I guess I'd better jump to it then.
I wish I could say I wrote the trademark line, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times, and not Charles Dickens, because really, that’s what the summer of 2008 was for me. Take that entire episode in San Francisco, which I covered in my first manuscript (my logic is, if you're currently reading this then Wrong Flight Home should also be available). Here's the short of it. After another attempt at restoring my marriage, Elise made her decision clear. She left me for another man, again. That was the night of her twin sister’s wedding. Saturday, July 19. It was also the night when those devilish otherworldly Lost Boys blocked my entrance from her hotel while the Congressman bedded with her. How I hated them for it. Hate is such a strong word, but it’s true. This was a Tuesday evening, three days later, and as I sat parked out front of her Long Beach apartment in my Ford Country Squire taking sips of whiskey from a flask (desperately hoping that the man with the EMINOR tattoo would arrive; I was eager to confront him), the reality was only beginning to sink in.
2
I WAS ALMOST CERTAIN OF IT, Tom Phillips, Representative from the State of California, was accompanying my wife across the street as I sat with our hound dog Aristotle in my car. I could visualize exactly how it was going down, every fleshy angle, and I wanted to kill him for it. As I pulled the flask to my lips I rehearsed another fantasy scenario. It involved me looking a lot like Gary Cooper in High Noon, facing down the Congressman with my six-shooter. For the grand finale the Lost Boys would show up in a climatic ending that harkened back to Clint Eastwood's epic turn in Unforgiven. Good times. Anyways, there was the deal with the flask. I know it’s probably cliché, man with cheating wife drinks from a flask in his car, but it’s true. It happened this way. And just to make sure it actually went down in that manner, I pulled another helping of it, feeling quite pleased with myself, and simultaneously miserable.
My cell phone, it was one of those first generation Apple iPhone's that would soon become obsolete in the quickening current of technology, rang on the bench seat next to me. The ringtone was set to Shania Twain, Man (I Feel Like a Woman), and only recently assigned, but for one very specific caller. Just listening to Shania's iconic opening cords brought a smile to my otherwise stonewalled existence.
“Maverick Airlines,” I tried not to slur into the speaker. “This is the CEO, Tom Cruise.”
“I knew it,” the woman’s voice said. “You are a dork.”
“Or is it that you have the need,” I let the thought of need linger from the cell tower to her ear, “the need for speed?”
“It’s a shame. I was always more of a Mel Gibson sort of girl; so much for long distance relationships. Good-bye.”
“Hold on, please.” I set the phone down on my lap, counted to five, and then picked it back up again. “William Wallace Travel Agency,” I said it with a Scottish accent, “where every man dies, but not every man really lives.”
“I wasn’t sure if I should call again so soon.”
“Because you dialed my number two nights ago when I was in San Francisco and again last night but couldn’t get enough of me?” I smiled.
“Great, you’ve got some brash polish on that swollen head of yours too. Last night, I’ll have you know, was a butt dial, nothing more or less.”
“Now that is talent. So how did you do it? Did you punch each number by squeezing it between your cheeks, or….”
She granted me a courtesy giggle and then dove right into the immediate question on her mind. “Joshua, when I called you on Sunday night you were drunk. From the sounds of it, you’ve been drinking again. Have you?”
“No,” I said. “Yes…. Maybe.”
“Are you alone?”
“Certainly not, I’ve got my hound, Aristotle, keeping me company. And I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”
Of course, if we were being technical, my wife was just across the street. Her place had once been a garage, converted now to a studio, and sat at the end of a driveway in the back of a grander two-story house. So far I was even signing the rental checks while the government was screwing me over. But this sort of information was on a need to know basis, and probably granted only under the influence of Guantanamo water boarding.
“That’s not what I meant. Are you alone?”
The sun was nearing the completion of its North American tour and had settled rather low on the Pacific horizon. In the east the sky was already painted with pinks and purples. Elise’s porch light flickered on.
“Yes,” I said.
“I know I’m not one to talk… well, maybe I am. But getting drunk alone is rarely a good thing. Believe me, I know, and I’ve seen people’s lives ruined. I think there’s a Proverb or something about choosing your friends wisely. Alcohol should only be a sometimes friend.”
I kept quiet on my end. The last thing I wanted was for her to be angry with me. And there was a Proverb on the very subject. I had it memorized. The righteous chooses their friends carefully, but the way of the wicked leads them astray. I tossed the flask into the back seat and patted Aristotle on the head.
“Are you at home?”
“No. If you must know I’m in my car.”
“Are your keys in the ignition?” She was firm but breathless in her inquiry. I looked. Indeed they were. I promptly removed them. “That’s an immediate DUI if you’re caught.”
“No, they’re not,” I said.
The front door of Elise’s apartment opened and yours truly, 47th District U.S. Congressman Tom Phillips revealed himself on her porch, fully dressed as though he’d been working late at his downtown Long Beach office. Elise was only wearing a robe as she granted him an embracive hug and a kiss on the mouth, and as their lips met she laughed. I wasn’t sure what was worse, my recently estranged wife sleeping around with another married man or the fact that I was a Republican and he was a Democrat, and in a far more innocent time I voted for him.
“Is everything alright?” Leah said.
Elise looked in my direction and might have seen me as she closed the door. Phillips straightened his tie with a sleazy smirk on his jaw and headed down the driveway, back home to his wife no doubt. This time I imagined a scenario where I was Anakin Skywalker in Revenge of the Sith and beheaded him with two red and green scissor-like lightsabers.
“Of course.”
I cowered under the dashboard, pulling Aristotle down at my level on the bench seat (he fought back like salmon struggling to swim upstream), and listened as Phillips strolled into the street clopping loafers within inches of my car. The cell phone fell to the floor.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” The other girl’s voice spoke from the floor mat.
“Absolutely,” I returned the phone to my ear and scouted to see if the coast was clear. From somewhere nearby, perhaps several parked automobiles away, an SUV sprung to life.
“We’re still on for this week, right?”
“Plane lands on Thursday at 4:55pm. JFK.”
“I can’t wait, but….” She paused. “When I called you on Sunday, aside from being drunk, you sounded sad. Even now….”
The Congressman sped away.
“Leah,” that was her name, “you don’t know how happy it makes me that you called. I know it’s only been a little over three weeks since we reconnected at that wedding in Boston, but from the time you promised to call until Sunday night felt like an eternity. I don’t want to come across as needy or desperate, especially since I was so hasty in scheduling our reunion, because I’m not, but I just want you to know there’s nobody else in the world that I’d rather talk to or hang with come Thursday evening.”
“I know what you mean. Joshua, I’ve really missed our friendship, and…” She managed a deep breath. “I’ve been looking forward to this for ages. It’s been too long. I’m convinced being a bridesmaid was a Godsend. I mean, who knew in high school that you'd become a wedding photographer, and such a successful one, flying all over the country like you do. The ti
ming and everything was spot on.”
“I couldn't agree more.”
But there was something else on her mind, evidenced by the heaviness in her breath. Perhaps it was the long distance between us, and the fact that she called while I was under the influence, and then there was the mystery of our lives to consider. If she found out that I was sitting in front of my estranged wife’s apartment, and worse, that I was not only waiting but hoping for a hidden race of devils to show (they only seemed to enter the narrative of my life whenever Elise's marriage bed was coincidently occupied), would she call tomato to my tamato and call the whole thing off?
“Joshua, I’m getting a broken toy, aren’t I?”
My wife dialed me on the other line. Did she know I was parked across the street from her studio apartment? No, probably not. Elise was the kind of woman who would have knocked on my window to confront me if she knew. More likely it was to add insult to injury and call me up for a booty call only moments after her last lover left for the evening. I refused to answer.
“We’re all broken to some extent, Leah.”
“Mm-hmm, that’s what I was afraid of.” She sighed, emphasizing the sarcastic, though the worrisome undertone was transparent. “I never seem to get the good guys until some other girl breaks them first and then disposes of them in my lap.”
She probably had no idea how right she really was.
3
I ABANDONED THE FORD Country Squire on Elise’s street for the night, clipped Aristotle into his leash, and completed the short half-mile journey back to my apartment complex thinking about this and that, Bill Nye the Science Guy and Leo Tolstoy's War and Peace, a book I'd probably started ten times but never finished. So much for New Year’s resolutions. I thought about gay marriage too, Prop 8, which would be voted on come November. An assortment of dogs were taking their daily scheduled walk the entire way, it was that time of day, with no shortage of pretty ladies to walk them. Of course, this was a beach community, which meant less attire. The sun was bloated and drowning in the ocean by the time I ascended the stairs. It had been a dramatically mellow day for Southern California in July, a high of eighty, which meant the cool down might even be sweater worthy. That didn't stop the dog walkers from dressing down. I loved the scenery.
Within seconds of my arrival Julie London popped and crackled comfortably on vinyl, one of her classic albums. A bottle of Wild Turkey was quickly fished from the cabinet. I poured a healthy helping into a glass and nursed from what was promised to be the last drink of the night. In-between sips the bourbon swayed gaily with my fingertips while Julie let me know how lonely it was and how badly she needed me when her memories kicked in Around Midnight. Julie always knew how to tell it as it was, especially when I was alone and alcohol was involved.
I opened my mouth to answer her pleas, in-between sips of Bourbon, that I’d be there for her at a heartbeat if she needed me, when somebody stood on my front porch, knocking. I was surprised to find that it wasn’t Julie.
“Gracie.” I opened the door a crack. Aristotle wedged his nose into it, got a good whiff of her, and wagged his tail in approval. “What can I say is the honor?”
Gracie Parker was wearing one of those gray flapper hats, like you’d see in the 1920’s, with an off-centered bow that potentially held her hat and clothes together, for all I knew. Freckles peppered her olive-skinned nose. Otherwise, by the swelling of her doe-like eyes and tightened contortion of her mouth, and by the mere fact that she didn’t answer me, it was evident that something was bothering her, perhaps dreadfully wrong in the Mancini-Parker household. I swung the door wide on its hinges and gestured for her to come in.
She patted the dog without ever really looking at him, stepped a couple of paces into the room, and paused long enough to study several canvas prints on my wall, taking them all in at once, particularly the swimming polar bear (half of its portrait was above the ocean water and the other half captured below its surface as it advanced upon the photographer), which was my favorite too. When Aristotle was confident that she’d had her fun with him, he returned to the corner bed and pouted.
“I just realized this must be your first time in CHAMBERLAIN Studios. Welcome to my humble abode. I’ll give you the nickel tour. These canvas pieces are from my latest series with ETIQUETTE Magazine, the Arctic Circle, though I photographed them last year. The issue came out just a couple of months ago.”
“Yes, Alex showed me a copy. He's been very excited to work with you. They’re quite lovely.” She studied the life-sized polar bear a while longer, seemingly emotionless in her stare, and for a moment I couldn’t be sure that she was really staring into anything at all. “Thanks for having me, and so late at night.”
“The pleasure’s all mine. What can I do for you?”
“We need to talk.”
“Sounds serious.”
“It is.”
I directed her to the leather sofa, where she folded backwards and sat staring at her hands.
“Coffee?”
“That would be nice.”
“It’s a few hours old, if that’s okay. I’ve been sleeping basically ever since I got back from San Francisco, and didn't get around to making a pot until this afternoon.”
“That will be fine.” She spoke to her folded fingers. “Are you well rested?”
“Not really. I feel just as tired when I woke as when I went down. My sleep patterns are off.”
“I hate it when that happens.”
“That’s life. With the constant traveling, my sleep schedule's always improvised; six hours here, four hours there, one or two on an airport floor. My wife always says napping may display a desire to escape and live in the womb, and who wants that?”
I lifted the pot from its warmer, poured a piping measurement into a Goofy mug, and handed it to her. She immediately set the mug on a coaster without taking a single sip and stared now at the cartoon dog for a while.
“As you’ve probably guessed, it’s Alex.”
Alex was my old college buddy from when we were roommates at UCLA. But more recently he’d become my apprentice in the field of wedding photography, after we reconnected again during a bar fight in Vegas (yes, it really happened) and was shooting as my second while we crossed the country together. Adventures abounded in the long standing poetic tradition of Homer and Edmund Spenser.
“If you don’t mind my asking, were the two of you fighting?” I sat down on the other side of the table, drinking coffee now from a yellow mug with Charlie Brown's iconic jagged line zigzagging across its circumference rather than the Bourbon that I’d been consuming only seconds before her arrival.
“Yes, something like that.”
I waited while she maintained the strength to continue.
“Not just any fight. It was massive on any Richter scale.” She shifted her eyes between the depression-era Goofy illustration and Aristotle, making obvious comparisons. I’ve often wondered if Walt Disney and Co. based Goofy on my breed of dog. “He stormed out, and I don’t think he’ll be returning home tonight.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“The thing is…. I feel so foolish saying this…”
“This is a safe place, Gracie.”
“I think he’s seeing… another woman.”
Indeed he was seeing another woman, if by woman she intended it as a plural word. There was Samantha or Savannah (I never was sure which was whom), one of the two bridesmaids from Boston. It was the same wedding that I'd reconnected with Leah. Of course, that NYU student that he'd met at Cain, a club in Chelsea, rattled a bell. If I recall, Alex had convinced her that he was leaving on the first manned space flight to Mars or something, which promptly landed him in the boner bed.
I stared at Gracie courteously without answering.
“Have you talked to Alex about this?” I finally said.
“Yes.”
“And I take it he didn’t respond well.”
“Joshua, he gets so angry. I…I can’t
ask him again. He denied everything. He slammed his fists over the table, broke a dinner plate, and…. I can’t ask him again. But I just can’t take no for an answer.”
“And that’s what the fight was about.”
“Not exactly, I popped the question about two hours into it. I don’t know where it came from. I just blurted it out, like an exploding recessive thought. He stormed off moments later.”
“We both know Alex has anger issues.”
“I just get this feeling whenever Alex comes home from your weekend trips. It’s the way he stares into his food at dinnertime or when we’re in bed together, the things he wants me to do…. the kind of things he asks, and….” She lowered her voice now to a whimper. “When he comes inside of me I get this feeling. I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s a feeling that he’s been inside of another woman.”
“You’re not crazy, Gracie.”
“No?” Her voice trembled.
“No, you’re not.”
“I think….” She paused to slurp on her first sip of coffee. “I think he’s off now with that other girl.”
I leaned back into my char. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.” That part was true.
“He’s changed. I was just wondering…. If you’ve seen anything on your travels together or….”
“Certainly nothing out of the ordinary, Gracie.” That was an obvious lie. “But then again, what’s ordinary with Alex?” That last part, not so much.
She laughed nervously, probably as testament to that fact.
“I will add though that a woman’s intuition is right more often than wrong. You should listen to that without accusing yourself of insanity, or it will drive you to dementia. I’d know something about that.”
Goodnight Sometimes Means Goodbye (Wrong Flight Home, #2) Page 2
