“Private Herb Browneye,” my father said, “reporting home to Boston for asswipe duty.”
Herb smiled. “One last predictable iteration first,” he said. “But which way will it go? How will he swing it?”
“No, that’s it,” my father said. “I will go no further in front of a lady.”
“You’ll say browneye in front of a lady,” Jill said, “but you won’t pun duty?”
“He don’t do blue,” Herb said, laughing.
“Blue I do,” my father said. “Already did. Browneye.”
“Browneye’s scatological,” Herb said.
“Browneye’s anatomical. You’re scatological, you stinking Boston asswipe.”
Herb gasped for air.
“I thought your name was Herb,” I said, looking at the business card, which read ANDREW BRAINTREE, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR.
“Herb’s just the nickname I gave him,” Jill said.
Herb said, “I went to Exeter.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
Jill asked, “Don’t they call prep-school kids Herbs around here?”
“I’ve never met a prep-school kid as far as I know,” I said.
“Me neither,” said my father. “Except for this asswipe.”
“Back home in Cohoes—that’s a town near Albany, in upstate New York—we call the prep-school kids Herbs,” said Jill. “When I was growing up we did, at least.”
“Why?” I said.
“I think it had something to do with Burger King,” said Jill. “These commercials for Burger King where everyone pretends to like this guy named Herb, this unattractive, nerdy guy who’s wearing a suit. Everyone kisses his ass because he might give them money or—I don’t really remember…What’s confusing me, though,” she said, turning to Herb, “is why Herb would catch on as your nickname, here in this tavern, Herb, if no one around here but us knows what a Herb is.”
“Beats me,” Herb said. “I didn’t know what a Herb was til you just said.”
“What’re you talking about? Billy just asked you about your name, and you said that you’re Herb because you went to Exeter.”
“No. That’s not how it happened. That isn’t how it happened at all. What happened was you told Billy you gave me the nickname, and then all I said was that I went to Exeter.”
“To explain the nickname.”
“No, Jill. No. He was looking at my business card, asking about me, so I said I went to Exeter because it’s always seemed to me that others find it interesting that I’m a private investigator who went to Exeter. Truth is, people, especially around here, they find it interesting I went to Exeter even if they don’t know I’m a private investigator. I mean: Exeter. How many people who didn’t go to Exeter know anyone who went to Exeter? So I tell people: I went there. I learned this from graduates of Harvard University in Cambridge. It’s a stereotype that they always tell people they went to Harvard, but it actually holds. They really do that, most of them. Every time they meet someone. Maybe it’s ironic in that newfangled way that isn’t really ironic and just ironic-y, now—still, most of them do it. But there’s a lot more people who didn’t go to Harvard who know people who went to Harvard than there are people who didn’t go to Exeter who know people who went to Exeter, and Harvard people always tell you they went to Harvard, and everyone seems to agree that’s what you should do. Tell people, I mean. Is my point.”
“Who agrees?” Jill said.
“Everyone,” said Herb. “Most importantly me. And I, for one, have always worn the nickname you gave me as a badge of pride that made me feel special, and now that I know it’s because I went to Exeter that you gave me the nickname, I feel even more special, because being a graduate of Exeter is something I’ve always worn as a badge of honor. That’s quite a badge, Jill. Honor and pride. Quite a badge. You know, my father didn’t go there. My uncles didn’t go there. No one I knew until I went to Exeter had gone to Exeter. I went there on a scholarship that I received for an essay I wrote on Ayn Rand and Herman Melville. The headmaster told me I was quote brilliant unquote.”
“Answering your question,” my father said, “we call him Herb, cause you called him Herb, Jill. We used to call him Andy, then you started working here, we liked you, hoped you’d stick around, wanted to make you feel at home, and etcetera, so when you called him Herb, we called him Herb, and he started to introduce himself as Herb.”
“I called him Herb to make fun of him,” Jill said. “Because the first thing he ever told me is that he went to Exeter on a scholarship where he got such good grades he got a scholarship to the University of Illinois, but now he ‘carried a gun and solved problems for people.’ ”
“Of Chicago,” Herb said. “University of Chicago.”
“Probably he thought that would impress you,” my dad said. “Maybe even get himself a date with you. Right, Herb?”
Herb, looking down into his beer, pursed his lips.
“You wanted to ask me out?” Jill said. “Herb? Whyn’t you ever ask me out?”
“Well, you work here,” Herb said. “I didn’t want to make everyone uncomfortable. And frankly, Jill—we’re all of us friends here, and I can admit it—frankly, you’re miles out of my league.”
“But you went to Exeter,” Jill said. “On a scholarship.”
“Don’t tease him,” my dad said. “He’s carried a torch for you for nearly, what? Three years?”
“Seven,” Herb said.
“Time,” said my father. “Christ. Time. You’ve worked here seven years, Jill?”
“You still want to take me out?” Jill said.
“She’s ribbing me, right?”
“I’m closing tonight,” she said. “Tomorrow, though, I’ve got the day shift. I’m off at seven.”
“I can pick you up?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“I’m telling you I can. I’m asking if I may.”
“What about my boyfriend?”
“I don’t care about him.”
“No,” Jill said. “That was what you were supposed to say: ‘What about your boyfriend, Jill? Don’t you have a boyfriend?’ ”