by J. J. Murray
Or maybe she won’t call at all.
I try not to think about that last possibility as I get out and walk around the house, looking in the windows. I guess that makes me a Peeping Peter. I don’t see any puddles, the dog dish in the kitchen is empty, and Marmaduke doesn’t seem to be in any distress. No mail or newspapers either, so she most likely came in after I left. Why is she going through so much trouble to avoid me?
On the outside chance that she’ll come home, I decide to do another stakeout, and while I wait, I try to add to A Whiter Shade of Pale, first reading over the last paragraph:
…Her eyes come to rest on the empty chair on the other side of Johnny. One of her eyebrows rises, her skinny pink lips wrinkle, and she moves in on my man.
I watch the cursor blink for several minutes. Do I want Ebony and Rose to have a confrontation so early? Do I need for Ebony to assert herself from the very beginning? Or will she hold back, even hide her feelings for Johnny? I decide that this Ebony—like the Ebony I’m waiting on—will take her time:
After Rosie Goulash sits on the other side of Johnny, I watch Johnny like a hawk. He doesn’t smile at her, doesn’t even acknowledge her presence, barely even shifting his eyes her way. He must not be into skinny white angels. Good. He’s passed one of my tests, and the class has barely begun. Yes, Johnny has promise.
But he has to pass all my tests and satisfy all my rules. I have had a top-ten list of rules for men ever since I read a little book called The Rules. Hated the book. Loved the concept. If more women had rules in their heads, they’d have fewer wrong men in their beds. Mine are simple:
If you’re full of funk, you don’t get none of my junk. Which means a man has to be clean at all times. His nails, hair, underarms, face, and even his toes must be squeaky clean.
Participate when we conversate. This means that a man must really listen to me, not just nod his head and grunt.
Allow me to be moody and you might get some booty. This means that a man can’t assume anything about my moods. If I’m in a bad mood, it doesn’t mean my “friend” has come. It might simply mean that I’m mad, and not necessarily at him, unless he keeps pestering my ass with “What’s wrong, baby?” I can’t stand that shit.
If you respect my family, I might let you start a family with me. A man has to know that my child, my mama, and my daddy come first. I’ve known them longer than him, and they’ve always been there for me.
If you spend your time always saying “Oh, well,” you are not going to be ringing my bell. A man has to stand for something, have some sort of belief or faith, and have a system by which he lives his life. I do, and so should he.
Hold me for a hundred seconds, and I might give you seconds. He has to cuddle with me afterward, because he isn’t that hungry and there isn’t anything that interesting on the TV.
If you think I’m a bank, your brain is stank. This means that a man has to pay his own way. I am a person, not a purse.
If you think I’m a maid, you aren’t getting laid. He has to clean up his own mess. I’m not his mama. If he spills it, drips it, drops it, drabs it, leaves it, flicks it, or stinks it up, he fixes it.
If you treat me as if I’m the only one in the room, you’ll get some boom-boom. When a man is with me, he must focus on me no matter if the TV’s on, the waitress has a cute smile, or the house is on fire.
If you can’t commit, you aren’t getting it. I expect a commitment. Why else would I be messing with him? I don’t mess with but one man at a time, and my time is precious.
Now let’s see how Johnny stacks up so far. I know I’ve just met him, but damn! Better to see how he stacks up now than down the line when it’s too late. So far he’s clean and he listened to me. I haven’t known him long enough to test him with a nasty mood, but he seems respectful. Family? Italians are big on families and family honor, right? I bet we’re in agreement there. And he seems to stand for bettering himself, or he wouldn’t be here. And I’ll bet he’s a Catholic. That’s a strict religion. And aren’t Italians romantic? I bet he’s a cuddler. And he has pride in his appearance, so he’d probably be too proud to let me pay for anything. He’s definitely focusing more on me than that wench. Dag, he’s nine for nine!
But…number ten. That’s the hard one. Will he make a commitment? He doesn’t wear a wedding band, so he either hasn’t made a commitment yet or is between commitments. Maybe he’s waiting for the right woman…for someone like me. Either that or he’s been breaking hearts for years—
Folks start getting up all around me. What’s going on? The class is over? Shit. I haven’t been paying attention.
Now what? They have to have a first date, and I promised Henry an “off-the-wall” place. Pittsburgh has plenty of places to meet: Kennywood Park, the zoo, Liberty Avenue, West View Park, the old Neville skating rink—
They’ll meet in a skating rink.
I can hear the critics howling now: “No educated sistuh would be caught dead on a date at a skating rink! It’s just too childish!”
Oh yeah? This sistuh will, and there’s even some logic to it, because romance is a skating rink. Two people skate round and round, sometimes rolling along separately, sometimes holding hands, sometimes falling separately, sometimes falling together, traveling in a circle—a symbol of infinity—and barely covering any distance at all, while big silver balls cast lightning bolts in the darkness—
Maybe I’m getting too carried away. Skating rinks are about as romantic as the corner convenience store, they often play polka tunes, and no one falls in love during the hokey-pokey, yet if Johnny is in witness protection, what better place for him to hide out?
Ebony and Johnny are going skating, but the Neville isn’t a skate center anymore. I think they hold raves there now. Hmm. I’m on Fairchild Street, so…
“Do you skate?” Johnny says to me as I stand.
“Do I what?”
“Skate. Roller-skate.”
“Oh, I haven’t been skating in ages.” Where’s he going with this? Strangest pick-up line I’ve ever gotten.
He hands me a fluorescent yellow piece of paper that reads “Free pass to Fairchild Skate Center.” I see Rosebush hovering closer, probably to see if Johnny has any more free passes. Nuh-uh, honey, all this man’s passes are going to me.
“Come,” he says.
Right here? How kinky! “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t skate very well.”
“You might…if you have the right partner.”
Oh, damn. I’m going skating now! “Uh, what time?”
“I work one to nine on Saturday. Come around five.”
Hold up. He works at a skating rink? He’s definitely in witness protection now. “Uh, sure. Around five.”
“Ciao,” he says with a wink, and he’s gone.
I stand there holding that free pass and wonder. Why Pittsburgh? La famiglia is already here! I mean, Pittsburgh is the city that made Franco Harris, a black running back, into an Italian, and I think the last names of everyone on city council end in a vowel.
Why would anyone want to hide in Pittsburgh? This place is and has always been a circus. We got Town Talk Bread, Iron City Beer, Farkleberry Tarts, Gimbel’s, Kaufmann’s, and we even had the old Pittsburgh Condors of the ABA with their big hair, high socks, and red, white, and blue ball. They filmed The Fish that Saved Pittsburgh right here where the Penguins used to play and be the shit, until them damn Islanders came along. And the Pirates have always been entertaining, first with Roberto Clemente in ’71 and later with “Lumber and Lightning” with Willie Stargell in ’79. The nicknames were better back then, like pitcher “Blue Moon” Odom—who won once in a blue moon, too. The nicknames today are just foul. The Answer? His Airness? Get real. I’d take a “Blue Moon” any day. And going to any game in town is like going to Ringling Brothers because of Myron Cope, Bob Prince, babushkas, and the Terrible Towel. Maybe it’s easier for Johnny to blend in here than Arizona or wherever the Feds send the goombas.
But why the h
ell am I thinking this shit? I just got asked out sort of by a somewhat handsome man.
To a skating rink.
Where he works.
And is probably hiding from certain death.
Dag, I need to buy a new outfit!
I look up. Ebony’s house looks the same. Geez, what a waste of time. This chapter isn’t going anywhere, but then again, neither am I. Might as well throw in another chapter of Ebony and Johnny’s date. Henry will just have to edit this to death:
Chapter 4
The Fairchild Skate Center is crowded, busy, and has the familiar smell of a locker room. Where’s the organ and the polka music? There obviously won’t be any hokey-pokey at this joint, but maybe later at Johnny’s place with his joint…
A hoochie can dream, can’t she?
I’m wearing brand new Levi’s and a New York Knicks jersey and find myself sitting on a carpeted bench hugging the railing watching Johnny. He doesn’t see me right away, but that’s okay, and the man can really skate. Do they teach hit men to skate in the Mafia?
All Johnny does is skate around backward, making the kids feel safe, kind of like a traffic cop. Thank God he doesn’t have a whistle. He is so smooth and graceful, but that crummy “staff” shirt has got to go. I watch the tiniest kids on Fisher Price skates going by at 0.1 miles per hour. Those things ought to be called “walks” instead of skates.
The rest of Fairchild Skate Center is like a really bad disco. Not one but seven disco balls shoot beams of light everywhere, and a smoke machine belches on some of the bass-heavy numbers. Some white guys who think they’re cool wear black tank tops with white T’s underneath, sporting close-shaved blond hair they bought in a can, designer jeans, blond goatees, and sideburns. They attempt the moon walk, and it isn’t bad. Skating is probably the only way white boys can do the moon walk. Each has a cell phone, a beeper, a tattoo, and a piercing of some kind. A skate gang, oh, no!
I watch the skaters go round and round. There are hardly any couples out there, yet the place is swimming with pheromones, hormones, and fallen moans, all of these “moans” racing faster than the kids can skate. And children surround Johnny, which makes me wonder if he has any. I know they’d be hairy.
Johnny rolls my way but doesn’t look at me, keeping his eye on matching hooded black boys in cornrows, their jeans creased and cuffed, who are playing roller derby and follow-the-leader with a pack of white girls. Johnny really takes this job seriously. Dag, I’m a skate-staff groupie. Flyers, dyers, on fires, liars, and sighers whiz by. The tired, wired, hired, and mired float round and round and it’s a merry-go-round without the horses, people up, then down.
Some permanently. Johnny has to call for a rescue squad for one poor lady. She did a three-point landing on one knee, one elbow, and her nose.
I see a tiny white hand waving from the corner of my eye and see Johnny returning the wave. Who’s this? There’s a prepubescent, training bra–wearing, freckled wench waving at my Johnny from her perch behind the skate rental counter.
It’s time for me to skate.
I approach the little vixen. “Do you have a woman’s size thirteen?”
“Oh, no,” she says with a giggle. “We don’t have anything that big.”
The things I could say about the nubs she calls breasts. I bite my tongue. She’s probably the age of the kids I teach, and I could scar her for life. “How about a man’s size eleven then?”
“Oh, sure.” She pulls out a pair of wrinkly brown skates. “Three bucks.”
I wave the pass in front of her and slap it on the counter. “Johnny gave this to me.”
She pouts. “Oh.”
I hand her my shoes and feel I need more information. “Um, does Johnny give out free passes that often?”
“No,” she pouts.
Good. “Bye now.”
I don’t feel bad for crushing her little heart, but I do feel bad about wearing two huge boats on my feet. Boats with wheels. Who in hell ever thought this shit up? Please, Lord, don’t let me fall before I get out there. I steady myself on the railing and take a tentative slide-step onto the floor. Dag, it’s like walking on ice.
“So, what you think?”
I turn slowly to my left and see Johnny’s grinning face. “I think I’m out of my mind for trying this.” Skaters stream around me to the benches. “Where’s everybody going?”
He shrugs. “Who can tell with kids? They skate around and around separately, but when cool kids go to the benches, everybody follows. Most kids show up after eight. Today is pretty light. You better get out here while you can.”
What is that supposed to mean? “Help me then.” He reaches out a hand, but I swat it away. “No, I’ll wait until there’s a crowd.” He reaches out the other hand. “C’mon, Johnny, everybody will see me fall.” And these skates make me feel like I’m seven feet tall.
“I will not let you fall.”
Daa-em. I take that hand…and we float off. I lose my balance just about every other second, but he holds me up. Eventually, I’m not floating anymore. I can feel the floor—and the roughness of his damn hand. That’s when I notice the scars.
“Where’d you get those wicked-looking scars?”
“In fights.”
Johnny’s an ex-con? He looks mean enough, but maybe…“Were you a boxer?”
“Yes. I wasn’t very good. Not many Italian heavyweights anymore. I was fifteen and fifteen with two draws.”
“At least you broke even.” And maybe he’s not in witness protection after all.
“I was a good bleeder. I put on a great show.”
“Did you ever get knocked out?”
“I was down in almost every fight, but never out. I always finished the fight.”
He looks like a finisher. There’s just something stubborn about him. “If you don’t mind my asking, where are you from originally?”
“Huntington, Long Island, New York.”
Why not? Former boxer Gerry Cooney is just down the road. It’s kind of believable.
He loosens his grip from my hand. “I’m going to let you go now.”
“No, you’re not.”
“It is easy. There is rhythm to it. Feel the floor as part of your feet.”
“I’m afraid the floor will be part of my butt.”
He laughs and lets go.
And I fall. Hard. There’s no bounce to any of the ounces in my butt.
“Thanks a lot,” I say as he helps me up.
“You think too much about it. Don’t think: do.”
“I think that I’m finished for the night.”
I find the nearest exit off the floor and collapse on a bench. Johnny glides in behind me and sits, rubbing his shoulder with mine. This is nice, but I’m rubbing shoulders with an Italian boxer in a skating rink? That isn’t the kind of rubbing I want, and this definitely isn’t the place.
“Johnny, do you want to go out for pizza or something?”
“Not really.”
“You don’t like pizza?”
“No.”
Maybe he’s Italian in appearance only. “How about spaghetti?”
He grabs his stomach. “The sauce. I have always had trouble.”
“Um, there’s a Chinese place a few blocks over.”
Johnny smiles. “Yes. I like Szechuan.”
At Yin’s Szechuan Palace, Johnny teaches me how to use chopsticks, those strong, scarred hands gently gripping mine. After several dropped noodles, I use the damn fork.
“What do you do in real life?” he asks.
“What you mean ‘real life’?”
He shrugs. “I mean, what do you do for a living?”
“I teach history to seventh graders.”
“My sympathies.”
“Thanks.”
He smiles. “So…what do you think?”
“About what?”
“About me.”
He gets right down to it, doesn’t he? I’ve heard that Italian men were forward. “You’re nice.”<
br />
“Please be honest, and ‘nice’ is so overused.”
True. “Well, at first I thought you were in the witness protection program.”
Here’s my chance to show how ridiculous romantic comedies have gotten in relation to characterization and plot. No one wants to read how two average, normal people meet and fall in love anymore—not even average, normal readers. It may be daily life in America, it may be cute, it may even be poignant, but it just won’t sell.
The woman can’t be, say, just a waitress in a little café in a small town, and the man can’t be, oh, just a retired Navy man with a house nearby. Though it smacks heavily of reality, there’s hardly any drama in that. She has to be a waitress with a sordid past. Maybe she was a stripper who once had an affair with a politician who’s now running for president and wants her dead to avoid the inevitable scandal. She’ll then have to run into the tattooed arms of our Navy man, who is an ex-Navy SEAL trained in every martial art and who just happens to have an unending supply of bullets for his trusty M-16. The two won’t just “settle down and have 2.3 children,” oh, no. The two of them will have to battle the political forces of evil for most of the book, have passionate love scenes when they should be running for their damn lives, kill off all the bad guys with lots of explosions, leaving him with a cute scar, not serve any jail time for such a high body count and terrible property damage, and eventually ride off into the sunset in a bulletproof Hummer. Logical plot and characterization be damned. The reading public wants escape, not reality.
Therefore, Johnny is not only in the witness protection program, he’s planning to profit from it:
Johnny chokes on a wonton, washing it down with some hot tea. Oh shit. He is in the witness protection program.
“Uh, I know I’m wrong, Johnny, but…I mean, you’re Italian, you have scars, you’re big. It’s a stereotype, I know, but—”
