Danny by David Erlewine

"Oh, Ruben," she says, giggling. She is tall, Asian, as flat as Austin, the hoary hands of a construction worker who no longer yells at passing girls.

"Oh yeah, baby," I say, though that is not my name and she clearly knows it.

"What's so funny?" I say.

"You men, always so afraid girlfriend or wife find out. Like I start calling every Joe or Tom in phone book, hoping I get lucky. Ruben, huh? You don't look Spanish."

"Guilty," I say and she laughs. Why had I told her I was an attorney? Not that Austin isn't full of them but still dumb. "I am Richard."

"Dick," she says and squeezes hard.

"Ouch!"

This whole thing of not being able to say my name to her has signaled a scary turn. My covert stutter seems about to thrust itself out like one of those nasty fuckers in "Alien."

"Sir Richard Cranium," she says, something my college roommate Doug Corbett called almost every guy he knew. She giggles, like Doug was just in here explaining it's another way of saying "Sir Dick Head."

"Doug?" she says.

"What?" I say.

"You said 'Doug'? That your name?"

I smile at the solution. I picture Danny Astor, a dorky center on my 7th grade "Mavericks" basketball team. But I can't hold the image. If I can't say my name here, how will I at my corporate tax presentation next week?

"What you say?" she says.

"Nada." Images of Danny are replaced by Doug, flashing in my mind like the short fiction my brother cuts and pastes into e-mails.

She sighs and lets go. "This pointless."

"Quien?" I say, though it probably means who instead of what in Spanish.

"Worst Spanish accent ever," she says. "You have more cash, yes?"

"First things first," I hiss.

She giggles and tickles my thigh. "What you say?"

"My shoe."

"You get," she says, "I smell them from here, should be out in hall."

I get up and give her a $10.

"More tickle?"

I sigh and throw in a $20, vowing not to give the remaining $7 as a tip. With my pretty girlfriend and hidden porn tapes, why exactly am I here?

She is hard at work, and a slight blue vein pulsates near her left eye.

"My name is," I say, "my name is."

"Slim Shady?" she says and giggles.

I laugh. "You're quite funny."

"Thank you. Now focus or I sue for carpal tunnel."

"Ha ha." Under different circumstances, I might ask her out.

Before I can get my name out, it's too late.

"Messy boy," she says.

"My name," I say but I'm too embarrassed.

The irony is my college roommates always ripped on me for never having gotten such a massage. They regaled me with stories of surprise offers for sex for pennies more, four-hand specials, young girls with hands like room-temperature Velveeta.

"Always use a fake name," they counseled. Doug always went by "Han"; Tony preferred "Fat Dougy Doug"; Carl alternated between "Apollo," "Clubber, "Ivan" and "Tommy."

She throws a lukewarm towel at me. It lands on my head.

It sounds like she is rummaging for something on the ground. If it's the other $7, there will be a scene.

I take several deep breaths into the warm towel. It smells like an overused hamper.

I pause and then relax my vocal cords and picture a beach with a lazy tide. Three years of fluency therapy distilled.

"My name is Danny," I say without a hitch. My elation is short-lived because I carefully pull off the towel and find I am alone.