The MacGuffin by Stanley Elkin Page A

like an asshole.
    But (if you didn’t count the druggist) only to himself. And not because of the couple of condoms safe in his suit pocket next to the coca leaves (the condoms he knew he would not have a chance to use once even, and then throw away, throwing them away first, before they were used, or seen, like the flag he knew he not only didn’t have to show but wouldn’t even if he’d had to; hey, he was a guy who covered the bases, even if, not quite respectably he did have a spy, even if, he not only had a spy but maybe a MacGuffin, too, and certainly plenty of humbug in his heart) but because of the FTD flowers already on their way to Margaret Glorio’s home address.
    So you can imagine how he felt. You can just imagine.
    On the one hand anticipate, rampant with a kind of self-regard. In a way, he was already half in love with Miss Glorio, not for her perceived qualities (which he didn’t know about yet anyway) so much as for those which the contemplation of a relationship induced and released, or induced and released again, in Druff. Why, love, even half- love, was heady, hearty stuff, like the drugged aromatics of chemical flowers or the recovered toxins of adolescence. Thinking of it that way, years wilted from him, he filled his suits. He felt a sort of strutting potency and would have liked to get another gander at himself in Brooks Brothers glass. Love, contemplated Druff, was good for the gander, and the commissioner, like some world-class cuckold, had a temporary respite from the ordinary anxieties of ego, self-consciousness, was even enough liberated from himself to permit himself to regard—it was a festival of regard—some things which might please Margaret. Would she go to the fights or enjoy a day at the track? Was she a good sport, he meant, some down-and-dirty lady, the kind who would appreciate the unraveled arcana of a dope sheet? Because he could go that way, teach her the Racing Form, coach her in the codes of a low art, the stats, weights and measures of a compromised metrics, then tell her to forget all she’d learned, and to learn something new—that all bets were sucker bets, that the ponies in this town were fixed, that it was as well to know who was into whom—better!—than all the histories of all the horses in the field. And wasn’t this thrilling information too, to have this lowdown, this insider’s window on the world? He was sure it was the same in Sportswear, he’d tell her, and that he would be just as surprised to have his assumptions challenged, all the old warrants. Wasn’t it, wasn’t it thrilling? And then he would take her with him to the paddock for some private discussions because, he’d confide, you didn’t dope the horses so much as bet on those already doped. He longed to bring her along, a girlfriend like the son he’d always wanted.
    Oh, thought Druff, let it begin, not just the touchy-feely but the philosophy parts too, all the shared sentimentals they sought to hook you with in the love classifieds. He’d been hooked years, reconstructing hypothetical dreamgirls from the tiny bytes of smuggled, implied tastes revealed there, played out like line to kidnappers. Oh, he thought, let it! Wanting to trade on special theories—that you’d make a killing, if you bet the professional wrestling, as fixed, everyone knew, as the stars. That all you had to do was to be willing to offer high odds and depend upon turnover, or find out when the champion agreed to stand down and the belt was about to change hands. You bet, he meant, the practicals in life, only first determining which these were. Only then did you stand to gain. (Was this too poetic? Not for his dreamgirl! She, no matter what she said about the love of a good fire after a walk in the woods on a drizzly, overcast day, would take such things in like aphrodisiac, or what did one talk about around those fires?)
    Oh, thought Druff, surprised to be made to feel so male—those ponies and percentages, his