by Brad Parks
And I still didn’t have the slightest idea what was really going on.
* * *
It took a while to mop up the tears, meet the kids when they got back from ice cream, then say our good-byes. By the time we returned to Walter, it was starting to spit rain at us. It was also far later than I thought.
“Dammit,” I said, looking at Walter’s clock, which read 8:04.
“What is it?” Sweet Thang said.
“Damn, damn, damn,” I replied.
“What’s happening?”
“I, uh, I’m going to be late for something,” I answered.
“Something important?”
I looked over at Sweet Thang, with her bouncy blond curls and cute button nose, and I just couldn’t bring myself to explain that her tasty CR had a date with the city editor. I told myself it was because I didn’t want to break her heart. But if I was being more honest, it’s because I was a typical, despicable guy, and even though I knew I should have absolutely nothing to do with Sweet Thang, I still wanted to keep my options open.
“It’s, uh, just a dinner with a friend,” I said.
Except it wasn’t just dinner with a friend. It was a dinner at a four-star restaurant with a dress code. I looked down at myself. I was presentable, with my white shirt and my half-Windsor knotted tie. But I didn’t have a jacket. I needed a jacket.
I did some math as Sweet Thang pulled away from Tammy’s house and headed back toward Newark. It was going to take at least fifteen minutes to get back to Newark. From there, it was another fifteen minutes back to Bloomfield to grab a jacket out of my closet. It would take at least thirty minutes to get from there to Hoboken. At that point it would be after nine, even if I could find parking quickly. There was just no way I could be more than half an hour late for a date-at least not with a woman like Tina.
Okay, different plan: Bloomfield was ten minutes away. If I had Sweet Thang stop off there, I could run in and pick up my jacket. Then it would be fifteen minutes to Newark to get my car and only another fifteen minutes to Hoboken, if I got cute with the speed limit and decided to make some red lights optional. That would get me there only about fifteen minutes late. Anyone would forgive fifteen minutes. Hell, that was just being fashionable.
“Actually, would you mind stopping at my house in Bloomfield on the way back?” I said, as the rain picked up in intensity. “I’m a little pressed for time and I need to grab something.”
“No problem!” she said enthusiastically.
“Great,” I said. “Just get on the parkway and I’ll guide you from there.”
As Sweet Thang headed for the Garden State Parkway, I pulled out my phone and texted Tina: “Unavoidably detained. Running late but on the way. Wait for me.”
I shoved my phone back in my pocket, then settled into Walter’s passenger side seat. Sweet Thang had the radio on and was lightly singing along to some vapid pop song.
“So, Tammy seemed really nice,” Sweet Thang said between verses. “I just felt so badly for her because I know what it’s like to…”
She kept yammering on, but I wasn’t paying much attention. I threw in an “uh-huh” and “oh” every once in a while to at least pretend I was paying attention. Mostly, I was focused on the green Ford Windstar in front of me, which was inching along the entrance ramp to the parkway at precisely the same speed as the red Honda Civic in front of it, which was creeping like the white Mitsubishi Gallant farther up, and so on.
What was taking so long? Sure, it was raining-pretty hard now, actually-but why wasn’t the ramp moving? Where were all these people going anyway and how could it possibly be more important than my potential booty call with the ravishingly hot Tina?
Then, in the distance, I got a glimpse of the parkway itself. And there it was, 8:12 at night, and all four of its northbound lanes were a sea of red brake lights reflecting on puddles of water. The only thing moving was the puddles as more rain fell on them.
It took another six minutes just to get on the road, and I watched despairingly as the number on Walter’s clock grew larger. Sweet Thang was jabbering about something now-her recent trip to Turkey? The turkey sandwich she ate for lunch? I definitely heard the word “turkey” thrown in-and I kept trying to recalculate my various ETAs until they stopped having any meaning.
Then, at 8:31, I got a text from Tina: “UR late.”
I immediately fired back: “Stuck in traffic.”
Less than a minute passed before I received: “Not my fault. U close?”
I winced and tapped out: “Not really. Very sorry.”
This time it took a little longer to get: “Pulling waiter into supply closet now. Good night.”
I quickly texted: “Rain check?”
Her reply: “You suck.”
I sighed, buried my phone back in my pocket, and stared out at the brake lights of a disco-era Oldsmobile Cutlass.
“Something wrong?” Sweet Thang asked.
“Yeah, my friend had to cancel dinner,” I said. “I was supposed to be there”-I looked at the clock-“four minutes ago.”
“So? Won’t your friend wait for you?”
“I guess not.”
“That’s not a very good friend,” Sweet Thang said definitively.
And maybe it was the way Sweet Thang said it-like it was one of life’s fundamental truths-but the more I thought about it, I decided she was right. Who cancels on someone when they’re four minutes late? What kind of friend is that?
It’s not really a friend. It’s a control freak of a woman who is playing games and messing with a guy’s head. And who needs that? Not me. Not anymore. No, I needed something simpler in my life.
I reclined a bit in my seat, no longer stressed about traffic or worried about Tina’s wrath. Walter’s heater was working with quiet efficiency, and I savored the warmth of the car and the smell of the leather seats. I glanced over at Sweet Thang, who was again singing along to the radio, unbothered by the nasty weather, the long day, or any of the small inconveniences of life. She was just happy. And wasn’t it pleasant to be with someone who was happy?
“So it looks like I’m free for dinner,” I said. “What about you? You hungry?”
* * *
We decided that on such an inclement night, dining in was better than going out. And since my place was closer than her place-and we were headed in that direction anyway-we chose my place. Shortly after reaching that conclusion, the parkway started moving again, as if the Traffic Gods themselves wanted us to make good time.
My house is what Realtors would call “cozy,” but only because “so small you can vacuum the entire thing without having to change plugs” doesn’t fit as well on a multiple-listing service entry. But I liked it just fine. After all, it was just me and Deadline. And Deadline didn’t like to travel too far for the litter box.
As a modern bachelor, I shop on an as-needed basis and keep nothing beyond the bare essentials in my refrigerator: beer, processed cheese, salsa, and, possibly, milk (for morning cereal). Anything else will grow a beard and be applying for credit cards by the time I get around to throwing it out.
My freezer is a different story. The freezer, I have discovered, is the key for the on-the-go single guy such as myself, because you can keep things in there for months and not have to worry about it looking like a breeding ground for penicillin. Meats. Sauces. Side dishes. Entrees. They’re all in there, all premade. And they’re all frozen while still fresh. That’s the mistake most people make with their freezers. If you toss in leftovers because you know they’re about to turn, a couple months in the deep freeze is not going to make them perk up. You have to put some love in your freezer if you expect it to love you back.
After we dashed inside, dodging raindrops all the way, I did a quick freezer raid and-rejecting options that would require some assembly-came away with sausage lasagna and half a baguette. I tossed them both in the oven, lit some candles (another modern bachelor must-have), and opened a bottle of red wine.
&
nbsp; Sweet Thang was checking out my living room, which also doubled as my family room, sitting room, great room, and TV room. She cooed at Deadline, who was pressing himself against her leg, in something near rapture. I’ve heard of people judging new acquaintances based on how their pets respond to them-because, after all, if Fluffy likes you, you must be okay.
That wouldn’t work with Deadline. He accepts affection indiscriminate of the source. A masked, knife-wielding assailant could break into my home and hack me into a dozen pieces as I slept. But if he stopped to rub Deadline behind his left ear on the way out, Deadline would be purring so loudly you’d think someone started a lawnmower in the next room.
“Your cat is soooo cute,” Sweet Thang said. “What’s his name?”
“Deadline,” I called out as I puttered around, getting things just right.
I can’t say I was actually trying to seduce Sweet Thang or was even cognizant of how my actions might be construed. At a certain point in time, when you’ve been dating long enough, some gestures just become automatic. Like the candles. Or the iPod playlist with just the right music (my rule: no Barry White. It looks like you’re trying too hard). Or remembering to bump up the thermostat a few degrees. It becomes like a dance you know so well you can just lose yourself in the song and let your body react to the rhythm. Especially once the wine starts working.
So I wasn’t considering the ramifications when, after dinner, I invited Sweet Thang onto the couch with another glass of wine. And I wasn’t thinking when I sat within arm’s length of her and we talked about old relationships and the wisdom we gained from how they’d gone wrong. And I wasn’t paying attention as I started absentmindedly tracing the outline of her cheek with my hand as she spoke of a particularly heartrending breakup.
But the next thing I knew, we were kissing. And sometime after that, her dress became a floor decoration. More garments soon followed it there. The breathing got urgent. The blood got pumping.
And then, just when things were about to get interesting, I heard five words that drained all the blood out of me: “I’ve never done this before.”
She what?!?
I pulled away abruptly.
“What do you mean?” I said. “You don’t mean you’re a…”
I couldn’t even spit out the word-“virgin”-because it was so thoroughly inconceivable. Sweet Thang? A virgin? What about all the dirty talk about floorboards and whatnot? The ability to flirt information out of people like a hot double agent? The light brushes with the hand that made my arm hair stand straight?
For that matter, how was it possible a body like hers had gone through high school and college without some guy being clever enough to put it to the use nature intended?
But there she was, nodding at me earnestly.
“It’s not like I ever planned it this way,” she explained. “It just sort of never happened. I didn’t want to be the girl who hooked up at prom. And I didn’t want to be the girl who gave it up for some frat boy after a mixer. And I didn’t want to have some bar hookup with a guy who was going to give me a fake phone number. And, I don’t know. It’s not a big deal.”
But I knew better. No matter what she said, it was a Very Big Deal. I’m not saying Sweet Thang needed to be a blushing virgin on her wedding night. But I was just old-fashioned enough to think her first time ought to be a little more special than re-heated lasagna on a rainy Tuesday night in February.
I had no business being her first. I was attracted to her physically, but I didn’t really like her in that way, and I had finally reached a maturity level in my life where I knew the difference.
Besides, at a certain point, a guy gets too old for deflowering virgins. I just didn’t have the energy to deal with the drama of the newly plucked, the guilty phone calls to Mother, the recriminations when the relationship went sour.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought you were…”
Don’t say “more experienced.” Don’t say “well traveled.” Don’t say anything.
“It just wouldn’t be right,” I finished.
I half expected her to convince me it was-she probably wouldn’t have to try that hard-but I think she realized it wasn’t right, either. So we began the awkward task of disentangling our mostly naked bodies, collecting the various pieces of clothing strewn about the room, and assigning them to the proper owner.
“I’m going to go,” she said after she was dressed, going up on her tiptoes to kiss me on the cheek. “Thanks for being a gentleman.”
She let herself out. Deadline walked over to me and brushed himself against my leg.
“Come on, cat,” I said. “It looks like there’s going to be plenty of room in the bed tonight.”
* * *
At risk of sounding like a spokesman for the Republican Party’s sex education platform, I will say this on the subject of intercourse and the morning after: for all the times I’ve regretted having sex with someone, I’ve never once regretted not having it. As I woke up the next morning, I realized the previous evening had been another example to prove the rule. Had I sullied virtuous young Sweet Thang, I’m sure I would have felt like Carter the Conqueror in the moment. But I would have inevitably felt like a scallywag by the next dawn.
Instead, as my eyes fluttered open and I briefly replayed the previous night’s adventure, I felt good. Honorable. Noble, even. As I showered, dressed, and poured myself a bowl of Apple Cinnamon Cheerios, I felt even better. Not even the low cloud cover and the threat of more 34-degree rain could wreck my mood.
No, only one thing could do that. And it came from my cell phone.
“Duh duh duh duuuuuuuuhhh.”
Beethoven’s Fifth. Sal Szanto. I put down my spoon.
“Good morning,” I said.
“For you it is maybe,” Szanto said. “Windy Byers turned up.”
“Really? Is he talking?”
“I doubt it. He’s dead.”
Usually, the news of another human being’s demise elicits some reaction in me, even when I barely know the deceased, as was the case here. But a brief search of my emotional state revealed very little feeling for Windy Byers, one way or another. I never thought he was a particularly good guy, and nothing I’d learned over the past three days improved my estimation of him. His death did not register as any great loss to the city, state, or nation, nor as any great shock.
“Where’d they find him?” I asked.
Szanto rattled off an address on Avenue P in Newark, a place in a vast industrial maze in the East Ward, not far from Newark Airport.
“What was he doing there?”
“Not breathing, apparently.”
“Come on, you know what I mean.”
“At this point, you know everything I know,” Szanto said. “We just got a tip on this. Get your ass out there.”
He didn’t have to tell me time was of the essence. We had tipsters, but so did everyone else. As the home team, we still had a little bit of an advantage on the media horde that was about to descend on Newark. But it wouldn’t last long. I had to move. Now.
I tossed out my Cheerios, grabbed a Pop-Tart, and dashed out the door … only to remember my car was still in the parking lot at the Eagle-Examiner.
“Crap,” I said to my empty garage.
I briefly took stock of my situation, which was admittedly dire. I could call a cab, but that could take half an hour or more-Bloomfield was just suburban enough that you couldn’t run out to the street and hail one. I could call a friend, but that wasn’t guaranteed to be any faster. I could steal a car, but … oh, right, I wouldn’t know how to steal a car if my collection of pleated pants depended on it.
Suddenly, the solution came to me in the form of that ancient-but-still-running commercial that ends, “Enterprise, we’ll pick you up.” In my head, I could summon the ridiculous image of a rental car gift-wrapped in brown paper, motoring toward someone’s house. It always made me wonder: with brown paper covering everything but the windshield, how did the driver get
into the car in the first place? And wouldn’t it be a little dangerous to drive?
But I didn’t have time to ponder such weighty issues. I dashed inside and quickly entered into negotiations with my local Enterprise franchise. I stressed to the lady on the phone that transaction speed-not make, model, or the presence of an onboard navigation system-was my primary concern. She nicely dispatched a driver who arrived in a car that, much to my relief, came without packaging. Within fifteen minutes, I was on my way to Avenue P.
Despite my ambivalence on the subject, I had been provided with a nav system anyway. So while I was reasonably certain I knew the way to Avenue P-I had done a piece about illegal drag racing there a few years back-I tapped in the address just to see if the computer knew a quicker way.
Soon, an alluring female voice was telling me my destination was, of all things, an Enterprise rental car location. It must have been an off-site facility of some sort, spillover from Newark Airport.
As Nancy-I decided to call my nav system Nancy-guided me ever closer to my destination, I began to suspect our hot tip had not, as Szanto might have hoped, bought us time over the competition. Not when I could hear news helicopters hovering overhead.
On the ground was more bedlam. Avenue P was a long, straight stretch of road with only two outside access points, at the top and bottom-which is why the drag racers loved it. From atop a highway ramp, I could already see an armada of news vans had created a small media city at the south end, where the police had erected a barricade that could stop a tank brigade. Certainly, I could join them … if I felt like spending my entire day in the cold to learn nothing more than what I could have gotten staying in bed and watching local news.
Ignoring Nancy’s advice, which would have led me straight into the gaping maw of that information oblivion, I took an end run around to the north side, snaking through the marshland past an abandoned movie theater and a variety of small warehouses and scrap yards. I was pretty confident the boys from the networks wouldn’t know about this way. Homefield at least had some advantage.
