, pulled her hat off and there was her hair, a soft cascade of the stuff. She looked around briskly and made straight for Henry.

"You must be Michael," she said. "I'm Kate."

This was a pretty woman. Not beautiful. Not gorgeous. But then, Henry was all done with gorgeous. He'd just been dumped by a gorgeous woman. Or, well, a year ago he'd been dumped. And anyway, this woman, this pretty Kate, with her hair and her big, lovely nose, she was looking into his eyes expectantly and he didn't even want to see Marla, that was the truth, with her terrible social worker pity face and her cheery advice, you need to get out there more, give yourself a chance, blah-blah-blah.

Henry smiled shyly. "Call me Mike," he said.

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After the movie, they went to a bar. Kate ordered a gimlet.

"What's a gimlet?" Henry said.

"I don't know. I just like saying gimlet. Gimlet-gimlet-gimlet." She swept her hair into a bun. "So anyway, Laurie told me you're a fire fighter. What's that like, Mike?"

Henry paused and looked around and swallowed.

"Oh," he said. "You know. Hot. Awfully hot."

Kate laughed. She had a terrific laugh, loud and a little throaty.

The drinks arrived and Henry gulped at his. "The thing is," he said, "there's really not as much action as you might think. Mostly, it's just sitting around the station. Folks are pretty good about fire safety these days."

Kate looked a little disappointed.

"That's not to say there haven't been some close calls," he said.

"What's the most dangerous fire you ever fought?"

"The most dangerous fire I've ever fought? Huh. Let me think about that one." Henry was pretty sure he was going to hell. On the other hand, he felt glorious, alive in a way he hadn't for months. "I guess, well, a couple of years ago there was this four-alarm over at Haviland Candy. They were working double shifts for Valentine's and someone must have fallen asleep. These big copper vats of chocolate exploding all over the place and flames licking at the marshmallows. Corn syrup is highly flammable, you know."

"My God!" Kate was running her swizzle stick along the cleft in her chin. "Were you okay?"

"A touch of smoke inhalation. No big deal. But enough about me. Tell me what you do."

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So now Henry was following Kate home. Kate who was 27 years old and performed improv sketch comedy and worked as a chimney sweep to pay the bills. She was on her bike and she rode like an absolute maniac. Henry had trouble keeping up with her—and he was in a car.

And yet, he was utterly captivated by her recklessness, the way she darted in and out of traffic, flung herself around corners, her tires sending up strings of slush. Henry wished that Marla could see him now: a make-believe firefighter running red lights in pursuit of a sexy, slightly soused chimney sweep. Marla who was always saying how risk-averse he was. ("Not risk-averse," he told her. "Anti-heartbreak. There's a difference.")

Then Kate went down, hard, under the wheels of a passing bus. It happened so quickly Henry didn't even have time to react, though, oddly, he was sort of reacting even as he thought this, mourning her death and the life together they had missed, the long, searching conversations and, maybe even more than that, the absolutely superb sex they might someday have had and he even began to cry a little, there in his unheated Honda, as he thought about the cute little babies, two or three of them at least, all with her nose, that they would never raise

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But no, that wasn't it. She'd merely slipped past the bus. She was still alive— alive!—and wheeling onto a side street. He pulled up behind her and leapt out of the car.

"I thought you'd been, that bus—"

She was under the streetlamp, flushed, panting a little, ravishing.

"I just like to let the drivers know who's boss." Kate grinned. "Besides, you're a fire fighter, right? You know all that paramedics stuff. Mouth to mouth." A light snow drifted down and fell on her hair and he wanted to tell her, right then, no, he wasn't a fire fighter, he was a sous chef, a lonely, risk-averse sous chef, but desire was surging through him now and the heart needed these things, these moments of grand drama. He thought: I will die if I don't kiss her.
He leaned in and kissed her, lightly. His fingertips touched her cheek. She tasted of gimlet, lime juice and the sharp bite of gin, and her eyes were still closed when she pulled away, as if she were in the midst of a happy dream.

"I usually hate blind dates," she whispered. "But this was really, you know..." and then she kissed him again, harder, and her belly came against his and now Henry was fairly certain he was going to hell.

"What's the matter?" she said. "Is it, I mean, Laurie told me about your wife. Is that what it is, Mike? Are you still grieving?"

Henry sighed, elaborately and through his nose. He was really very unhappy. "Listen Kate, I'm not... I'm not the guy you were supposed to meet, this Mike guy. I'm just—how to explain this?—I'm just a guy who saw you and, you know, you looked so brave and pretty ... wow. What a jerk. I'm sorry." He began to consider how he would react if she slapped his face. Would he cry? Was she a good slapper?

Kate stood there, swaying in the lamplight. "I know," she said finally.

"What?"

"I know. Marla told me—"

"Marla? What do you mean Marla told you..." But now Henry could see the situation. His sister had recruited this woman, or God, maybe even hired her. Oh, this was pathetic, truly pathetic. Henry began clubbing himself on the head. "Did she pay you? Please tell me she didn't pay you."

Kate seemed to be trying not to laugh. "Please stop hitting yourself," she said, and grabbed his arm.

"You're not really a chimney sweep, are you?" Henry said quietly.

"Bike messenger, actually."

"Do you think I'm loathsome and disgusting?"

Kate looked at him again, her eyes green and quite serious now. "No, I like a man who can think on his feet. Let's try another kiss. I mean it, Mike. I've never kissed a real fire fighter."