Authors: Eric Pete
Blow Your Mind (14 page)
“Poor baby.”
The way she said it reminded me of Pumpkin.
Damn.
I wished she’d been around tonight to celebrate, especially since she’d made this all possible. But I didn’t have her phone number. She’d be calling me. And I’d thank her.
Damn.
I wished she’d been around tonight to celebrate, especially since she’d made this all possible. But I didn’t have her phone number. She’d be calling me. And I’d thank her.
The game was almost over. Cleveland was taking time off the clock. Up by three points in which they were favored to lose by the same amount.
And about to score again on Atlanta
, I smugly conceded. Kash would finally be off my back.
And about to score again on Atlanta
, I smugly conceded. Kash would finally be off my back.
“We’ve been talking and you’ve never told me your name.” I hinted at more beyond the bar. After the game.
She smiled, getting it.
The final drive to wrap it up was coming. Some of the watchers moved to the bar to better see the inevitable. Cleveland had time enough for a field goal, but was going for another touchdown. As the group in Atlanta jerseys began screaming, “Defense,” Cleveland hiked the ball. And I smiled.
We all watched the quarterback as he scrambled away from the opposing team’s defenders, large snarling cats wanting to plant him in the ground. And there it was.
A single Cleveland player, San Antonio Jackson, running loose at the back of the end zone, waved frantically. I waited for that magic pass to end the game. I watched the quarterback spot him and cock back to throw.
I closed my eyes, envisioning the ball leaving his hand on its way to its destiny.
I was smiling when the hit came.
Neither I nor the quarterback saw Atlanta’s line-backer streaking from his blind side, where he proceeded to do just that—blindside.
About half the place, including the Atlanta fans whose drinks I’d just paid for, erupted in cheers. Not for me this time. I wasn’t being honored— Atlanta was.
Then the impossible.
The football’s destiny wouldn’t be in the hands of San Antonio Jackson, spinning at the feet of his latest celebration. It lay on the greenery of the field, rolling around as big as day.
No one from Cleveland noticed it. They were more concerned about their quarterback.
Fuck him. Get the ball. This game is over!
I begged mentally.
Fuck him. Get the ball. This game is over!
I begged mentally.
Someone heard my pleas. A pair of hands snatched the ball up, sensing what was afoot. And began running in the opposite direction.
Atlanta had the ball.
Their cornerback, Willis Wallace, was now darting down the field toward Atlanta’s goal line as a wave of nausea overcame me.
The numbers on the field came and went, the announcer screaming them out with a glut of emotion.
“Wallace has the ball! Wallace has the ball! And he’s off to the races!”
Somebody tackle his ass. Please.
“He’s at the fifty, forty-five, forty, thirty-five, the thirty!”
Pain.
“The
twenty
!”
twenty
!”
Agony.
“
Ten
!”
Ten
!”
Disbelief.
“He could. Go. All. The waaaaaaaaay! Touchdown!”
No. Meltdown.
My cast began shaking. I grabbed it with my other hand, but it wouldn’t stop.
The girl at the bar chose to answer me then. “My name can be whatever you like for the evening. Do you have a room here?” she whispered in my ear. Great. I was sitting with a call girl.
Worse.
I was in the hole just as when I came in. I’m sure Kash knew about the bet. Broke didn’t matter when death might be imminent.
Broke.
Broken.
Both accurate descriptions regarding my presentand future state. And why wouldn’t my hand stop trembling?
“Are you okay? You look sick.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Excuse me?”
“Go away!” I shouted amidst the celebration. I stood up from the bar, grabbed my cast more firmly. I felt a vibration in my pocket as my cell phone rang. I checked the number. And felt like throwing up.
The wire I had just been bouncing precariously upon had snapped. I was still falling, but the pain I’d feel upon impact would be immeasurable.
Kash probably knew where I was.
I ran out of the sports bar, desperate and in a panic.
Eighty-five thousand dollars had been dropped in my lap and I blew it all to hell.
A man in free fall.
A few days ago, I hadn’t thought it could get any worse.
21
BIANCA
W
e picked up the pace at the instructor’s urging on this unusually mild Monday. There were several laps to go before we were finished. At my side was Rory, ever coordinated in her Nike attire. A good sweat was being generated in spinning class at the Brisbane Athletic Club. Part of our normal morning workout, stationary bikes strumming in harmony, as I tried to get back on course for the workweek and what lay ahead.
e picked up the pace at the instructor’s urging on this unusually mild Monday. There were several laps to go before we were finished. At my side was Rory, ever coordinated in her Nike attire. A good sweat was being generated in spinning class at the Brisbane Athletic Club. Part of our normal morning workout, stationary bikes strumming in harmony, as I tried to get back on course for the workweek and what lay ahead.
Wednesday, Tanner was to receive his appointment from the mayor. All the news channels would be covering such a grand occasion. Even though my role as the supportive wife was only to smile and look pretty for the cameras, it was taxing.
“Glad you could come this morning,” Rory said in between her controlled breaths. “Thought I was going to have to get another partner.”
“A girl misses a couple of days and you want to just trade her in? That sucks.”
“Uh-huh.” She chuckled. “Upgrade. I’d pick Weinstein over there, but she’s too hot. Plastic surgeon for a husband.” She added after a deep breath, “Probably too judgmental. She tried to crack about my wearing jewelry in class once. Once.”
“So you’re just keeping the ugly duckling around to make you look good?” I teased, mustering as homely a face as possible.
“Exactly. You’re not just ugly; you’re smart,” she answered facetiously.
I threw my towel at her. She took it and dabbed the perspiration off her chest, then threw it back. The towel would be flung several more times as we rode out the remainder of the class.
After showering, we returned to the locker room to prepare for our respective days. Hers probably consisted of shopping for sales at Avery Mall, while mine consisted of ordering inventory from the wholesaler in New York. Work would be a break for me after all the mess going on at home. I was seriously debating telling Tanner about Pumpkin’s arrival. As much as I feared the disasters that she brought on, I feared his reaction even more. But he had to maintain his focus.
Maybe after Wednesday
, I contemplated.
Maybe after Wednesday
, I contemplated.
Rory seemed unusually chipper as she fastened the clasp on her sandals. She hummed some tune identifiable only by her. I was putting on my olive business suit, but slowed to observe. I speculated what it would be like to trade lives for a day.
“What?” she asked, bristling at the eyeballs she felt. “Do I have something in my hair?”
Of course not. It was flawless. “No. Just thinking about stuff.”
She went back to fastening before her interest in my thoughts overrode it. “Anything you want to tell me? Because you can, y’know.”
I considered unloading. About Lorenda leaving us, about Pumpkin’s drama, and about how maybe, just maybe, Tanner’s demands were beginning to wear me down.
“No,” I politely replied instead. “Just day-dreaming.”
Most of the other women had left. The remainder were either in the shower or in the process of exiting. Still, she whispered, “You’re not cheating on Tanner, are you?”
I laughed. “Of course not. In spite of what he does, I don’t roll like that. And the question’s not what’s so funny.”
“Then what is?”
I regained my composure, deciding to share the private joke. “You didn’t call him ‘Mr. Clucker’ this time.”
“I didn’t?” she muttered, stunned. She placed her sandal on the floor after finishing her task. She stood up, straightening her clothes and making sure her blond tresses were in place. “Oh, I don’t call him that every time anyway.”
“Whatever. Maybe you’re becoming fond of him in your old age.”
“Old? That’s not ever happening. I’d be up in Weinstein’s husband’s office like that. And I’m not fond of Mr. Clucker. But back to my question . . . Are you out tippin’? Seriously. Maybe the doorman? Or the guy who makes your espresso, ooooh, so right?”
“I already said no, but why would you even ask that?”
She shrugged. “Something’s different about you. Just seems like you’ve got secrets.”
“No secrets. My life’s too boring for secrets.”
“So you do admit your life is lacking.”
“What’s going on? Are you suddenly a therapist? Those morning TV shows must be getting the best of you. Maybe you do need a job.”
“Okay, okay. Now you’re making me ill.” She stuck her fingers in her mouth in a mock gagging motion.
We left the locker room together, but I had to stop after a few steps, my stomach suddenly upset.
Rory hadn’t noticed me until she’d traveled a few feet, her gym bag dangling off her sculpted arm. “Something wrong?” she asked as she turned to look back.
“Uh . . . restroom. Might be a while,” I sheepishly admitted. “Go on without me.”
“Yeah. You don’t want to be like that big girl on
Flavor of Love.
No
deposits
in this place, please,” she teased, commenting on the girl Flavor Flav had named “Somethin’.” The programs that Rory watched religiously had ceased surprising me.
Flavor of Love.
No
deposits
in this place, please,” she teased, commenting on the girl Flavor Flav had named “Somethin’.” The programs that Rory watched religiously had ceased surprising me.
We said our good-byes; then I made a dash toward the ladies’ room. The doctor had told me I wasn’t pregnant, but I couldn’t help but wonder what was wrong with me as I ran into an available stall.
22
PUMPKIN
I
waited patiently, biding my time until Bianca cleared out. Little Miss Prissy was all alone as she exited the gym. It was a mild winter, but not
that
mild. She was reminded as a stiff wind blew across the parking lot. I watched her bristle, imagining goose bumps popping up on those fake-tanned arms of hers. I was too far away to see for sure. All I could make out was the tattoo. The one I’d seen before. That night at the sex club.
waited patiently, biding my time until Bianca cleared out. Little Miss Prissy was all alone as she exited the gym. It was a mild winter, but not
that
mild. She was reminded as a stiff wind blew across the parking lot. I watched her bristle, imagining goose bumps popping up on those fake-tanned arms of hers. I was too far away to see for sure. All I could make out was the tattoo. The one I’d seen before. That night at the sex club.
An apple inside a heart. On her shoulder.
An apple for Washington State.
Bianca said that bitch was from Seattle too. And here in the daylight, I found that she did remind me of someone. From long ago.
She triggered the remote on her burgundy Range Rover. I strode quickly, reaching into my pocket. I wasn’t going to be fast enough.
She threw the bag in back, then entered the driver’sseat. She slammed her door shut as I broke out into a run.
She put the Rover in reverse, its white taillights coming on. She’d barely moved before I tapped on the window. I slowed my breathing as I tried to look calm.
Confused at first, she mouthed something through the glass. Realizing I couldn’t hear her, she lowered it.
She cracked a smile, feeling goofy over the window incident. She spoke. Said something warm and friendly. Familiar.
I didn’t hear her.
Just made sure she was looking in my eyes.
No mask.
She said something else, no doubt wondering what I had to say or why I wasn’t talking.
Then she looked harder, recognized the windows to my soul from that fateful night. Trick seemed confused.
My turn to smile.
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