at First Sight (2008) (2 page)

After he arrives, the two of them wide-arm their way down to the private gym I have in the basement and go at it. I use this term cautiously, because I think he's screwing her. It started while I was out of town doing the road show, trying to raise money to take bestmarket. corn public. No proof. I don't have Polaroids or anything, just a guess. So far, I haven't said anything, but if you want the honest truth, I'm close to the end of my rope with this marriage. It was okay when the business was strong. I could hide out down at the office. People were kissing my ass. But now, with the company in shambles and money running low, I'm completely out of ass-kissers and feeling a whole lot less charitable. Why should I put up with this? But for some reason, I do. I keep my mouth shut. I soldier on.

After breakfast I decided to go down to the cabana and relieve my scowling daughter so she could go upstairs and do her morning line of blow. Just kidding.

I found her lying on the chair listening to her music. Another term I use cautiously. She's into some kind of alternative technosynth that sounds to me like a guy squirming on a vinyl chair making balloon animals. But she's deep into this music, and to further piss me off, has started punching holes in her body. She has ten pierces. Her dedication to her new alternative lifestyle knows no limits. Ove
r t
he past eighteen months it has become almost impossible to get my daughter through an airport metal detector.

Melissa felt my shadow and looked up, her face wrinkling as if she just smelled something foul.

"Already?" she said. Sarcasm.

"Sorry. Your mother overslept."

"Jesus. I hate Hawaii. I hate this fucking hotel, I hate these phony people, I hate coming down here at 4 fucking A
. M
. every morning." Melissa, expressing herself. "What's wrong with a regular pool chair, for God's sake? What makes this dumb-ass tent so almighty fucking precious?"

"Your mother likes it . . . and stop swearing."

I should add that Melissa has purple hair. It looks simply hideous. She's got her mother's killer body, but with fewer cuts because Mickey D hasn't been able to convince her to start lifting yet. She's round-faced but mean-looking. Her eyes never smile.

She swung off the chaise longue and gathered up her things.

She looked angry enough to break a window. She's not above something like that, either. When she was ten, the first year we came here, she became enraged because we sent her to her room. She locked the door and threw golf balls at the guests from our seventh-floor balcony. They called us into the manager's office and told us if we didn't control her, we'd have to leave the hotel. Humiliating.

"Where are you going?" My version of parental concern.

"Gonna call Big Mac," she snarled.

A word here about Big Mac. His name is Bud McKenna. He's about six-five, two-sixty, and is the current president of the Devil's Disciples, a Southern California motorcycle gang. This guy is her boyfriend in L
. A
., and he is way the hell too old for Melissa. He's in his mid-twenties and scares the hell out of me. I think Melissa picked him because she knew I would hate him on sight and wouldn't be able to do a thing about it. He's violent and unpredictable and has tattoos that threaten your life, like B2K, which means "born to kill," or D4H, which is "death for hire?' The guy's a homicidal nutcase--an animal.

I believe that, like most of these bikers, he's in the crystal meth business. I can't prove it, but he is always taking her for rides on his Harley up Angeles Crest Highway. It's been in the papers that the sheriff was trying to catch a bunch of crystal cookers brewing blue meth and chicken powder in their double-wides parked up in the mountains. It didn't take Stephen Hawking to see the connection. I'd been watching Melissa, trying to spot any personality changes, which might occur if she switches from pot and coke to crystal meth. But since she only has two moods anyway--pissed-off and about-to-befurious, it's hard to tell. Being the father of a sixteen-year-old is no damn fun.

Melissa turned a few heads as she did her purple-haired stripper walk around the pool and disappeared into the lobby.

After she was gone, I lay down on the cabana pool chair and tried to shake off my daily bout with lethargy. Over the past year lethargy has become a regular part of my mornings, right along with acid reflux and deep depression.

I looked out across the pool, and that's when I saw her. That's when this whole thing started. Her vibe shot across the expanse of pool decking and grass and grabbed me so hard that my body shook. I let out a lungful of air and made a gushing sigh. My stomach flopped and my fingers and toes started curling. It was that powerful, that visceral.

I know ... I know. I can hear what you're thinking. You're thinking, bullshit. But unless you've actually experienced it, you couldn't possibly understand what I'm talking about.

When I saw her, even from twenty or thirty yards away--when I felt that metaphysical projection lodge in my heart like one of Cupid's arrows--I knew I would never be the same.

In that second, with that brief glance, my whole life changed at first sight.

Chapter
2

PART OF ME STILL REJECTS THIS AS IMPOSSIBLE. BUT
the proof of these feelings is right here, in these words I'm writing. Because, as you will see if you keep reading, the downstream events which followed this seminal moment ruined everything.

To begin with, she was beautiful. Not a gym-trained beauty, like my wife, but soft and subtle. There was something warm and forgiving in the vibe she sent me. She wasn't wearing a dental-floss thong, like Evelyn always did. This was a modest two-piece swimsuit. But her flawless skin and sun-kissed complexion were sexier to me, by far, than anything Evelyn had accomplished with hours of grunt work under Mickey D's supervision, pounding out reps in our basement.

She was just coming out of the pool, shiny black hair wet and pasted back against her head, her natural beauty radiant, without benefit of makeup or jewelry. Long legs . . . slender arms, and
a m
outh that . . . well, it defied description. Okay . . . I'll use my feeble skills and try. Happiness lurked in both corners. Full lips, but no collagen, no artificial enhancements, just slightly pouty but without a trace of petulance. How's that? Her eyes were blue . . . not just the blue of azure skies or clear crystal lakes, but the intense blue that bespeaks intellectual honesty and purity of soul--that kind of blue.

I can already hear you laughing, because you're right--how could I know of her intellectual honesty? I hadn't even said one word to her yet. But trust me here, some things defy the norm. Some things are transcendental. I just knew.

I sat in my wife's power cabana while she was in the gym pumping up, getting ready for her first grand entrance--her first cartilage-popping pool strut--and watched this remarkable creature. I fantasized what it would be like to possess such a beauty. But you must understand that it wasn't lust alone that fueled these thoughts. Okay, there was some lust, I'll admit; but what I was experiencing was . . . well, it was also deeply spiritual. There was a communion of souls here, a connection deeper than anything I had ever felt before, and, I remind you again, this was with somebody I had yet to speak to. But I knew when I did speak to her she would be everything I'd hoped for, and more. Don't ask me how I knew this. I can't tell you. I just knew.

For at least two hours, I sat and watched, trying not to be obvious about it. She caught me once, and I looked away, my ears turning red. My face felt thick, as if it belonged to someone else. I got up, walked to the pool concession, holding my stomach in like a fuckin
g i
diot, and bought a pair of large sunglasses. I went back the long way around to my power cabana. I put the glasses on a little crooked, so I could pretend to read my book, but I was really just looking at her.

Then I had a very uncharacteristic moment--a very un-Chicklike thought. I wondered if she knew that only very important people got issued these high-ground cabanas. No kidding, that's what I thought. I was that fucked up.

About ten o'clock, disaster struck.

A man came down from the hotel and sat in the pool chair next to her. Husband? Boyfriend? I didn't know. She wasn't wearing a wedding ring. I'd already checked that. But he had one, so he was married. But who was he? Her secret lover? No. She wouldn't date another woman's husband. She was too well-adjusted, too pure. I already knew this about her. I know, I know, this sounds like a verse in a Barry Manilow song or the flap copy on a Danielle Steel novel. Silly. But I knew. I could feel it.

I watched in dismay and anger as they held hands and kissed. They swam in the pool together; they laughed at each other's jokes. I forced myself to stop looking at her for a minute and take inventory of this asshole who had joined her.

The problem here was the guy was gorgeous, younger and much better looking than me . . . fit, but not gym-fit. He had an athlete's build, teeth square and straight as a row of tombstones--shiny and white as a porcelain toilet--curly copper hair and a strong hero's jaw. I hated him. I wanted to vomit.

Then Evelyn saved me from further tragic comparison as she plopped down next to me. I'd missed her grand entrance, but she didn't mention it because she was already angry about the cabana.

"This isn't the one," she growled. "The best cabana is that one over there." She pointed with a muscular arm at another tent that maybe, if you had a calibrated altimeter and a topographical survey map, you could prove was a foot or two higher than the one we were in. I'm not kidding. These are the things Evelyn worries about.

"Honey, Melissa couldn't . . . "

"Don't gimme any more Melissa b
. S
. That girl just sleeps and eats. You ask her to do one damn thing, it's worse than a root canal. She wants to be paid for sitting down here. Ridiculous. After all we do for her we're supposed to pay her for helping us out? She knows which cabana I want. This is just her bitchy way of getting back at me. How many times have I discussed it?"

It went on like that for almost ten minutes. I had learned years ago not to fight with Evelyn because she is an emotional terrorist. You take her on, she escalates the battle way past ground you're prepared to defend. She's capable of throwing an ashtray or a drink in public. I hate public confrontations. Public anger conveys weakness. My father raised me to show no weakness--no vulnerability. Good advice until you get sloshed and pile your fucking Jag into a bridge abutment. In case you're some kind of amateur psychologist, I'll cop to it now. I've got some major abandonment issues over Dad's death, but we'll get to that later.

"Y'know, I've been thinking . . . " I said. "Maybe I will ask Mickey D to fax over a workout routine." Me, searching for a safer topic.

That shut her up. "Really? You'll start weight training?"

"Yeah, I think I should tighten up this stomach a little, work on the old pecs, whatever . . . "

"No kidding?" I really had Evelyn's attention now. She stared at me hard, studying me, using the look she wore when picking out diamonds. "You're serious? You're not kidding?"

"As serious as Robert Schuller interviewing Pat Robertson on the Hour of Power," I quipped halfheartedly.

So I spent the afternoon in the gym with Mickey D's workout regimen and a twenty-year-old kid named Brian. Sit-ups, flies, dead lifts--two hours of torture. Two hours spent getting the old bod tuned up and ready for what would come next.

You see, I already knew I had to meet her.

Chapter
3

THE NEXT DAY STARTED OUT DISASTROUSLY. TO BEGIN with, I'd overdone it in the workout center. My body felt like I had gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson, taking every shot to the solar plexus. Getting out of bed was like peeling a stuck bandage off a dry scab.

The hot shower didn't even begin to hit it. I was in agony. I canceled Brian--told him I'd be back tomorrow. Then I waved off breakfast with Evelyn and went down to face Melissa.

She was asleep in the right cabana, the higher one. It sat on the top of a landscaped berm, which was fashioned like a huge pork chop and wrapped around one end of the pool. The berm was wide at the end where we were, but it stretched back toward the hotel along a narrowing ridge. Before waking Melissa, I looked at the loser tent we had occupied the day before. No doubt about it, this was hig
h g
round--a lofty Olympian peak. I surveyed our old digs, where a fat woman and a man with the worst toupee in Hawaii lay, thinking they had scored the best location. But they were losers--hotel indigents. We had the primo spot. I had climbed one or two perilous feet to reach this glittering social peak. Evelyn and I had finally become pool-area royalty. Valhalla.

Melissa opened her eyes and looked at me. "Happy?" More sarcasm.

"Delirious," I said.

She grabbed her stuff and got up. That was it for this morning's discourse. Melissa was out of patience. She had a meager supply. But who can blame her? It was nuts getting up at 4 A
. M
. just to snag one of these dumb things.

I watched her rolling, sexy walk; watched the lechers by the pool sneaking looks at my barely pubescent daughter. As far as I was concerned, they were all candidates for the Mann Act.