by Rusk, Day
What had he thought, he tried desperately to remember. Oh yeah, if only I was twenty years younger.
Leonard watched as she ordered a drink and took note that he wasn’t alone in watching her; many of the men in the bar had noticed her; the women too, but with less enthusiasm; this woman brought back memories of first conquests and the first time these men had ever seen a woman naked and willing to sleep with them, but for the women at Tabby’s she was a reminder of what had once been, and how no matter how much the men around them claimed they liked a mature woman, deep down the firmness of youth still held their attention and desires. He could understand the regular women’s subtle animosity towards her; if some young guy, who had yet to develop that paunch around his mid-drift, had walked into the bar and all the ladies took notice, he’d probably be a little peeved; he didn’t need a reminder of what once was, only to face the reality of what is.
Leonard watched her for a bit, lost in the nostalgia of youth, but then turned his attention away. There was no point in leering like a fool. She was obviously in the wrong place and would figure that out sooner than later.
It was only after he had set his sights on an attractive forty something business woman sitting at a table by the bar’s front window, and was prepared to make his way over to her for introductions, that the younger woman approached him. He saw her coming around the end of the bar; she appeared to be heading for him, but that was impossible; his heart raced a little faster and he questioned the integrity of his blood pressure medicine, as he realized he’d been right and she was approaching him. His throat tightened, and he had to take a quick sip of his scotch, to wash away the dryness that had suddenly afflicted it; he hadn’t been this nervous in a long time. Despite having been out of the dating world for more than two decades, he’d fallen into a rhythm at Tabby’s that worked for him; he knew he was no great prize, but also knew, or at least believed, the woman he approached felt the same. They were mutually past their ‘best before’ dates, so they were on equal footing. She threw the bell curve completely out of whack.
He’d expected her to ask him something frivolous, like where is there a bar with people under thirty, or something like that when she’d actually asked him, “Buy me a drink?”
She laughed a little as he just looked at her. She had a smile that would have had him signing over the mortgage if he hadn’t all ready lost the house to his ex-wife. He figured he must have looked like a deer caught in headlights.
“A girl gets thirsty,” she said.
God, she was beautiful.
Leonard had forgotten the business woman by the front window, although deep down he knew they were better suited for one another. He’d heard about ‘leagues.’ His teenage daughter had brought them up while talking on the phone with her girlfriends. “He’s not in your league,” or “You’re out of his league,” stuff like that. Like any good parent, he stressed there was no such thing as leagues; he’d been full of shit, although he hadn’t realized it at the time. Being in a long term relationship, comfortable in your togetherness, and the predictability of your love making, made you forget a lot of things. Staring at this beautiful, young woman in front of him, he knew ‘leagues’ existed and knew he wasn’t in hers.
The woman was looking at him; she was waiting for him to do something.
“What’s your poison?” he asked. He knew it sounded kind of cheesy, but it was the best he could do. He had no idea why she was talking to him; why she was paying attention to him at all. He just wasn’t prepared for this; he bought her a drink.
That’s it, he thought, as he continued to try and move. He’d spent most of the night talking with her - small talk, nothing important. All he could remember was thinking, why in the world is this woman talking to me? He recalled scanning the faces of other men in the bar and seeing and sensing their jealousy. It made him feel good.
So what had happened?
She’d asked him to come to her place. That’s right. She’d invited him home, and he’d almost blown it. He couldn’t believe what was happening and had mentioned to her that he didn’t pay for sex; wasn’t interested in paying for sex. He figured she had to be a prostitute, why else would she be hitting on him and wanting to take him home? At first she looked hurt, but then smiled. She knew why he’d said it. She assured him she wasn’t a pro and was just looking for a good time. He’d believed it.
After that it got foggy. She’d given him something – a pill. He hadn’t wanted to take it, but was afraid he’d look pathetic and old if he didn’t. What had they said in his day, a “square?” He couldn’t believe this young, beautiful woman wanted to sleep with him, and he hadn’t wanted to ruin that by not playing along. He wanted her, and he was sure she knew it; he was also sure she knew that gave her the upper hand; he’d come this far and now he wanted to see what he had imagined when he’d undressed her with his eyes; see just how far off he had been. He swallowed the pill in her car, which had been parked, strangely, several blocks from the bar. She drove off, and that was the last he remembered; now his mind was a psychedelic mess; the effort it had taken to remember all that had left him in a sweat; he had no idea what was going on. All he knew was he’d fallen down the rabbit hole and was in a surreal world that his mind couldn’t comprehend.
Where was he? What the hell was going on?
Leonard opened his eyes and once again embraced the flow of colors, shapes and swirls that played out in front of him. It must be the pill, he thought. It had to wear off eventually.
The somewhat human blur came back into his line of corrupted vision; streaks of white and black moving towards him, and stretching out as if leaving a trail behind it.
“Who? Wha...?” he started to say, when suddenly a piercing pain struck the palm of his hand; the one that up till now he could feel, but at the same time couldn’t move. Aside from his scream, all he could hear was the sound of a little girl’s giggle.
The floor was sticky. She’d never liked that, even though it was part of the process; there was no way not to get dirty. It all washed off anyway.
She giggled.
chapter TWO
leslie MARSHALL exited the Lakeview Examiner’s building, his laptop bag comfortably by his side, and started making his way down McMurtry Street. It was a beautiful night, the temperature caught somewhere between the end of summer and not yet the full advance of fall and winter; on nights like this he enjoyed walking the few blocks from work to his condo, taking in the ambience of the city. He considered change, as it was on his mind this evening. Now, in his mid-thirties his perspective of the city that at one time had offered the promise of excitement and discovery when he was younger, was gone, replaced by a sense of comfortable predictability and quiet; the city was always alive, but its sounds, which annoyed others from the suburbs for instance, seemed to soothe him; he found the quiet within the chaos. Unlike the majority of his friends, he hadn’t relocated to those dreaded suburbs; possibly because unlike them, he had yet to marry, trading in today’s reality for the pre-requisite white picket fence, mini-van and two point five kids. It seemed to him that once you were married and reproducing the city had no more use for you and spit you out to the land of strip plazas and mini-malls. His greatest fear, one that kept him up at nights, was the thought of suburbia.
Leslie was enjoying the night and his walk, but an underlying tension was causing some mental distress; he knew he was in for it and he half dreaded the moment; at the same time, he also looked forward to getting it over with. Either way, if what he suspected was awaiting him, the night was going to turn ugly when he got home.
It didn’t take long before he was at front of his building; one of the more exclusive residences in the city; a reminder he had done well in life.
“Evening, Mr. Marshall,” said Maxwell, the doorman as he opened the front doors upon his approach.
“Evening, Max.”
“Working late again?”
“Not really, just avoiding life.”
&
nbsp; “As you know sir, you can run, but you can’t hide.”
Leslie’s stomach tightened; signs of apprehension. Maxwell knew his modus operandi well; they’d been together for quite some time; sadly, one of his longest and most successful personal relationships.
He made his way through the door. “’Night Max,” he said, not waiting for a response; luckily the elevator was waiting for him. Of course, he thought, any other night and I’d be waiting.
Leslie had been avoiding life for quite some time, but the problem with avoiding, was it was impossible to sustain. As Maxwell had so eloquently put it, “You can run, but you can’t hide.” He hated clichés, especially when they were right. Leslie hesitated outside his front door. The time for avoidance was over. He could all ready sense her presence.
He opened the door to darkness; maybe he had been wrong. He flipped on the light switch to the familiar sight of his tastefully decorated three bedroom apartment, plus den. He’d spent a lot of time pulling the place together; it was his sanctuary. It was masculine, but not overtly; there were touches here and there that often surprised many of his dates; well maybe not necessarily touches, but an attention to detail and order. He didn’t know what they expected to find in a man’s apartment, but always seemed pleasantly surprised when they saw how he lived - elegantly. It was home; it felt good, except for one little flaw – his latest lover, Donna Hudson, who had been sitting in the dark waiting for him, pissed off. Sooner or later he always drove them to the brink of their sanity.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” he said. His voice was even and calm; the dance had begun.
“Where were you? You knew tonight was important to me.”
“Sorry, working late.”
Donna let out a derisive laugh. “Working late? What, an emergency in the entertainment section?”
Leslie dropped his keys in the antique Chinese porcelain bowl, with an armorial crest he hadn’t bothered researching, that he kept by the door. It seemed frivolous that he was using it as such, but also rebellious in its own way; a little fuck you to the world of antiques and those who took them too seriously. He took a second to put down his laptop bag. The whole time he could feel her anger cutting into him, her stare intense and demanding.
“So, how is everyone?” he asked. That should do it, he thought.
“Fuck you, Leslie,” said Donna, standing up. “I’m tired of your bullshit. Tired of it all.”
He just looked at her, saying nothing. This was what he expected; what he had, in his own indifferent way, orchestrated. He knew his part well; it wasn’t to contribute, but to take what was rightfully being dished out. The only problem with that, as in the past, the less he said only seemed to make her angrier.
“That’s it. It’s over,” she said, as she made her way to the front door. Leslie just watched her. He’d expected more, but then again, he knew Donna; she was a class act; she was emotional but wouldn’t get as emotional as some of the women he’d known in the past.
She hesitated at the door, her hand on the doorknob. He remained quiet, waiting. Donna turned to face him. “I’d say have a nice life, but with you, that just isn’t possible, is it?” she said. “I guess what I really want to say is...”
Leslie continued watching her, silently. He didn’t want to interfere. This would be a cathartic moment for her, and he figured he at least owed her that.
“...damn you. Just go to hell, Leslie.”
Donna opened the door and left, surprisingly not slamming it behind her; she was a class act. Leslie made his way over to the mid-century English Cocktail Trolley he’d purchased with the help of another lover, although at the moment her name escaped him, and poured himself a Macallan Highland Scotch Single Malt, neat; to his mind, comfort food. He knew he should chase after Donna and apologize; she’d paid her dues, spending more than a year with him – his longest relationship with a woman in a long time – but he wouldn’t.
He took a sip of his scotch.
Donna was smart and patient. She’d been the first woman in a long time who actually called him on his shit. All those little games he played – couldn’t help playing – she saw through it all; and, for a little while that had been good for him. But what is it they say about an addict? They often had to hit rock bottom before they’re truly ready to change their ways. Some probably hit rock bottom and rode their demons straight to hell, he figured, never making any excuses for their flaws. If Donna, who had made an effort couldn’t get through to him, chances are he’d unknowingly bought a one way ticket to the cellar.
He’d made a conscious decision to be late tonight. She’d been right; there was very rarely any breaking news in the world of entertainment. It was a pretty straight forward gig. Donna had planned a dinner with some important people in her life, co-workers he believed, and had made him promise he’d attend. She’d also given him more than ample notice just to make sure he didn’t make any plans or could come up with any excuses. Even as he sat in his office working on his latest novel, he knew exactly what he was doing – knew he was letting her down, yet again. The funny thing was - or was it the saddest thing - he didn’t care.
Things had been getting a little too serious for comfort. After a year of being a committed couple, Donna shouldn’t have expected less. What she didn’t know was she was asking too much of him. He had hit his threshold. So he had skipped the dinner aware there’d be fallout and it’d be the straw that broke the camel’s back. He’d seen it before with other women, and had actually known then when it was coming. Donna had been different. It’d taken several straws to break her back, but he had finally achieved that goal.
Some of us just aren’t cut out for relationships, he thought as he sipped his scotch.
In truth, he didn’t want to be the way he was; he just couldn’t help it. His demons ran deep and had been with him for quite some time. Another long lasting relationship, he thought.
Leslie made his way to the study. It, like the rest of the house, was tastefully decorated; anyone roaming the halls of his condo would determine he was a man of culture and taste, which he believed he was. He discovered a long time ago that he enjoyed a certain lifestyle and had worked hard to ensure he could afford to live that lifestyle. It hadn’t always been easy, based on his childhood, but he had risen through the ranks and through sheer determination found himself in a place where he no longer had to worry about a pay check. His work at the newspaper was something he enjoyed, and would do for as long as he still enjoyed it. It also gave him access to information he required from time to time – his hidden passion or was it his hidden hatred. He’d been accumulating the file for years and hadn’t the slightest idea what he wanted to do with it; it was an obsession; he just didn’t know if that obsession was going to lead him anywhere.
Music seemed to soothe his soul. He moved to the player and popped in a favorite Diana Ross and the Supremes anthology CD. He quickly programmed it to start at track 13, and then shuffle after that.
Nothing but heartaches,
Ooh, nothing but heartaches,
He brings nothing but heartaches...
The Supremes were preaching to the choir, he thought as he allowed their sound, the sound that always reminded him of his youth and his Dad, wash over him, relieving some of the tension from his body. His Dad had been a fan; he could remember his Dad standing him between two speakers in their family room and putting on The Supremes I Hear a Symphony; telling him to close his eyes and let the beauty of the music engulf and overwhelm him. His Dad believed anything Motown had the power to wash away one’s troubles; he’d never forgotten that, and now used the Detroit Sound to help relax him; it not only brought a certain energy to his being, but an element of nostalgia; the music brought with it all the good memories.
Leslie made his way to the desk, taking just a brief moment to scan one of the bookshelves featuring his Detective Brannigan mystery series. He was presently working on the seventh volume featuring the adventures of his flawed Chicago De
tective; a popular series of books that had rewarded him financially. It’d been the second book that had truly taken off, hitting the best seller lists, and since then there’d been no looking back. And Leslie loved it. He’d learned early in life that if you’re not smart life controls you and can take you places you don’t want to go. He could remember the feelings of helplessness; it still cut him to the core. How he’d gotten where he was today, based on all he’d seen, he had no idea. What he did know was that when he sat down at his word processor and began typing, he was the one in control. He was God. His characters did what he told them to do and he held the power of life or death over all of them. Sure, sometimes the story took a weird turn and they led him down an unexpected path, thinking they were in charge, but for the most part they were his playthings, owing their very existence to him and him alone.
He had no idea why the series had become so popular. His detective, Brannigan, was flawed and even at times unlikeable. Much like him, he couldn’t deal with relationships and was constantly losing the good women who came into his life; he drank a little too much and even flirted with drug use. He was bright, but not Sherlock Holmes smart; and while he was a tough guy, he didn’t always win in all his confrontations. He was human. Maybe that was the appeal? Brannigan was also haunted by his own nemesis, a street thug who had risen to the rank of crime boss; a character he created named Anastasia, after Albert Anastasia, the Lord High Executioner for the Mob in its glory days. No matter what Anastasia did, Brannigan couldn’t bring him to justice; no one in his books could. Of late he’d been toying with the idea of making his protagonist simply kill Anastasia; sure, he’d be making him a killer, but maybe that’s what was required. He’d been patient long enough; maybe it was time to take justice into his own hands. Possibly it was the only way to resolve some problems.
