by Adam Pelzman
The last words he said to Sophie before the deer jumped out from behind a hedge on Georgica Road, before he overcompensated, turning the wheel violently to the left, before the car crashed into a utility pole, before Sophie went through the windshield . . . before all that, Julian’s last words to Sophie—words that he would forever regret—were fine, I’ll drive, but if anything happens, it’s your fault.
ZENO’S PARADOX
I’m in the club, it’s the middle of the afternoon and real slow again. I’m sitting at the bar and it’s just a few regulars, the fat guy who’s here so often I’m beginning to think he either lives here or he’s a narc, and the smelly lawyer who’s been coming around a lot since he lost his license. I’m chewing on a piece of ice, wondering about big stuff, what I’m gonna do with my life or if this is it. Jade walks by and gives me a wink and says hang in there, sweetheart, ’cause she knows I’ve been down lately and I told her how I’m thinking about quitting, maybe working in the diner with my mom.
The front door swings open and in comes the sun, big and bright and throbbing like it’s got a life of its own. It lights up the dark bar for a few seconds, shows all the scuffs on the walls, the stains on the seats, the pimples and wrinkles on the girls’ faces. And while the door’s open, while we’re getting a big reminder that things aren’t what they seem, everything freezes and we all stand still. The bartender has a rag in his hand, holds it there, Lopez is frozen to the pole, and we hold our breath and wait for the darkness to come back, for the fantasy to return. In steps a small man with glasses and thinning hair, late thirties is my best guess. He’s not a handsome man but sweet-looking, and he’s got a limp that’s real noticeable. And from a distance I can see he’s got one normal shoe and one shoe with a real thick sole to give his leg a few extra inches.
I see him talking to Schultz, who’s back from medical leave. The small man raises his hand to shoulder height, looks around the bar and squints in the dark—which, best I can tell, is the opposite of what you should be doing in a dark room. Schultz nods and points over in my direction. The man looks at me from across the room, stands there for a bit like he’s trying to figure out if he really wants to do this, then limps toward me. I’m thinking maybe I’m gonna get my first dance of the day, make a bit of money, so I straighten up real fast, lip gloss and a toss of the hair, a mint in my mouth and straighten out my skirt. The man approaches me, stops a couple of feet away and in a real soft voice, shaky and nervous, he says sorry to bother you, but you wouldn’t be Perla, would you?
I look him in the eye, try to size him up. I can’t make him out, good or bad, so I say no bother, and yes, I would be Perla. The guy puts out his hand, shakes mine, and says pleasure to meet you, my name’s Roger. Well, Roger, why don’t you have a seat. And I tap the chair next to me, cross my legs real proper and wave to Jade. She comes over and I say Roger, it’s your lucky day, ’cause I’m buying you a drink, so what’s it going to be? Roger orders a bottle of beer and I get a ginger ale, even though it’s not feeling like much of a treat today. I make eye contact with Jade and glance in the direction of his thick shoe and that’s my cue to Jade not to play the hundred-dollar joke, ’cause what we’ve got here is a man who’s seriously disabled and the least we can do is have a bit of compassion for the man. Now, Roger could be a total prick for all I know and doesn’t deserve one ounce of compassion, but I believe in karma and for now I’m playing it safe and gonna treat the guy real nice. And no matter what, life’s got to be harder for him than it is for the same exact guy who’s got two good feet.
I start off asking Roger the usual questions. Where you from? How long you in town? Turns out he’s from up north, New York area, and just down for a few days. Jade comes over with the drinks and Roger reaches for his wallet before I can even open my purse, says it’s on me. Jade gives me a wink, thank God, that says don’t worry, I’m not playing the joke, and then she tells him it’s fifteen bucks. Roger pays the tab with a nice tip on top and looks around in wonder at the girls and the lights. I put my hand on his thigh and say you want a dance, baby? Right here for twenty or over in one of those private rooms, and I point to the VIP Room and the Champagne Room.
Roger takes a sip of his beer and says no, thanks, you’re real pretty and nice but I’m not here for a dance. I’m a friend of Julian’s, you see, and it just wouldn’t be appropriate. Julian, I mumble, and I’m trying to process what I just heard ’cause it’s been a couple of months since I saw him and there’s been no news from him since then. And it’s pretty painful to share so much with a man and even though he’s married and I’m just a stripper, and I really don’t have a right to any expectations, to have him just disappear on you is real hard.
I straighten up and cross my legs real tight. You a friend of Julian? Julian from New York? Married Julian, who hasn’t called me in forever? And Roger nods, yup that Julian. I’m a little confused and a lot angry. I down my ginger ale to make it look real dramatic, but it’s not as big a gesture as it would be if I had vodka or scotch or something alcoholic. Then the orange slice somehow gets stuck on my lip, dangles there for a sec, falls in my lap, and I feel like a big fool.
Roger smiles, puts his hand on my wrist, real soft, and says please hear me out, Perla. Julian’s my closest friend, I work for him too, the guy I’m most loyal to in the entire world. Julian sat down with me last week, said Roger, I met someone down in Florida. She’s beautiful and kind and doing a difficult job with dignity, grace, professionalism. That’s the thing about Julian, he appreciates mastery and commitment, doesn’t care if you’re a brain surgeon or a bank robber. Or if you’re painting a bathroom or the Sistine Chapel. Roger gets flushed in the face, says the Sistine Chapel’s in the Vatican City, in Rome. And I laugh and say really, Roger? I had no idea. Just ’cause I’m a stripper doesn’t mean I don’t read. I give him a little poke in the chest and tell him, you know, Roger, I don’t have a formal education, but I had a father who knew more about the world than most people with a degree. So one more condescending comment from you and I’m sending you back to Julian in a body bag, your entrails in a separate bag. Entrails. See, that’s a big word. Not long, but big.
Roger lifts his hand from my wrist and takes a quick sip of beer to wet his throat, wipes his lips with the back of his hand and apologizes. I’m so sorry, it’s just that I get nervous around pretty girls. And he looks down at his foot, winces and bends over and rubs his right calf. I’m just awkward when it comes to girls and I’m always saying stupid stuff, so nothing personal and no reflection on you. I’m looking at the man, all thin and hobbled and bumbling through a conversation, and it occurs to me that this Roger is a tender man. And I think of my dad, and how he used to cry so easy, like when he saw a three-legged dog limping down the street once in Plantation or the little boy at the mall in Hialeah who couldn’t find his parents.
Roger downs his beer and you can tell from the way his face twists that he’s not used to drinking booze. The reason I came down here, he says, is because Julian can’t come down for a while, he’s got stuff going on in his personal life and some business things too, and he wanted you taken care of. Roger pulls an envelope from his back pocket and hands it to me. There’s ten thousand in here, he says, and shrugs his shoulders ’cause it’s a little weird to just hand a girl ten grand for nothing. Now, never in my life did I have ten thousand dollars to my name, let alone in my hand, and I’m feeling so giddy and excited that I can hardly hold on to the bar stool. And I’m thinking how happy my mother is gonna be and how we can pay the rent on time, pay off some credit cards and maybe buy myself a pair of sandals that I saw in Coral Gables.
I open the envelope and look at the bills, all brand-new and lined up perfect like they just got printed at the bank. I put my nose close, breathe in deep and sure enough there’s the smell of fresh cash. But then I feel some nausea in my stomach, ’cause something about getting all this cash for doing nothing, something about getting all this
cash from someone you have feelings for, something about it feels a little cheap and demeaning to me. It makes me feel bad, worse than getting twenty bucks for a dance, ’cause at least there’s an equal exchange when I’m stripping. Dance, money. Dance, money. Here, it’s just money with nothing in return. There’s no quid pro quo. I know that, too, a bit of Latin.
But I get over the bad feelings fast, real fast, ’cause at the end of the day I’m a practical girl and all this cash is a huge deal. Thanks, I say, and try to jam the thick envelope inside my clutch, a tiny silver bag that I’ve been using ever since one of the girls got her keys and phone and ID stolen out of a locker. I look at Roger’s face real careful, at his old dress shirt, at his cheap, plastic watch. I wonder how it is that Roger and Julian are friends, how two people with such different looks, such different styles, could be good friends. Looks to me like they come from different worlds.
I flag Jade and give her the ’nother round motion, a circle in the air with my index finger. You flew down here, all the way from New York, just to give me this envelope? Roger nods yes. And Julian asked you to get on a plane, give me this envelope, and then go back home? Yes, again. And you got no other business down here but bringing me this money? That’s right, no other business. And you don’t mind doing that, spending all this time traveling just for one errand? Roger looks at me all confused, seriously confused, like he really doesn’t understand the question, like I spoke in a strange language, maybe one that’s not even invented yet. Do I mind? Do I mind? Not only do I not mind, but it’s an honor to do something like this for Julian. An honor, I ask, why would it be an honor? I want to know, ’cause it seems more like a big old burden to me.
Jade places the drinks on the bar. I pull a hundred out of the envelope and hold it up to her. This one’s on me, I say. Jade snatches the bill from my hand and flashes it under the light, front then back, and asks this real or you just print it yourself? I say it’s real as they get and Roger here gave it to me. So Jade leans over, gives Roger a big wet kiss on the lips and struts off. Now, Roger looks like he just got licked by a bulldog and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. Then he knocks down half the bottle in a few gulps, clears his throat, says I’m going to tell you a story, a story about Julian. And maybe when I’m through, you’ll understand why I get on a plane for Julian, why I’m grateful to have the chance to get on that plane, why there’s nothing I’d rather do than get on that plane and fly down here for that man and hand a girl like you an envelope full of cash.
You may have seen that I’ve got a bum leg, he says, and points to his funny-shaped shoe. It’s shorter than the other by three and a half inches, and the foot’s deformed. It’s thick and rounded and I have three toes that are fused together, like one big toe. My father has the same thing. My granddad, too. It’s a genetic deformity. And that’s one of the things I love most about my mother, because she knew when she married my dad, when she decided to have a child with the man, that there was a high likelihood she’d have a kid with a deformed foot. But she loved him so much, and how couldn’t you, that she did it anyway. Ignored her parents’ advice, even a doctor who said it would be foolish to go into it knowing damn well what was going to happen. But she was crazy about the man.
Anyway, I loved to play sports when I was young, but the foot made it impossible to compete. I mean, I could limp around the schoolyard a bit, but competitive games, organized sports, were off-limits for me. Football was my favorite, but hard to play for a boy with my sort of problem. Still, the coach was fond of me and the other kids on the team had some compassion and they voted me on the team, said I could be the scorekeeper, keep the stats, and even though I couldn’t play, they’d give me an honorary spot on defense. They even got me a uniform with my name on the back, put me in the team photo. On game day, I got to stand on the sidelines in my uniform and support the guys. It was a great season for me. My parents came to every game, and even though they knew I would never play, they rooted like I was a starter. How many times did my father introduce me to his friends as my son, the football star.
We had a terrific team that year, led by Julian. He wasn’t the biggest guy on the team, but always the most intense, competitive guy on the field, wiry and fast and a threshold for pain that most of us really couldn’t comprehend. He was also smarter, it seemed, than our coaches, and he would always be huddling with them, drawing up new plays, different defenses, whatever could give our team an advantage. Sometimes it almost felt like he was the real coach.
Julian was a mysterious guy—intelligent, handsome, but very distant from almost everyone in school. Rumor was he was born in Russia, Siberia they said, and that he lived in an orphanage. They said he came to the States when he was ten or eleven, and maybe that’s the reason why he was a bit withdrawn, aloof. It’s not that he wasn’t friendly, just remote and cool, like he was years ahead of the rest of us, like he was on to bigger things. They named him prom king, but he declined, didn’t even show up. He was salutatorian, too, but refused to give a speech.
Salutatorian, Roger says with a smile ’cause he knows what’s coming, that’s second in the class. Fuck you very much, I say like a lady. Now, that’s a word I never did hear before, and I make a mental note to look that up when I get home. Roger takes another swig of beer and looks around the room for Jade. She sees him, nods and struts on over to the bar to get us another round. Fortysomething years old, and the girl’s still got a little shake in her booty.
We were undefeated during the regular season, Roger says, tops in the county and one of the best in the state. Julian was the only one on our team who played offense and defense, wide receiver and safety. So we were in the county championship against Livingston, and we were winning by one point with a minute left in the game. It was a tough one for us. We’d already lost five players to injuries, all on defense, one guy starts throwing up and he was on the sideline, too. Then one of our guys, Clarke was his name, and he had all sorts of mental problems, he gets thrown out of the game for fighting. So, Livingston is on its own ten-yard line, down by a point with a minute left in the game. We keep them off the scoreboard and we win. Simple as that. Julian gathers everyone in the huddle and spells out the defense, tells the guys to stick to their assignments, no free-lancing. Sure enough, the first play of the drive, our cornerback gets hurt, and with all the other injuries, we don’t have any more defenders who can play.
The coach looks around and points to one of our offensive players, a tight end, and tells him to go fill in for the player who just got hurt. The tight end is huge and not too fast, and he says coach, I never played corner in my life. That’s when Julian steps in, says coach, let’s put Roger in. Now, I’m standing right next to the coach with my clipboard and my pencil, keeping the stats, and I’m thinking this has to be some sort of cruel joke or maybe Julian got the name wrong, but Julian’s not the type of guy to make cruel jokes and he’s certainly not the type of guy to mix up a name.
The coach looks at Julian like he’s nuts, which in a weird, controlled way he is, and says Roger? You want me to put Roger in? And Julian says yes, I want you to put Roger in. Just like that, real matter-of-fact. The coach looks at me and back to Julian and back to me, then pauses for a few seconds and says Roger you’re in. Julian’s got a way about him, you know. People tend to do what he says. And not because he’s threatening, but because he’s, well . . . Anyway, I’m so excited I can barely find my helmet. I run out on the field and the first thing I’ve got to do is cover Livingston’s wide receiver, who’s all-county and runs like a goddamn greyhound.
Their quarterback, a colossal prick named Ferrara, sees me limp out onto the field and he yells, real loud for everyone to hear, not just everyone on the field but everyone in the stands too, my parents included. He screams we got gimpy on the right, we’re going at gimpy. And sure enough, the first pass he throws is in my direction. I read the play correctly, because that’s all I do is study offenses and learn ho
w our defense works, but there’s no way I can stay with their receiver. He blows right by me and picks up thirty yards on the first play. Now, no one is feeling worse than me, and in the huddle, I say to Julian that maybe I should get out, bring in one of the other guys. I’m afraid I’m going to lose it for us, but Julian looks at me and says don’t worry. Don’t worry? I ask. How can’t I worry?
Sure enough, the next play they go after me again. And it’s even worse this time because Ferrara names a play after me, and at the line he calls out gimpy forty-five, gimpy forty-five. And he screams so loud that I know my parents can hear. I cringe, try not to look up into the stands. So they beat me over and over, pass after pass, until they’re on our eight-yard line with five seconds left, and by this time I’m crying so hard I can barely breathe. Livingston lines up for a field goal, a little chip shot to win the game. We’re in the huddle and I’m sobbing, apologizing to my teammates. I can’t bear to look in the stands and see my parents, the pain on their faces. Just then, Julian puts his hand on top of my helmet, looks around at all of us and says don’t worry, it’s their time to suffer now. Julian looks at our nose tackle, the position right across from their center, and says I’ll take your guy.
So we line up, Julian right across from the center who is going to snap the ball. We all know what’s about to happen. The center is going to snap the ball. The holder will place the ball. The kicker will kick the ball and we will lose the championship. From this distance, it’s a gimme. But Julian apparently has another outcome in mind, and before the center can snap the ball, Julian smacks it out of his hands. Well, that’s a penalty, and the ref marches off four yards, half the distance to the goal line. That’s the rule. When you have a penalty that close, they walk off half the distance. Now it’s an even closer field goal, a chip shot, and we’re all figuring that Julian is just blowing off some steam, venting his frustration. The Livingston coach is furious, half the crowd starts booing and I just want the game to end so I can get the hell off the field and hide somewhere.
