Fluke (2 page)

“Shit, Perry, it’s too early.
 
How am I going to handle all the deliveries by myself?” I was getting angry.

He stared at Heather as he spoke to me.
 
“You’ll be fine.
 
There are never more than two or three orders after this time of night.
 
Now, go get the delivery for
Batts
Lane and get outta here.”
 
His eyes were glued to Heather’s T-shirt, specifically the area where her T-shirt stretched over her breasts.

Wow…just go ahead and lick your chops, Mr. Obvious.

“Yeah, whatever,” I said, head down, defeated.
 
My hatred for Perry swelled inside of me, growing, gaining weight, like a sponge soaking up water.

I went inside and grabbed the red vinyl delivery bag (
“Keeps your pizza oven fresh!”
proclaimed the bag) and headed for the door.
 
The address was 1922
Batts
Lane, and the name on the ticket was Sara, which had always been one of my favorite names for a woman.
 
I always pictured beautiful women, long hair, smooth tan skin, perfect white teeth, when I heard the name Sara.
 
Where this inexplicable vision came from, I had no idea, as the only Sara that I had ever actually known was short, with a strange Liza
Minelli
-like bob haircut, pale skin, and yellow teeth from too many cigarettes and
too much coffee.
 
She had been pretty much a total opposite of what I envisioned for the medium cheese pizza Sara on
Batts
Lane.

I climbed into my Civic and realized that I had never actually met a Sara that fulfilled my vision.

Of course, that all changed that night.

My flashback ended as she walked towards me, her strange little dog bouncing on his leash, little doggy toenails clicking on the concrete.
 
I looked down at the dog, trying to figure out what breed it was, when Sara spoke.

“He’s a Chihuahua.
 
His name is Killer,” she smiled as she said it, and I saw straight, white teeth.
 
Sara teeth, I thought to myself.

I cleared my throat and looked at her eyes.
 
She had big, pale green eyes, and they were beautiful.
 
Even the white part around the iris was brighter than I had seen on anyone before.

Out of nowhere, I thought:
the white part is called the sclera
.

“You, uh, read my mind,” I joked.
 
My ability to talk had faded slightly.
 
I felt the adrenaline kick into overdrive, picking up the pace through my body.

She laughed and used her free hand to push a stray strand of long, light brown hair back over her ear.
 
The gesture was so cute that I felt myself compelled to give her a big hug, or to just touch her in some way.
 
Who was this beautiful woman, and what business did I have standing here talking to her?

A bout of self-consciousness hit me suddenly.
 
I stopped smiling in order to conceal my nicotine-stained teeth.
 
I imagined that I could feel the very weight of the bags under my eyes, which were dull and perpetually puffy from lack of sleep and hangovers past.
 
I felt my fingernails in the palm of my hand and realized that they badly needed to be clipped.

In an attempt to avoid an anxiety attack, I squatted down to get a closer look at Killer and pet him, but he shied from my outstretched hand and moved behind Sara’s legs.
 
Her tan calves extended from the bottom of a maroon colored casual-looking dress.
 
The calves were perfect.
 
There were none of those scars that women sometimes get from shaving; there were no varicose veins.
 
They were just smooth and tan and almost shiny from some expensive lotion she had probably spent several minutes applying.
 
I
pushed away a vision in my head of my own socks sliding off of my pale calves amid a light flurry of flakes of dry skin.

“How did you get out of work so fast?” she asked.
 
“It was only about an hour ago that you were standing on my porch with a nice, hot pizza for me.
 
I didn’t expect you for at least another hour.”

Dammit
.
 
Now I looked overanxious (I
was
overanxious, but it was bad form to appear so to a beautiful woman).
 
I struggled internally, wondering what to tell her.

“I, uh, quit.
 
Uh, my job,” the words fell out of my mouth haltingly, like drops from a kinked water hose.
 

“What? You quit?” She looked genuinely shocked, and I was sort of sorry I told her.

“Yeah.
 
Um, I didn’t really like the job, and, well, I was mad at my boss anyway.
 
So I went home and called him and told him to, uh, take this job and shove it.”
 
I said the last bit in my best redneck accent, trying to imitate the old country song. It was a lie (not to mention awful singing), but I couldn’t remember what I had told Perry, and it was no doubt pathetic and unworthy of Sara’s ears.
 
She giggled briefly at my impromptu display of stupidity, but my nerves were still sizzling, and I was still an overflowing well of self-doubt.
 
I watched as she reached a hand down to her hyper dog, and calmed him with only a slight touch.

“Hmm,” she started, standing, a thoughtful look on her face.
 
“How long have you worked there?”

“Um, about seven months,” I said sheepishly.

“And I was your last delivery, huh?” she asked, smiling coyly.
 
A brief glimpse of white teeth between red lips.
 
I was smitten.

“Yes, you were,” I told her, realizing how that might have sounded and not caring.

“Well, then, that’s a good thing.
 
How about we go out and get a drink to celebrate?” She asked.
 
I watched a thin gold bracelet slide from halfway up her forearm down to her wrist.
 
I thought about how much I loved little things like that.

“That sounds perfect,” I said, and it did.
 
I began thinking of quiet bars where we could sit and hear each other talk.
 
I prayed she wouldn’t suggest any type of dance club. Ten seconds of watching Adam Fluke flailing like an idiot on the dance floor, and it would end up being another lonely night for me.

“Great,” she said.
 
She looked down at Killer, and I buried my hands in my pockets. Several seconds passed with both of us pretending to stare at the dog, the ground, my car, anything.
 
The silence between us grew rapidly, increasing in size exponentially, becoming almost a living thing.
 
My insides were swelling, moving, telling me that panic mode wasn’t far away, and then she spoke.

“Listen, Adam,” she started, “I know this is an awkward moment.
 
I guess I came on kind of strong at the door earlier.
 
I didn’t mean to, and I feel a little strange here myself.” She watched Killer as he walked around her legs, wrapping the leash around those lovely calves.

“It’s okay…actually, I’m glad you…” I began.
 
I was relieved, not only by what she said, but also by the fact that she had said anything.

“Let’s just look at each other, acknowledge that this is awkward for both of us, and promise to relax.
 
I want to enjoy myself tonight, not just play a small talk game with the best looking guy I’ve seen in months.”
 
She said this quickly, and my heart started thudding in my chest at the last part.

Best looking guy?
 
Months?
 
Was she talking about me, or did she want me to pick up a friend?
 
I was used to women being nice to me to get closer to my friend Sean, who was blessed with the all-American good looks, the charm, and the charisma.
 
I just didn’t have this kind of luck.

Don’t blow it, stupid
.
 
My grandmother always said, “Never look a gift horse in the mouth, boy.”
 

We stared at each other, and I said to her, “I promise to just relax and have fun with you, Sara.”
 
The words came out easier this time.

A smile spread across her face, her eyes lit up, and she clapped her hands together quickly.
 
“Yay!” she exclaimed.
 
“Let me put Killer inside the house and grab my purse, and we’ll be off for a good time.”

I watched her turn around and bounce off to her front door.
 
A deep breath escaped me, and I felt weak.
 
I leaned back against the car, and wondered what was going on.
 
I felt like I had been removed from my league, a league that consisted of slightly overweight women, women with bad teeth, women with bad
breath.
 
Somehow I had crossed the line and entered the realm of beautiful women, and I was worried about blowing it.

I reached into the car through the still-open door for a cigarette, lit it, and exhaled a lungful of smoke.
 
I briefly worried that she would see me smoking and, disgusted by my habit, call a halt to this dream of mine, but I told myself that I was going to relax, as promised.
 
I took another long drag and blew three wobbly, wafting smoke rings.
 
Oh, well, I thought.
 
If she sees me, she sees me.

I heard her door open, then shut.
 
I glanced up and saw her back as she locked the door.
 
Instinctively, I cupped the cigarette in my palm, until she turned around and I saw a thin white cigarette between her long, tan fingers.

The whole night was ahead of me, and I didn’t know where it was going.

****

As it turns out, Sara didn't want to eat, and neither did I, so we decided to go straight out for drinks.
 
I had always found eating to be a hindrance, when I wanted to drink, anyway.
 
The two didn’t mix well with me if I ate initially, at the beginning of the night.
 
At the end of the night would be a different story.
 
I normally found myself craving food, like a junkie craves his fix, at the end of one of my drinking sprees.

We found ourselves parked along the street about 15 minutes later, just outside of Cherry Street Pub.
 
It was a drinker's bar, but not an alcoholic’s sanctuary.
 
It hosted a twenty and thirty-something crowd, and (thankfully) had no dance floor.
 
People were there to drink, talk, listen to music.
 
I had been there before, and it was my kind of bar.
 
We chose a corner booth near the bar and sat down.

"Hi, I'm Amy," the girl with red-framed glasses said when she came over to our table, "What can I get you guys?"
 

"Two shots of Hot Damn, Amy," Sara replied, taking charge, ordering for both of us, "and two Killian's.”
 
She turned to me and smiled.
 
"Good?"

"Perfect,” I told her.
 
It was perfect.

****

We smoked our cigarettes; we drank our beers.
 
Every now and then we added a shot for good measure.
 
Any residual nervousness slowly melted away with each swallow, and Sara
DuBeau
and I had good conversation, which eventually morphed into drunken conversation, but it was still good.
 
We clicked on a variety of subjects: television (Seinfeld is the best show ever, we agreed), music (“Depeche Mode still makes great music, but nobody listens,” she said.
 
Is this wonderful, wonderful woman for real?), and movies (“Dead Poet’s Society is amazing!”). It almost seemed as though we were clicking too well, if that’s possible…we liked so many of the same things.
 
The night took on an ethereal, dreamlike quality for me as I realized this woman beside me, this beautiful woman, had done and said nothing wrong.