On Wednesday night something happened that nearly ruined everything. Johnny met Marissa in the East Village, and after a couple of drinks at a bar on Avenue A, they went to the Knitting Factory, where the Limons, some new retro Latin punk band she was into- she’d called them “the Ramones meet Ricky Martin”- were playing. They’d been in the place for only a few minutes when Johnny felt a tap on his shoulder and heard, “Frederick, is that you?”

Johnny looked over his shoulder and saw a woman- not so bad- looking, late twenties, maybe thirties, with straight brown hair and bangs. She didn’t look at all familiar, but he’d used the name Frederick with various pickups.

“Sorry,” he said, “you got the wrong guy.”

He turned back toward Marissa, rolling his eyes slightly, but he had a feeling the woman wouldn’t let it go. She didn’t, saying, “Like hell you don’t, you son of a bitch. Where’s my fuckin’ money?”

He looked at her again and said, “Look, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Actually, she was starting to look familiar, but he couldn’t place her face yet.

As he started to turn away again, she grabbed his arm and said, “You took two hundred fucking dollars from my pocketbook and, oh, yeah, some jewelry, too, but it wasn’t worth shit.”

Now he remembered. A couple of months ago he’d picked her up at a bar, Max Fish on Ludlow, not far from where they were now, and he’d stolen some cash and some jewelry that had turned out to be gold plated; waste of his goddamn time. He usually didn’t like to return to neighborhoods where he’d scored for at least six months for this very reason.

“I’m telling you, you have the wrong guy,” he said, shaking his arm loose. He noticed that Marissa was starting to look a little worried, but he couldn’t tell if it was because he was being hassled or because she was starting to believe the woman’s story.

“Give me my money back or I’m calling the fuckin’ cops,” the woman said, flipping her cell phone open.

“You’re out of your mind,” Johnny said. Then he took Marissa by the hand and said, “Come on,” and led her toward the other end of the bar.

The woman followed them, shouting, “I want my money back, Frederick!”

A bouncer came over and asked what was going on. Johnny calmly explained that he had no idea who the woman was. The woman continued to go on about how Johnny had stolen money from her, sounding more and more crazed and hysterical. At one point she shoved the bouncer, and he grabbed her and pulled her out of the bar. Then the bouncer apologized to Johnny and Marissa for the “inconvenience” and bought them a round on the house. Johnny, turning on his charm, bonded with the bouncer- they were both from Queens, around the same age- and after a few minutes they were like old buddies.

Johnny and Marissa bonded, too, talking about how “weird” it was that the woman had mistaken him for that other guy and flipped out like that. It turned into a big joke, and Johnny knew that Marissa couldn’t wait to tell her friends about it; he figured she’d probably blog about it, too. This was yet another example of how golden Johnny was, how he could do no wrong. Something that could’ve been a disaster and ruined his plans had turned into something that had scored more points with Marissa, bringing them even closer together.

Johnny was hoping that Marissa would invite him home with her tonight, but again she wanted to take the subway home alone. He insisted on going with her because it was past midnight and “you never know what kind of maniacs are on the subways at this time of night.” She agreed, but when he was walking her back to her house, she was acting uncomfortable, not talking very much, and when they got to her house she barely kissed him good- bye and rushed inside. He had no idea what the hell was going on. He knew she was into him- that was obvious- so there had to be some reason she wasn’t inviting him in. It wasn’t like she’d never taken a guy home with her before. She’d talked about a few guys she’d had over to her house since graduating from college, including that skinny little dork Darren. Johnny wanted to ask her if something was wrong, but he figured it was better if she brought it up herself. He didn’t want to push too hard and blow all of his plans.

The next day, Thursday, Johnny called Marissa in the morning and asked her if she wanted to meet him for lunch in Brooklyn. She said she’d love to- not exactly a surprise- and he met her outside the Smith- Ninth Street subway station and rode the bus with her to Red Hook, where they went to some trendy coffee bar where Johnny had seen a lot of artsy types go. They talked for a while, holding hands the whole time, and then he took her back to his place.

He’d been working hard to try to make his studio apartment look like a place where an artist would live. He’d picked up some more paintings from thrift shops and, a couple of days ago, had bought four paintings of bowls of fruit from some guy on Craigslist who lived about ten blocks away. He’d done a few more of his own paintings, too, in the Jackson Pollock style, and he thought they were at least as good as that shit in the Met.

On the way over to his place he gave her some BS about how “nervous” he was about her seeing “his work.” She told him how silly he was acting and said she was sure his paintings were amazing.

In the apartment, he watched her reaction closely as she looked around. He could tell she was seriously impressed.

“Wow,” she said. “You really have a lot of range, don’t you?”

“Thanks,” he said.

“You use oils and acrylics, huh?”

He had no idea what he was talking about, but he said, “Yeah, I like to do a lot of everything. I mean, I don’t like to limit myself. I want to blow the whole thing wide open.”

Wasn’t that the line in Pollock? Eh, something like that.

Admiring the paintings he’d bought on Craigslist, Marissa said, “Do you do your portraits from real life or photographs?”

“Real life,” he said.

“Wow,” she said. “Impressive.”

She turned toward the wall where he’d hung up a couple of his own paintings and said, “So you’re into modern and abstract, too, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You see the Pollock influence, right?”

Influence. He was on a roll, all right.

“They’re very Pollockesque,” she said. “You and Pollock have a very similar controlled freedom in your styles. I love the use of gray- very Jasper Johns. I also see the homage to Picasso in your use of blue.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I was going for,” he said. “Johns and Picasso. Yeah, I’m so glad you noticed that.”

She continued to admire the paintings while he was thinking about how this whole art gig was so perfect for him. It was all about bullshitting, and nobody could bullshit better than Johnny Long.

When the love fest for his artwork ended, he cracked open a couple of Heinekens and sat with her on the couch.

A few minutes later, she was snuggled close, wrapping her leg over his legs, saying, “I’d love to watch you work sometime.”

“That would be great,” he said, “but nobody’s ever watched me before. I might get nervous, you know?”

“You don’t have to get nervous around me,” she said, and she put her beer on the coffee table. She kissed him, rubbing his chest with one hand, then said, “Maybe I can… help you.”

“What kind of help do you have in mind?” he asked, playing along.

“Maybe some of this,” she said, kissing his lips. “Or this.” She kissed his neck. After a while, she moved one hand over his crotch, then unsnapped his jeans and started to reach inside.

Naturally he was ready for her, but he shifted back a little and said, “I think we should wait.”

“Wait for what?” she gasped, wanting him so badly.

“Until we get to know each other better.” It was so hard to deliver these lines with a straight face. “I mean, we’ve only known each other for less than a week.”