One Step Away (A Bedford Falls Novel Book 1) (28 page)

“You notice the price of gas on the way over
here?” Alex asked. “It went up another twenty cents a gallon since
this afternoon. That’s insane.”

“That’s capitalism. The price per barrel
goes up on the market, it goes up at the pump.”

“But it didn’t cost gas stations an extra
twenty cents per gallon to purchase that gas. They already had it.
So why are they charging drivers more than they paid for it? It’s
price gouging.”

“Gas stations charge based on what it costs
them to purchase gasoline in the future. Not the past.”

“No kidding,” Alex said, although he’d been
aware of that fact for some time.

“Most people don’t know that. I’m a stock
broker. Well, actually, I oversee a few mutual funds at my company,
so I get the inside scoop.”

Alex almost laughed. Anyone with Internet
access and interest in the topic could have found out just as much
in five minutes from a simple Google search.

“What I’m worried about,” said Brad, “is
that since countries in the Middle East produce almost all of the
world’s oil, by importing their oil, we’ll be supporting dictators
who’ll become terrorists and attack us for religious reasons.”

He couldn’t believe Brad’s negligent
overestimation. Alex had discovered from the CIA World Factbook
that in 2014, the top producing oil nations ranked by estimated
number of barrels produced per day were: Saudi Arabia, the United
States, Russia, China, Canada, and Iran.

Therefore, he could understand why Americans
misconstrued the facts. But hearing Brad pass off his statements as
truth disturbed him. What other miscalculations had he made with
his investors’ portfolios? Alex couldn’t let the issue die, so he
presented the case to Brad.

“That may be, but we’re still held hostage
by middle-eastern countries if they decide not to meet demand.”

“The same can be said of natural disasters.
Look at Hurricane Katrina. The same thing happened with the tsunami
that trashed Japan.”

“Hey, check it out, everybody,” somebody
yelled. “It’s a debate between Freddy Krueger and Batman about oil
and terrorism.”

A Katy Perry song blasting on the radio
lowered a few notches.

“My money’s on Batman,” said a woman dressed
as a hula dancer as she moved in closer. “He fights for justice.
How could he be wrong?”

“Yeah, but Freddy’s seen destruction,” said
a man wearing a jail guard uniform. He glanced at Zorro to his left
and turned to Ghost Face from the
Scream
movies. “He knows
what happens when shit hits the fan.”

A man wearing a black suit and a white dress
shirt stepped forward. “Did someone say terrorism?” He raised his
wallet to eye-level. “Fox Mulder, FBI. Can someone tell me—”

“Listen, Fox and the Hound or whoever you
are,” said Brad, “we’re just having a friendly conversation.”

Alex had been so focused that he hadn’t
noticed the thirty or so people gather around them in a circle to
listen in. He felt fine uncovering Brad’s ignorance in private, but
he didn’t feel right exposing it to the public. So he tried to
trivialize the conversation and end it quickly. “But we’re both in
agreement that oil is way overpriced.”

“No, it’s not,” Brad said, annoyed. “I
already told you, Batman. The price of the market determines the
price of oil, so it can’t be overpriced.”

Alex had given him an easy way out; too bad
he refused to take it. “I never said any different. I’m only saying
that, taken as a constant indicator, middle-eastern countries
aren’t affecting the cost of gas as much as emerging markets like
China and India are.”

“They’re not emerging. Those two countries
combined have eight times as many people as the U.S.”

Although statistically correct, Brad
couldn’t have been more wrong about considering China and India as
developed countries. “But on the whole, at least right now, their
economies aren’t considered First World countries like America,
Germany, or Japan.”

“So what! Who cares?”

It seemed that Brad had forgotten the
argument in question. Alex imagined Brad getting his dream shot on
CNBC, discussing the market with their professionals who used
highfalutin technical terms, speaking with the rapidity of an
auctioneer. Brad would get cut off by an anchor or correspondent,
if he didn’t get outright stomped on by market analysts who cut
through his ignorance with simple statements that might prove
difficult for him to comprehend.

Alex said, “Hundreds of thousands of
citizens in China and India are moving into the middle class each
month. That means they’re buying cars, which means they’re buying
goods and services, which rely on further gasoline
consumption.”

“What’s your point? I’m saying that
middle-eastern countries have plenty of dictators who control their
oil production. And those same dictators hate the U.S., which means
they hate freedom; otherwise, they wouldn’t be dictators. Look at
Iraq. We had to go in there to get rid of Saddam Hussein. He was
trying to get nuclear weapons so he could destroy us. Look at
Afghanistan. They were led by al-Qaeda, and Osama Bin Laden was
trying to kill every American.”

Incredulous, Alex looked at the crowd around
them. Not one dissenter countered any of Brad’s inaccuracies. Their
ignorance, or their willingness to believe someone who spoke with
conviction, helped explain why the United States got mired in Iraq.
At first, Alex found Brad’s fallacious remarks humorous, but seeing
Marisa standing on the outskirts of the assemblage, listening to
their discussion, the idea that she might spend her life with Brad
set a fire inside him.

“First off, the U.S. found no evidence that
Saddam was accumulating nuclear materials. Second, al-Qaeda is a
terrorist group that believes that any Muslim country that doesn’t
follow Islamic law should be overthrown. They weren’t in control of
Afghanistan. The Taliban are a militant political group that
enforced Islamic law in Afghanistan to create a united Islamic
state. They were hiding Osama Bin Laden.

“That’s why the U.S. went into that country:
to get rid of Bin Laden and support the rebels who fought against
the Taliban. Thousands of American citizens died at the hands of
Bin Laden. And thousands of American soldiers died by fighting the
Taliban.” Alex shook his head in disgust. “To honor their memory,
the next time you open your mouth, you better know what you’re
talking about.”

The entire crowd lay silent by the levity of
the discussion, and someone had turned off the stereo.

Alex had single-handedly turned a Halloween
bash into a morgue. Then he heard Kelsey shout out, “
U-S-A
.”
Within seconds, the party-goers joined in and also began chanting,
“
U-S-A
.
U-S-A
.”

Under ordinary circumstances, he disliked
hearing this arrogant mantra, because while he respected others who
loved their country and their zeal for freedom, he thought that
people often joined this chorus without considering the deeper
meaning of America. In this case, however, every spectator had
heard the facts and they understood them, which made Alex
smile.

After seven or eight seconds, the group
disbanded, the music blared again, and the party continued as if
their conversation had never taken place.

Brad stepped into Alex’s path. “Think I
didn’t know who you were, you pussy?”

Alex’s heartbeat quickened, but he gained
control of his emotions. “Glad to hear you have a brain inside your
head. Even if it’s smaller than a peanut.”

“Made me look like an idiot, so now it’s
your turn to feel like one. I want your costume.” He moved in
closer, leaving only two inches between their faces. “Take it off.
Now
.”

Alex prepared for an attack. Images of the
damage he’d inflicted years ago, along with the fear that getting
into another fight, resulting in sending another person to the
hospital didn’t reappear beyond his eyes. It seemed that he only
needed the willingness to fight when necessary, as well as knowing
when to walk away.

And this time, Alex didn’t plan on walking
away. “You can go to hell.”

“Do what he says,” Damon said to Alex,
walking up to both men, dressed as Rocky Balboa: bare-chested,
wearing two red gloves encircling his fists, stars and stripes
boxing shorts, and white boots.

Alex glanced at Damon before returning his
glare to Brad. “I got this.”

“Remember us talking about bringing in the
bazooka? This is it. Your last ditch effort.”

Alex didn’t respond to that. He simply
wanted to give Brad what he had coming to him.

“Marisa is watching,” Damon said. “Do you
think she’ll call you a hero for starting a fight?” He brushed past
him. “Trust me on this,” he said with a severe tone.

Brad held out an arm, offering Alex a chance
to head toward the restroom to change.

Alex didn’t want to back down, but Damon
hadn’t failed him yet. And he deserved the benefit of the doubt.
Without a word, he walked in the direction Brad pointed to,
expecting to do as he said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Marisa appreciated that Alex had humbled
Brad, because her quasi-boyfriend had the impression that, since he
had a commanding voice, he should always use it to express his
thoughts and opinions. But that didn’t mean that he should. Yet, by
that same token, it didn’t mean that she liked seeing Alex
embarrass Brad.

“Quick thinking,” she said to Kelsey with a
good measure of appreciation. “Starting the
U-S-A
chant got
everybody patriotic, and their brains lost functionality.”

“Just like rebooting a computer. It takes a
minute to get back online.”

“And it also gave Brad a chance to save
face. Thanks for that.”

“I did it for you. Not for Brad.”

“Come on, he isn’t that bad.”

“And he isn’t that good.”

Marisa considered the comment. It had a lot
of merit. Underneath Brad’s lackadaisical approach to consulting
common-sense, she’d always thought that he stored a reservoir of
intelligence. But Alex had looked inside that reservoir and
uncovered ignorance. It seemed that she had given Brad more credit
than he deserved.

She couldn’t deny that getting trounced in
the debate had rubbed off some of the shine in the way that she
perceived him. He no longer looked so self-assured; he looked like
a blowhard who couldn’t back up his statements with facts.

More than that, she wondered if he used that
voice to project an image that he didn’t quite believe. But she
couldn’t know for sure – not without noting his expression: his
mask prevented her from seeing his face. Then she recalled his
sweet side, the one that had written that poem. And once again, she
figured that getting taken down a notch would help him become more
conservative, which considering his aggressive nature, might help
him in the long run. It might also engender more sensitivity –
something he could benefit from.

“What do you mean he isn’t that good?”
Marisa asked.

“Don’t get me wrong, I can see why you think
he’s sexy, but he’s not as bright as he lets on. And I always
figured you for someone who needs intellectual stimulation as much
as the physical kind. Besides, he doesn’t seem to have much of a
sense of humor. And by the way, he was getting in Alex’s face after
their debate, so he seems like a poor loser with anger management
issues.”

“You just don’t know him like I do.” If she
had misgivings about him, why did she continue to defend him?
Because she really believed her words? Or because she wanted to
believe them?

“I’m only going by what you told me – and
what I saw.”

Marisa watched her friend walk away and meet
up with Cassandra. Which, of course, reminded her of Cassandra’s
comment about Alex: that he had magic lips. But Alex hadn’t taken
the chance to give Marisa the opportunity to make her own
assessment. And she’d wanted to. Caught up in that moment, she’d
wanted nothing so badly.

Yet, Alex had no problem humiliating Brad in
public.

The dichotomy confused her: if he loved her
as much as he claimed, why would he pass up the chance to kiss her,
but risk getting pounded into oblivious by Brad? The more she
pondered that mystery, the more it bothered her.

By defeating Brad in the debate, Alex hadn’t
shied away from victory, even though he knew he’d face
embarrassment if he’d gotten beat up, so fear wasn’t an obstacle.
Then what was it? The unanswered question irritated her, igniting a
burning need for answers.

She spun around, hoping to find someone to
talk to.

Cassandra stood on her tiptoes, leaning over
as she whispered into Batman’s ear, probably congratulating Alex on
his victory. She looked up at him, smiling.

Without hesitation, he moved in and kissed
her.

Pain stabbed Marisa’s heart, knocking the
wind out of her. She stared at the couple, shocked. She wanted to
look away, but she didn’t. One day, she would need to pull up this
image in her mind. At that time, Alex would once again profess his
love for her. And with perfect clarity, she would recite the
evidence from this very moment.

By the way Alex puckered his lips against
Cassandra’s, however, Marisa was relieved that she hadn’t kissed
him a few days ago. She imagined the sensation of feeling his lips
opening and closing against hers like a goldfish – and felt sure it
would have repulsed her.

Right now, the whole affair looked awkward:
although his lips touched Cassandra’s, their bodies couldn’t have
been further away, lending the impression that they both stood on
the ledge of a cliff, their arms wavering out in front of them,
trying to find their balance. When they finally embraced, he pulled
her toward him, but both participants continued drifting their
hands across their waists, backs, and shoulders, trying to find a
comfort level that eluded them.