Three
“Give me a Peroni. Just don’t tell Cable.”
Sparring with Jackson, I quietly prayed he’d avoid bruising my face so that my business meeting could potentially morph into a date.
Even wearing protective headgear, I once witnessed a guy break another boxer’s nose while sparring, and although I’m not vain, I like my nose the way it is.
I normally take it on the chin, both figuratively and literally, but Alex has already gotten under my skin, in a good way, and I want to impress her.
“Fancy,” Nick said, placing the authentic Italian beer in front of me. “What’s the occasion? Oh, right. Your date with the fire-breathing dragon. You really think she’s going to show?”
I glanced at the clock which was part of an antique radio that belonged to Nick’s grandfather.
Encased in wood, it was like a miniature version of the one ma salvaged from the junk heap when I turned thirteen.
She had said back then, “You’re a teenager now, and teenagers rock on.
” My mother tried hard to be cool and to take on the role of both parents.
Every Saturday afternoon she made us set aside an hour to blast music and sing until our voices were hoarse.
I remember she had burst into tears at Dean Martin’s “Sway”, and it was then that I realized just how much she missed swaying with pop.
“She’ll show,” I said, willing myself to believe it.
It was ten minutes to one, and I could feel the sweat drip down the back of my navy blue button-down.
“Well, I’ll be damned. You’re right.”
I looked up to see Nick jutting his chin towards the front door. Nervous as hell, I rubbed my sweaty palms down my jeans, opting to leave my suit hanging in the closet until the next funeral.
“Hi, Jerry.” Her voice preceded her, like a ghost vixen whose job it was to haunt me.
“Phillip.”
“I know. I was making fun of you.”
That smart mouth. I already want to stick my tongue inside of it.
“What would you like to drink today, Alex?”
“You’re buying?”
“I am.”
“Then whatever you’re having.”
“Another Peroni, Nick. So,” I said, trying not to stare at her bare legs. The blue tank top and jean skirt she was wearing left little to the imagination and despite myself, I smiled at the fact that our outfits matched. “I’ll start by thanking you for coming.”
“It’s your dime. Speaking of which, I guess you want to see a sample of my work.”
“A sample?”
“This is a job interview, isn’t it?”
As she bent over to pick up her purse and rifle through it, a crucifix spilled from her top.
I also saw a hint of a tattoo but not enough to make out what it was.
Part of me hoped that it was something sexy.
The other part of me wanted it to be something feminine.
Either way, her name was becoming synonymous with “mysterious”.
“Here. It’s a poem.”
“A love poem?”
“No. A death poem. Of course it’s a love poem.”
This time, she smiled through her sarcasm. Unfurling the sheet of paper, I read the single stanza:
I hang by the sickle moon,
unafraid to fly.
Beneath the clouds that skirt Heaven,
he is there to catch me,
to love me,
till I die.
The breadth of our love
is like an endless chasm,
expanding like a mother’s heaving breast.
A love eternal, a love we could not fathom.
“Well?” she asked, draining her bottle.
“I love it,” I said, handing it back to her.
“I’m hired?”
“Do you want the job?”
“I have a question first.”
“What’s that?”
“Tell me again why the fuck you’re doing this? Are you an agent looking to find the next bestseller?”
Nick left fresh bottles in front of us and cleared the old ones. My bar tab at Nicky’s is about a mile long, but Nick knows I’m good for it. If I win, that is.
“I box.”
“Box,” she repeated, resting her head on her hand. “Like some Rocky Balboa shit?”
“Um, yeah.”
“You don’t look like a boxer. You’re too pretty.”
It was a thinly veiled compliment and didn’t do much to ease my feelings of anxiety about the big match. I wanted to tell her that she was the pretty one; beautiful in fact, but I changed the subject.
“As your potential employer, do you mind if I ask you a few more questions, Alex?”
“If you ask me where I see myself in five years, I’m leaving.”
She pulled a cigarette from the pack. I picked up a matchbook, struck a match, and then another, and another, until like a caveman, I discovered fire. Alex leaned into me, and I could see shades of chestnut in her hair.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. How long have you been a smoker?”
“That’s relevant?”
“No. Just curious.”
“About ten years. I picked up the habit from... an ex.”
Instinctively, I glanced at her ring finger. “And how long have you been writing?”
“About the same amount of time. Are you married, Pip?”
“No. I’m not.”
“Ever been married?”
“Negative.”
“What’s wrong with you? You look like you’re in your thirties, like me. Your looks aren’t half bad,” she said, studying my short, dark hair. “So, what’s wrong with you?”
If her last name wasn’t Adams, I’d liken her to an Italian relative whose greeting always begins with “Why aren’t you married?
” My cousin, Frank, had the comeback to end all comebacks.
The last time we were all sitting around the dinner table scarfing down breaded veal cutlets, and rapini sauteed with fresh garlic, Frank told my mother, “Because chasing skirts is a lot more fun.” It had earned him a slap across the head from more than one matriarch, but the younger generation had laughed and burst into a rendition of “Just a Gigolo/I Ain’t Got Nobody”.
Ignoring the fact that Alex was wearing a skirt, I told her, “I’m not dead yet.” She looked away, lost in her thoughts, but came back to me just as quickly.
“Are we going to discuss the terms?”
“In a second. Hey, Nick?”
“Yeah, buddy.” He sauntered over acting disinterested, but eventually he’d interrogate me for every minute detail. Nick was like the brother I never knew I wanted.
“Give me a white Sangria. Make that two.”
“Made a fresh pitcher this morning. Comin’ right up.”
“Thanks.” Turning my attention to Alex, I said, “The terms are simple. There’s a house for rent next to mine. I’ll pay the rent, plus utilities. I’ll maintain the yard. You’ll also get two hundred dollars every two weeks for groceries.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem since I barely eat. And the story?”
“I want a love story. About two people falling in love.”
“Us.”
“Yes.” I needed a river of booze to quench my parched throat. “Fiction but based on us.”
“You and me.”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
“Why, what?”
“Why does it have to be about us, and not any random Romeo and Juliet?”
Putting on my best poker face, I told her, “It’s for my mother. Her wedding anniversary is coming up and since she’s waiting for grandchildren, I thought it would be nice to surprise her with a story about her son finding the one.”
“False hope?”
I wondered if it would be wrong to take her over my knee right there at the bar. “No. More like wishful thinking.”
“I see. You think I’m the one? You only met me yesterday.”
“No, Alex. But writers are supposed to write what they know, aren’t they? And I’m sure you know yourself pretty well.”
“I don’t know you at all, though.”
“Well, that’s where your imagination comes in,” I said, in my best authoritative voice. “Will you be able to terminate your current lease?”
“I’m sure my slumlord would love to get rid of me so that he can intimidate some other unsuspecting fool.”
“Good. Let me know if it becomes an issue.”
“You’re my bodyguard too?”
“I’m just protecting myself. And my investment.”
Nick returned with our drinks and gave me a slight nod like Cable does from ringside to signal to me that I’m doing everything right. I picked up my drink and practically shoved it in her direction. “Deal?”
Her fingers met her glass, but before picking it up, she asked, “When do I start?”
“In about two weeks,” I said, imagining The Anvil’s fist hitting my ribs. “I’ll need your phone number.”
“And how long does this.... contract... last?”
“How fast can you write?”
“Free room and board? Unfortunately,” she said, smirking, “I’m a pretty slow writer.”
I took that as my cue. Silencing that voice in my head that kept whispering Anjela’s name; the voice that was trying to tell me that my heart was going to shatter, I gently clinked my glass against hers and closed the deal. “Cheers.”