“Good. You should have the taste of your own medicine,” Jeremy says from the other side of the door. “They will help you realize what I went through.”
“Ladies . . . please,” I say, getting on my knees, begging for mercy. “I am not a pervert.”
“You should have said that to yourself before stepping in here,” the trucker woman says with her crooked mouth.
I will say it.
She is ugly.
She is more masculine than me, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she pees standing up.
And yet, she is the one who is most offended. She is pushing some sort of vendetta against me by creating a riotous situation in the ladies’ room.
When nothing seems to work, I remember the almighty God and leave it to his will. But I covered my head—that I didn’t leave to him. Protection is always better than cure, and every prayer. Who knows if these women will put me in a coma again? They certainly look capable of doing it.
While I am getting tossed, turned, and busy being the victim of their brutality I don’t wish even on my enemies, Jeremy finally opens the door listening to my pleading. And I jump at the first chance to escape.
But the trucker woman blocks my way. She is standing firmly on the ground like a mountain man. I cannot beat her fairly, so I improvise by pulling her bandana to her eyes and crawls out of the door through her fat legs.
If only Jeremy had opened the door at my first cry of help, I wouldn’t have been in such terrible condition that I am in now. My clothes are torn, hair turned upside down, zipper open, face covered in lipstick marks, and lips sucked and bitten upon.
“Oh, Jeremy. They were terrible.” I hug him, gasping for air. “They tried to check whether I am a man or a woman. They were Neanderthal.”
“How dare they? Let me give them a piece of my mind. How can they take the dignity of a man so lightly?”
Infuriated as a raging bull, Jeremy marches down inside to avenge me. But, I think deep down, he wants the same treatment I just got.
It was not good for me; I feel used. But maybe it would be better for him, considering he is so sexually frustrated.
“I am so sorry. I thought this was the men’s room. I have Alzheimer.”
His begging soon becomes quite audible. I suppose things are not going well like he imagined.
The door opens after a few minutes, and he is thrown out in the hallway on his ass. He is more or less in the same condition as mine—messed up hair; torn clothes; and face covered in marks, not lipstick though. I think he also got punched a couple of times in there; he has ring marks imprinted on his jaw.
“What happened?” I help him up off the floor.
“They didn’t believe I have Alzheimer. You were right . . . Neanderthal!” he yells on the top of his lungs and bangs on the door with an open palm. “They are ageist too. How discriminating?” He doesn’t stop there and yells again in the hallway, “You all should be ashamed of yourself!”
Jeremy puts his foot down and refuses to go in the next lady’s room on the first floor. He can’t take any more beating, and I also can’t see him beaten up.
So, I improvise a plan and buy a pair of sunglasses from a goth male nurse. It was pretty hilarious to see one in the white scrubs—I can tell you that.
I put the sunglasses on Jeremy’s eyes. “You are blind now.” Being blind trumps Alzheimer any time of the day. I should have realized this sooner.
The idea works like a charm and Jeremy is enjoying every bit of this ruse. He even tries to sneak a hug every time some poor woman escorts him out of the lady’s room. Running high on adrenaline, he even goes to the next floor without even asking. He covers a lot of bathrooms in so much less time that we are now down to the last one. Unfortunately, we still have to find the woman I am looking for.
“Okay. This is the last one.” I rub my hand in anticipation. This is where I will find the woman from my dream.
“Off I go.” Jeremy just moonwalks in there. His confidence is on an all-time high. I have never seen this fun side of Jeremy in a few days I have known him.
I am pacing in the hallway, biting my nails. I am really nervous. This is the last lady’s room. If I don't find her here, I may never find her again.
I believe Jeremy may have found her. There is no chatter coming from inside, or the usual murmuring when women see an old man in the lady’s room.
The door opens, and Jeremy steps out without pants. I think he got lucky in there.
“You dog!” I punch him lightly on his arm for a job well done.
“I am not a dog. That woman was a bitch!” he yells at me, and for the first time, I realize I have given him too much leeway.
But then he takes a deep breath to calm himself down and apologizes without any delay. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. You are the boss after all.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“When I got inside, a brunette was touching up her lipstick . . .” He stops, looks around, and lowering his voice, uncomfortably says, “. . . and I have lip fetish.”
“I don’t understand.” I play dumb, holding in my laughter to my best.
“I got a boner, sir. A boner right in the middle of ladies’ room. She called me a pervert, and with the help of her friends, pulled down my pants and threw it out the window.”
“Hmm . . . Did you tell them you are blind?”
“Of course, I did. But they didn’t believe me. The evidence in my pant was pretty damning.”
“Pretty damning, huh?” I couldn’t take it anymore and fall on the ground, bursting in laughter. “I cannot believe this. You still get an erection at this age.” Looking at Jeremy in his tighty-whities has sent me spiraling in laughville. “Did you find her?” I ask between my laughs.
“No . . .”
He said no.
I know I should be sad that even after searching the hospital from corner to corner, I still haven’t found her. But there is nothing more I can do at this time.
I missed her today, but this can’t be over.
I haven’t forgotten about her.
I have a feeling that we will meet again.
Soon.
Chapter 7
I AM IN MY HOME SWEET home.
Fuck it! I am underselling it to not hurt your feelings. It’s a penthouse on the upper east side of New York City.
It’s spacious.
It’s lively.
It’s heavenly.
I can see the skyline of the city from up here. It makes me feel like a God in the sky.
I like the apartment, the building—but not the people living in it. I passed by many other occupants of the building on the way up here but didn’t get the welcome I was expecting. Nobody even bothered to say hi to me. And most of them simply avoided making any eye contact.
At last, I took the initiative to strike a conversation with a nice-looking couple in the elevator, but the lady was out of her knockers and tried to scratch my face.
Can you believe that?
Luckily, her husband got hold of her, and they exited the elevator as soon as the door opened. I don’t know what have I ever done to deserve this.
The only person who treated me well in this building was our doorman—a young Mexican fella, Javier. He broke down in tears on my arrival and fell hard on his knees before me.
I am not gonna lie, but I felt a touch of superiority.
He made me feel like a survivor.
His messiah.
Like Jesus on the resurrection day.
I hugged him. Calmed him down. I wanted to tip him, but I didn’t know where my wallet was.
As for Jeremy, he was in the hospital gown. His pants were blown away by the wind. I believe they are in Times Square by now. And we had to borrow money from Javier to pay the cab fare, let alone tipping him.
Awkward!
Jeremy told him that he will be reimbursed along with his next monthly fees. Apparently, Javier is on my monthly retainer. His job is to call me ahead when
any of my girlfriends come to meet me up. Until I get rid of the one in my apartment, he keeps the other one busy downstairs.
Sleazy.
I know.
I was also a pig. What a surprise?
Now that things have changed, I guess there are tough financial times ahead for Javier. His retainer will be canceled. But maybe I will hold on to firing him until the first of the month. He lent us money after all.
“Sir, give me a minute I’ll get back after changing into something that doesn’t expose my ass,” Jeremy says.
“Yeah, sure, take your time,” I say, looking at the ceiling of my apartment. It’s very high. I can fit a giraffe in here.
“And then we will celebrate your return,” Jeremy cheers with a loud clap before excusing himself.
“Of course!”
While Jeremy is gone, I look down from the window at the passing traffic. The cars appear so tiny from the 14th floor.
I look at the skyline again. It’s so mesmerizing. I can look at it for hours. I don’t know how much I am worth, but I assume I would be in the higher tax bracket.
“All right. What will you have?” Jeremy asks with his arrival.
“A glass of milk,” I answer.
A loud shatter catches my attention. I turn around and find a glass bottle broken on the floor, and alcohol streaming down the pearly-white marble.
Jeremy has accidentally dropped it. And he is standing still there, with dropped jaw and teary eyes. The pink complexion of his face has turned white, and his lips are quivering as he tries to say something. I couldn’t peg the look on his face, either lightning struck him, or he is having stomach cramps because of IBS.
“Are you all right?” I ask, cautiously coming forward so as to not step on the shards of glass.
“Y-Ye-Yes,” he stutters, gulping many times in between. “I am so sorry about this.”
“It’s all right. It’s only alcohol.”
He looks at me as if I have said something that I shouldn’t have. If only I knew what, then I could have taken note and apologized.
“That was a $500 bottle.”
“So . . . I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
And now he is panting. I think he is having an asthma attack.
“Jeremy, just relax. Take short breaths. Where is your asthma pump?”
“It’s in my room, but I am all right. I don’t need it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” he says with a long deep breath. “I will clean this mess up and see if there is any milk in the fridge. We don’t often use milk here.”
My eyes wander at the home bar I missed seeing before. It’s not just any bar, it’s one that could even supply booze to few local bars. There are too many bottles to count in one gaze.
Now, I get it. I was an alcoholic too. I must have been intoxicated when I crashed my car into the bus. Was there any good habit Brandon 1.0 had?
Jeremy is still panting while cleaning the floor. An alcoholic asking for milk when there is a home bar in sight has come as a shock to him.
Something just doesn’t feel right when I see him working so hard. I am considering letting him go with a big fat bonus that will last him a lifetime. He shouldn’t be here, working for me. He should rather be with his family.
“Jeremy, don’t you have a family?”
“I have a houseful family in London. Three brothers, two sisters, their spouses, and fourteen nephews and nieces.”
“You are British?!”
That’s one hell of in surprise. I agree he is cultured and sophisticated, but he certainly doesn’t look like a Brit—or have the right accent for it.
“Of course, I am. I know what are you thinking. My accent, right? It rid itself after you stay too long in the States.
“What are you even doing here? London is beautiful, less crowded, and it’s your home. Go. Be with your family.”
“I can’t. . . . because of my wife.”
This guy just keeps on surprising me. “You are married?”
“Was. She has been dead for 25 years now,” he says. “She was born in this country, took her first breath here, and her last. I found her here, loved her and lost her here. There are too many memories of her that are keeping me here.”
She must be some woman who burns his soul to this day. Just looking at him, makes me feel the pain I wouldn’t wish even on my worst enemies.
Until now, I was under the impression that he is a sexually frustrated bachelor. The thought of him ever being young never crossed my mind. He looks good for his age—healthy, good posture, charming eyes, broad jawline. He could have been a real panty dropper in his prime.
“Jeremy, from what I have deduced about myself until now, I can say with surety that I hadn’t asked you about yourself during your job interview.” I sit on the couch, and with a gesture of the hand, ask him to join me.
“You didn’t,” he says, laughing, to hide his pain as he sits down with me. “Your first question was if I knew how to make ‘Sex on the beach’? That’s your favorite drink, by the way.”
Why am I not surprised?
“And Dirty Martini should be the close second?”
“Do you remember?!”
“Nah! Just a lucky guess. . . . Jeremy, I know it’s long overdue, but tell me about yourself. And don’t hold back anything; I have plenty of space in my top vessel.”
“All right. Well, I come from a very hard-working family. My father was a city bus driver. After he retired, he opened a small bar in downtown London. And by small, I mean very small—like the size of a hallway. The real estate was always high-priced in London even back then. The business grew, and so does the square footage. My elder brothers joined in, and the bar was renamed Wellington and Sons, except that I was the only son who wasn’t there. I was always the black sheep of my family. I didn’t know what I wanted to do in life. Somedays, I wanted to be a banker; somedays, a bus driver; and on a sunny day, I believe I wanted to be the president of Great Britain.
One day, I joined a hippie group and just left. I returned after three years, and by then, the whole world had changed for me. My father was dead. My big brother Max had taken over the bar. He told me that our father died a year after I left, missing me. He gave me an envelope, inside which was a note from my father and 5000 pounds. It read ‘Make me proud.’”
Jeremy stops. His eyes are wet with tears, remembering his father.
“I am all right. I am all right.” Jeremy sniffles. “I didn’t know my old father loved me so much until I saw that note. It was just three words, but that said it all.”
“What happened next?” I ask, getting emotional myself.
“Then, I moved here to New York. My first job was a fry cook. I did that job for six months and realized it was not enough to even make me proud, let alone my father. But during that short stint, I fell in love with cooking. So, I joined a culinary school and graduated at the top of my class. Then, I got a job at a restaurant in Los Angeles. It was not a great job but a stepping stone. After working there for two years, I got the opportunity to work as a chef at a renowned hotel in Las Vegas. I finally was proud of myself and believed my father was smiling down on me from heaven. One day, after my shift, I was with my friends in the casino of that hotel, and there I met my future wife, Alexandra. She was a cigarette girl.”
“Excuse me!” I interrupt. “What’s a cigarette girl?”
“You don’t know what a cigarette girl is?”
“No idea.” I shake my head in a no. I have done enough reading in the last two weeks, but not once there was a mention of a cigarette girl anywhere.
“You know, girls in skimpy clothes, a tray around their neck.”
I still have no idea what he is talking about. Is this a big deal that I don’t know what a cigarette girl is?
“It’s not your fault that you don’t know about them. They were popular once, but now, you can only find a handful of them in Vegas strip clubs. But for the sake of my story, con
sider them as a cigarette seller on foot.”
I run my hand on the back of my neck and find it covered in sweat. “Do I smoke, Jeremy?”
“Well, yes . . .”
“I am getting sweaty. Feeling something like . . . an irritation. I think with all the talk about the cigarette girl, I am getting a craving to smoke one.”
“I am sorry, but after your accident, I flushed all the cigarette down the crapper,” he says, and then grinds his teeth. “I hate them.”
“Well, you did good,” I say, patting his shoulder. “Is there any nicotine patch in the house?”
“No. But I have something better,” Jeremy says while getting up, and walks towards the kitchen.
I don’t know what he has in his mind, but I hear him rifling through the drawers, looking for something.
“Found it!” And he rushes back hurriedly before my nicotine withdrawal symptoms progress.
“Cardamom?!” I say with surprise when Jeremy put a handful of cardamom in my hand. “Is this a practical joke? What would I do with them?”
“They are nature’s way of helping to quit the cigarette,” he says. “Just chew these slowly, and it will subside your urge to smoke.”
I trust Jeremy and pop cardamom in my mouth. It’s somewhat working. My craving is getting numb along with my tongue. “What happened after you met Alexandra?” I ask, moving around the half-chewed Cardamom in my mouth, savoring its taste.
“Magic happened. I heard the bells tolling. In that dark casino room, I saw her face radiating a divine light. I bought a cigarette from her, even though I didn’t smoke. As she was handing me the cigarette, our fingers grazed, and I felt a jolt of current. I didn’t waste any time and asked her out on a date. But she smiled at me and said no.”
“No?! Why?” I exclaim. “I believe you were a hunk of a man in your youth.”
“Oh, I was, and I still had my charming British accent back then.”
“And she still said no? I don’t understand.”
“Well, she was right in rejecting me. Sir, in my youth, I was more or less like you.”
Dreamy Distraction (Quest for Love Book 1) Page 5
