by Ryan Schow
“You new to this city?”
“Just transferred two weeks ago,” the man says. “Although I am new to San Diego, I can tell you the names of every single street in New York.”
I smile, give him thoughtful eyes.
“Have you been to San Diego before?” the cabbie asks.
“When I was younger.”
“Well the Gaslamp Quarter District is in the heart of San Diego, only a few blocks from the famed San Diego Convention Center.”
“That’s where I’m headed after I check in.”
He drops me off; I give him a big bill and tell him to keep the change. He seems to appreciate this. Then he’s gone. Speeding up the street, off to his next fare, his next single serving customer.
The website says The Horton Grand is actually two hotels refurbished and brought together as one. What the site could not convey was how much character this place has. We’re talking gobs of it! The world outside the hotel is a bustling metropolis while the hotel itself might as well have been transported here from the roaring 20’s.
Situated across a narrow street from Fluxx nightclub (San Diego’s Best Nightclub) and Puravida Yoga (30 days for $30), this quaint section of the world has a slight New Orleans feel that leaves me with the impression that I’m standing in a world of its own, a delightful microcosm where each day boasts more than a few different seasons.
This will never be New Orleans, but it’s measurably better than San Francisco. As hard as I tried before coming here, I still couldn’t find a San Diego poop map, which told me it was okay to wear my good shoes. San Francisco, on the other hand, is so very much the opposite. Believe it or not, we have an actual “poop map.” As in human poop. Then again, anyone who knows anything about the city knows we have a homeless people problem. San Diego, it seems, is not beset with the same problems. Nevertheless, the way I’m feeling now, it’s obvious I’ve been stuck in San Francisco entirely too long. Honestly, as much as it sucks being away from Indigo, I’m starting to realize I desperately need this change of scenery.
Rather, my soul needs it.
Instead of dropping my bags in the lobby and formally checking in after the conference tonight, the concierge shows me to my room without even the presumption of an early arrival charge.
Check in for the event begins in the convention center at noon. I glance at my watch, realize I have just enough time to change clothes and head downstairs to Whiskey and Salt.
Whiskey and Salt is the beyond-gorgeous restaurant that boasts a rather broad selection of more than five hundred different brands of whiskey, scotch and bourbon. I won’t say I threw back too many drinks, but I had more than one and less than three. Anyway, I catch a cab to the convention center because it’s too late to take the heel-toe express.
The San Diego Convention Center is a line of massive glass and steel buildings, a gargantuan structure so long it feels like it could encompass half a dozen blocks in any other city. I wander around inside because I have time and a mild sense of adventure, but eventually I return to check-in, get my name tag and find a place amongst the dozens of available seats. The conference room is filled to half capacity, but there’s still time.
I keep checking my watch thinking if this thing starts, I won’t have to meet anyone. I’m not the brightest social butterfly in the room. I’m not even close.
Casually glancing around the room, I take in the occupants, spotting a few good looking women and some successful guys who look GQ “pretty.” It’s when an attractive young woman starts down my aisle and asks if the seat next to me is taken that I start feeling a bit uncomfortable. It’s not that I’m nervous around women, or even embarrassed by how shy or anti-social I force myself to be at times, it’s that she’s obviously not going to let me reside in my private little bubble.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hey,” I reply, non-committal.
She smiles at me the way a woman smiles when she’s a bit surprised by how good looking you are but trying not to let on. I think I might have that same smile for her. She’s more fit than she is good looking, but her looks are definitely pleasing. I’m not interested, though. That’s what I tell myself. This keeps things from getting complicated. I still have a daughter. An ex-wife. A life to build before it’s too late.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her looking at me. A fresh smile inches up my face. Slowly, I turn and meet her eyes. They’re gorgeous eyes. Brilliant green.
Oh, how I want to stare, but I don’t. Or do I? Should I? It would be okay, I tell myself. This isn’t the city and I’m not bringing her home to meet Indigo. Still, as a single father to a girl irrevocably changed by the loss of her mother to another man, I’m not all that anxious to venture into the waters of a new relationship, menial and brief as it may be.
Whatever I need, it always seems within reach: a relationship, a one-night stand, a woman who wants dinner and a movie but would frown if you asked her about puppies, sunsets or (heaven forbid) long walks on the beach. What I don’t need is to fall in love.
“Nicholas Platt,” I say, offering a hand, realizing I’m overdramatizing the event.
“Bailey James,” she replies, her grip firm but not overzealous. “You have an interesting look about you.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” she says, reaching out to take a lock of my hair. “I think I like it.”
I’ve always had longish hair (a style that sits somewhere between straight and curly) to compliment my more Italian look, even though I’m not Italian. It’s the heavy eyebrows, the deep brown eyes, the constant five day shadow. Most guys who grew up the way I did—on the back of a skateboard—they either buzzed their heads or grew their hair long. But me? I prefer it somewhere in between. Long enough to where it sits on my shoulders and I can pull it into a ponytail, but not so long that I look like a pot-smoker or someone’s hippie lovechild.
“My look is alright,” I say.
Modesty is perhaps my finest attribute, in case I haven’t told you.
“It’s different for sure,” she replies, teasing that lock of hair. She drops the curl, then lowers her eyes to meet mine. Smiling, she says, “Restraint suits you, Nicholas.”
In an attempt to change the subject, to keep the heat from stealing into my cheeks, I say, “So where are you from?”
“Sacramento,” she replies. “You?”
“San Francisco.”
“How do you get away with your hair that length while selling pharmaceuticals?” she asks. “And that beard.”
I get this question a lot. It’s what nearly prompted me to cut my hair a dozen times until I realized my clients just don’t seem to care because I’m personable, clean looking and I dress well for work. That and a lot of people know what I used to do for a living. They don’t care if I shave, only if I can get them a good deal and follow through with my commitments.
Shrugging my shoulders, I say, “I guess I just do.”
There isn’t much more to say, but who can fault us for a bit of small talk? She tells me she’s been selling pharmaceuticals for the last four years while writing romance novels she self-publishes on the side and I tell her I’ve been in sales for the last two years, even though it’s been more like eighteen months.
“I don’t write books on the side, though,” I add, just because…
“I didn’t think so,” she replies with a smile. She casts a sideways glance, like she’s studying me, trying to figure me out. Then: “To me you look more like the surfer type, but not in San Fran, and not with that hair and those eyes. So that might make you the skater type. But not a bum skater, maybe a guy who knows the back of a board as well as the back of his hand.”
And now she smiles. Like she knows…
“Look at you,” I hear myself saying. “Figuring it all out inside of five minutes.”
Yeah, she knows me. Knows I used to be a pro skateboarder. She doesn’t look the type to chase guys like me, but then again, how many things do we not know about the p
eople we meet?
“You ever skate?” I ask.
“Only to get with skaters,” she quipped.
“And did you?”
“Did I what?” she asks playing coy.
“Did you ever get with skaters?”
“Only this one guy. You’d probably know him, but you might not like him. Either way, it was a phase, you know? Like yoga or oxygen bars.”
Okay, so this girl’s got some personality. It makes me look at her a little differently, but I’m still not interested. This isn’t that kind of a trip. I’m here for my career, not my love life or my sex life.
“So what kind of a guy are you dating now?” I ask.
She gives me the wave of a hand and says, “Did you get your coffee today?”
“I did.”
“So what about you?”
“What about me?” I ask, feeling us making that connection.
“You dating anyone?”
She asks this like she’s trying to be casual, like she’s pretending she doesn’t care, but I get the feeling she wants to know more than she’s letting on. This five foot nine somebody isn’t completely transparent. And I’m thinking maybe this isn’t the way she meets everyone for the first time. Or maybe that’s the illusion. Have I been out of the dating world so long my ability to read a woman’s signals are off? Or does she want me to see one thing so I don’t see another? I’m not sure. Then again, I’m now certain I’m overthinking this entire thing.
“Single father,” I finally admit, not really married to the idea of opening the door to another woman, even one as cute and as sophisticated looking as Bailey. “So not so much on the dating front. It’s not really a priority for me.”
“Everyone needs a dose of the romantic unknown,” she suggests.
“I’d rather just raise my daughter right.”
She pulls back, eyebrows lifting in mock surprise. “Wow, a real man. Finally. And not even spoken for! You know something Nick? You just might be a California unicorn.”
I blush and say, “Like I’m the only single dad in California.”
“I forgot the part about you being good looking and employed, and conversational without wetting your pants while you’re talking to a relatively good looking woman.”
“Still not that rare,” I say, glancing around. Maybe my first instincts about her were spot on. Then again, if she’s hitting on me, it looks a lot like a girl comfortable with conversation and well versed in the art of paying compliments.
People are filling the conference room now. The levels of white noise are rising. Clusters of people are gathering in small packs around the room: old friends, colleagues perhaps, or just people who like to meet people—people who are the exact opposite of me.
“You should see the kinds of guys who talk to me,” she says, continuing the conversation.
“Oh?” I say, feigning disinterest. “And what kinds of guys are those?”
“Troglodytes,” she says. “Total spastic nerve bags. They muster the courage to come talk to me and then they stutter and get that shaky voice thing and it’s all bad from there.”
“You’re young and cute,” I say, haphazardly, “so I guess that’s not such a stretch.”
“You think?”
“You’re what twenty-five, twenty-six? Something like that?”
“You know it’s not polite to ask a girl her age.”
“Yeah, well manners these days are overrated.”
“Not true.”
“Totally true,” I tease, playful, finally holding her gaze.
Down the row, two more seats fill up leaving about five open seats left. In front of us, most of the seats have been claimed. I can’t help thinking I should’ve had my coffee after breakfast, not before. I’m starting to feel the wear of the day and the seminar hasn’t even begun yet.
“What’s to say I’m not twenty-one?” she asks.
“You’re not.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because my daughter is eighteen and twenty-one is not that far from eighteen.”
“Yeah, I’m not twenty-one.”
“That would be creepy,” I whisper, leaning close.
“Why would it be creepy?” she asks, her body now dangerously near mine. “It’s not like we’re hooking up or anything.”
“But you want to,” I say.
“With an ex-skater who’s got a daughter that’s not yet ten years younger than me? Yeah, that’d be creepy. But looks sometimes trump common sense in these sorts of things.”
“Naturally,” I say, sitting up. “Just not today.”
Now she stares at me, eyes trying to read me, ego trying to understand why I’m not doing what every other guy would do, and that’s throwing myself at the opportunity to be with her. But she’s in sales and I’m into good parenting, so like I said, one night stands aren’t my thing.
My eye is drawn to the sight of a guy heading down our aisle. He’s not small and he looks grossly out of place. We’re talking long beard, short hair, broad shoulders, eyes that look like they’ve got little patience for anyone or anything. He’s waiting for the people at the end of the aisle to notice him, stop talking and scoot their knees so he can get by. They see him and he smiles, but it’s a smile that speaks more about tolerance than kindness. When they move, he continues down the aisle toward us, barrel-chested and stiff. He walks like he’s military. It’s in his slash of a mouth, his big hands and a look that is every bit as cold as it is hard.
I’m still relatively new to this field and I never really considered myself a natural fit for this job. Truth be told, I’m more of a shorts and t-shirt, up-by-noon kind of guy. But this dude? Oh yeah. He’s definitely in the wrong field. We draw in our legs to let him pass, then he points to the chair next to me and says, “Is that seat taken?”
“It’s yours if you want it,” I say, somewhat grateful for the distraction. Then to Bailey, I say, “You want some coffee before this thing kicks off?”
The two of us have gone about as far as we are destined to go in this conversation, so right now a little distance should sour any thoughts to the contrary. I move to stand, but then I see another guy heading down the aisle for the last available seat and decide not to stand just yet. A guy like this, not quite cool and still a few notches above nerdy looks like he’d take my seat if he could. When I see his eyes, I know I’m right. His eyes are zeroed in on the empty chair next to Bailey. I don’t mean to frown, but I do. And I stay put. Waiting.
“Can I?” the guy asks, smiling down on Bailey who is not nearly as friendly to him as she’s been to me. This in itself is telling.
“Sure,” she says. “I guess.”
He’s kind of tall, a bit lanky and his hair is like a product commercial for guys with short, curly hair, or an ad spot in a high end fashion magazine whose core audience is goofy-hip. But the rest of this guy, he’s underfed and dressed nicely but not expensively. If I had to guess, I’d put him in his early thirties, but that’s only because he’s got a few lines around his eyes. Crow’s feet by the look of it.
Leaning my way, Bailey whispers, “See what I mean?”
Not receiving a warm invitation, but not being rebuffed either, the guy sits down. “I’m Quentin Ashcraft,” he says to Bailey, but not like he’s hitting on her.
“Bailey James,” she replies. Looking over at me she says, “This is my friend Nicholas Platt from San Francisco.”
“And who’s the big guy?” Quentin asks, looking just past me to the military stiff.
“Marcus Torrino,” he says, brightening up, but not in an obnoxious way. “Hi, guys.”
And that was that.
“Coffee anyone?” I say.
Marcus shakes his head but thanks me, and Quentin says, “If they have any donuts, will you grab me one? Chocolate or Maple glazed. But plain is fine, too. Or a blueberry crumb?”
“Anything else?” I ask, taken aback.
“No bro, thanks though,” he says. “That’s ro
ck solid of you. Seriously man. I’m super in starvation mode right now.”
Turning to Bailey, I raise a brow.
“I’ll go with you,” she says. “I’m running on empty myself.”
We work our way down the aisle, then head straight to the coffee and bagel bar which is surprisingly untouched. Probably because it’s almost noon and right now a burger or a hot sandwich sounds better than a Danish and a cup of Joe. She looks over her shoulder at me and says, “You want me to stay in front of you so you can check out my butt?”
With a jovial laugh, I say, “Yes, please, but only if you don’t get the wrong idea about me.”
“Which is?”
“That I’m single. Which I am. Even though I’m not if you catch my drift.”
“Sure thing, Nick. By the way, your kid, she got a name?”
“Indigo,” I say, pulling out my cell phone. I show Bailey a picture, which makes her smile.
“She’s cute.”
“I think so.”
“High school?”
“Senior. What about you?” he asks. “You have any kids?”
“I’m saving my womb for science.”
I can’t help but laugh. But I can’t help seeing her either. Her body is athletic looking, her face young and pretty and clearly new to womanhood. Plus, there’s a casual uncertainty in her that she masks with a bit too much confidence. Could it be she’s still somewhat insecure?
Maybe she’s an easy girl. Someone who finds it empowering to bed different people and often. This is California, so I’m not ruling anything out.
We get to the coffee and bagel bar and Bailey looks a long time at the Danish platter. The pastries are glazed just right. Some have a cream cheese filling; others are blueberry and raspberry flavored with fruit that’s probably as fake as a four dollar bill.
“If it goes straight to my ass,” she says, turning to me, “will you think less of me?”
Looking back at her butt I say, “Absolutely not.”
“See?” she says, socking me playfully on the arm. “California unicorn.”
We pour ourselves coffee, sweeten it just perfectly and that’s when we hear the first sounds of gunfire, followed by the crash of things breaking and a bazillion tortured screams.
