Five
“Finally! Fuck! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Is this how you greet all the girls?”
“Alex?”
“Yeah. Is this a bad time?”
“Yes. I mean... no. I’m... dealing with a family emergency.”
The pancakes that I had for breakfast were threatening to make a second appearance. If I wasn’t so worried, I’d be dancing to the sound of her voice.
“Shit. Is it bad?”
“That’s the thing,” I said, still pacing and trying hard not to wonder what she’s wearing. “I don’t know. It’s Nick. He hasn’t opened the bar. A buddy called his wife, and she has no idea where he is.”
“You called?”
“I’ve been calling the bar and his cellular a million times. Dammit! I told him to get his crappy Jeep fixed.” Alex went silent, which is a tough thing for Alex to do. “What makes you believe it’s a car accident?” she finally asked.
“Because I’m a paranoid freak.”
It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t even an exaggeration.
I’ve never told my mother this, but after pop died, I adopted a compulsive habit.
Whenever a morbid thought entered my brain, I imagined a choo-choo train pushing that thought across my head, and out one ear.
It was a coping tactic for my grief. The problem is that I began adopting it far too often, even for ordinary things like wondering if I had a cavity forming.
That Little Engine that Could pushed that thought out of my mind so often, that I ended up needing emergency dental surgery.
You’d think that a boxer would harbor more courage, but I look at my opponent’s fist the same way I do the train; it’s knocking those bad thoughts right out of me.
“I’m coming over.”
“What?” I scanned the room to see how many dust bunnies I needed to capture and release back into the wild.
“Just give me your address. I’m coming over.”
“But...”
“But what? He can’t call you back if you’re on the phone with me. We’ll wait together.”
She doesn’t know I have two phones, and as the saying goes, what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.
“Well?”
I could hear her exhaling smoke. Or maybe she was sighing, exasperated with me. Either way, I knew I wanted her next to me.
“11 Marcel Lane. It’s a bungalow. Not far from Nick’s bar. Look for the playground across the street.”
“Got it,” she said. “See you soon.”
“Hold on.”
“What’s up?”
“How’d you get my number?” At our last meeting, she had written her phone number on a bar coaster, but I didn’t give her mine, and not because I’m a big, macho, tough guy.
When it comes to women, especially beautiful women, I’d rather maintain some semblance of control over that Goddamn train running through my head.
“It’s called a phone book.”
“Phone book. Right. Alex?”
“Jesus Christ. What?”
This time, she clearly sighed.
“Why’d you call?”
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t know about Nick, so why did you call?”
“Oh. Because I started our love story,” she said, mocking me. “I wanted to run it by you.”
She hung up before I could say anything else.
The Nokia feels too light in my back pocket, devoid of life. Where the fuck is he?
There’s a single dish in the sink and I take my time scrubbing it, remembering what a guy told me at the gym.
I asked him why he chose to box. He replied that it’s in his nature; that he can’t be a poet, or write stories, but sooner or later, someone would notice him.
“At the very least,” Eli had said, “it will look cool on my headstone.”
Boxing is a duel to the end, a tango for two. There’s almost something sensual about being trapped in the ring, and only your strength, skill, and determination will allow you to leave a winner. I want to win at life.
I should be training. I should be sparring.
Cable is going to kill me, but not before I kill Nick.
Nick’s youngest daughter, Julie, is seven years old.
The eldest, his son Bart, is eleven, and Trixie is nine.
Every morning, he drops them off at school, opens the bar, and every day at exactly two-thirty in the afternoon, his wife picks them up.
It’s a Brady Bunch scenario, except that Mr. Brady didn’t sport tattoos like Nick does.
I dialed her number using my cell phone. “Brenda. Anything?”
“Not a fucking thing. I’m going crazy, Pip.”
“Me too. Listen. Have you called the school? To see if the kids are there?”
“Yeah. I did. And they are, thank God.”
Brenda and Nick met under unusual circumstances.
Back in the day, he liked to busk on the corner of Fifth and Main, not because he needed someone’s spare change, but because he enjoyed sharing his music.
I had to admit that he was pretty good at strumming that old guitar.
On a sultry day in July, the downpour came out of nowhere.
While others ran for cover, Nick stood there playing and singing a tune by The Hollies.
Later that night, he told me that he thought he was going nuts because he had heard an angel singing the chorus.
It was Brenda who stood behind him, drenched, mascara running down her cheeks, and smiling through the melody.
“Nobody warns you that love can strike as quickly as lightning,” he had said.
It was the one and only poetic line I’ve ever heard him speak.
They were married a mere six months later.
“Good. I’ll free up your line. Call me if you hear anything.”
“I will. Thanks, Pip. My Neanderthal of a husband could learn a thing or two from you.”
I continued pacing to take inventory of my humble abode and see if there’s anything I should hide from the enchanting Alex. I tossed the Nokia in a drawer, picked up my socks from the bedroom floor, and then chastised myself because there’s no logical reason why she should enter my bedroom.
“Ma che cazzo!?”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Alex froze, one slim leg hanging over my windowsill. The white button-down shirt she was wearing looked exactly like the one in my closet.
“Exactly!”
“It means ‘exactly?’”
“No. It means ‘what the fuck.’ What the fuck are you doing climbing through the window?” I asked, stuffing my socks in my jeans pocket.
“I like to be different,” she said.
“Different.”
“Yeah. Would you prefer boring? Nice room,” she added, before I could answer her.
“Let me help you,” I said, extending my hand. “Have you ever been arrested for breaking and entering?”
“Don’t be silly. It’s not breaking and entering if you’re expecting me. Any news?”
Alex is unlike a strike of lightning and more like a cyclone, uprooting everything in her path.
“No. Hi, by the way.”
“Hi. Lead the way,” she said, closing the window.
“I talked to his wife. Their kids are safe at school.”
“How many kids?”
“Three.”
“Has he ever pulled a stunt like this before?” She was walking around the living room like someone who browses an antique store. Her hair was piled on top of her head, and she was fresh-faced except for a hint of lip gloss.
“Not that I know of. Brenda’s a pretty tough lady, so the fact that she’s worried tells me it must be serious.”
“That’s his wife, I assume.”
“Yeah.”
“I like it.”
“Like what?”
“Your place. I thought you’d have your television on a milk crate like every other bachelor I know.”
I haven’t felt jealous since Anjela with a “j” betrayed me. “How many bachelors do you know?”
The annoyed look on her face reminded me of the one my mother wears when I stack the dinner plates on top of the salad plates instead of the other way around. “Typically, ‘thanks’ is the appropriate answer.”
“Thanks,” I said, somewhat surprised.
“I used to have one like this,” she said, brushing her fingers across my baby blue 1980s Brother typewriter, “except mine was red.”
“What happened to it? Did you wear down the keys with your writing?” I pictured her typing on it and in my mind’s eye, she took on the role of a naughty librarian.
“No. I wish. I had to sell it. I had to sell a lot of things.”
“I can relate to that. I know all about selling things to survive. What do you type on now?”
“Nothing. Pen and paper. Take a load off. I’ll take over pacing.”
“How do you know I was pacing?”
“Weren’t you? Go sit.”
My couch is a hand-me-down from ma’s poker buddy, Carmine, who died in his sleep.
There was no next of kin, so everyone on the Sunday night poker team was named in his will.
Ma didn’t want it because it clashed with her color scheme.
After I stripped it from its plastic, its classic look was revealed, and I’ve grown to like the velvet cushions and wood trim.
When I was a kid, I asked ma why everyone we knew kept their sofa wrapped in clear plastic.
“To protect it,” she had said. “The same reason we have two kitchens. So one stays new.”
I collapsed on the couch and watched as Alex opened and closed cupboards as though she owned the place. Then I pictured what it would be like if we did live together, and life, as she put it, would never be boring.
“Don’t you have any booze in this place?”
“It’s not even noon.”
Ignoring me, she pulled something from the top shelf, and asked, “What’s this? I thought you were Italian.”
“I am.”
“It’s ravioli. In a can. You can microwave this stuff.”
“I know. Don’t tell my mother. Why do you drink so much?”
Everyone has a vice. That’s what my buddy’s grandfather used to say to justify his habit. The moment that man got out of bed, he picked up his cigar. It was like an eleventh finger.
“I’m not an alcoholic, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“It’s none of my business. Sorry.”
My house is laid out in an open concept. Ma was horrified when she saw it. She believes that the kitchen is sacred and should be its own room and not like a “peep show” or a zoo. “I’m a chef. They want to see a show, they should go to the nudie bar!”
Alex hoisted herself on to the kitchen island. With her legs dangling from it, she said, “No. I get it. You want to protect your investment.”
If she was mocking me again, I couldn’t tell by her expression. It conveyed a quiet sadness. “That’s not what I meant. I shouldn’t have asked.”