Swimming with Bridgeport Girls

by Anthony Tambakis

  Only I wasn’t, because once the Memphis PD got us to the Poplar Street jail, they never bothered to fingerprint us. They just tossed us in the drunk tank, either because that’s what they do down there when people do stupid shit like try and break in to Graceland (and let’s face it, that kind of nonsense probably happens all the time—I even heard a story about Springsteen doing it when he was younger), or because they didn’t feel like doing the paperwork the morning of the Fourth of July, or because Benny insisted on dropping Boyd Bollinger’s name every thirty seconds, which annoyed me immensely but may have been responsible for there being no fingerprints or mug shots taken, which would turn out to be a bitter irony for the old bastard once I took L back. Whatever the reason, I seemed to have lucked out, and was somehow in a better situation than Benny, who had to call his wife and tell her where he was (though not who he was with). When he got out, I’d have him call Renée and tell her where I was. I might still be alive yet.

  We leaned against a wall as far away from the aluminum toilet as possible, though the cell wasn’t any worse than the bathroom at Wet Willie’s.

  “Can I tell you something about Skittles?” Benny said, slumping against the wall, his buzz gone. “She made me feel alive. I’d fucking do it again if I had the chance. I’m not kidding. I’d install chairlifts for the rest of my life for one more bite of that apple.” He looked at me. “Bukowski said that every man has a woman who put him under a bridge,” he added.

  “Or at least in a Motor Lodge,” I said.

  “You know—Jordy and I hadn’t had sex in I don’t know how long before I met Skittles. Porn ruined me, to be honest. It changed my expectations in a fucked-up way. You watch enough high-end porn with enough Russian tens, and the real thing starts to feel weird. Everything’s imperfect. Too fat. Too hairy. Too loose. It looks like what it is instead of what it could be. But Skittles? That was what it could be.”

  It was another area we didn’t have in common. I loved L’s body, and our sex life had never come close to waning. I thought that maybe I’d introduce Benny to Renée. She was right up his alley.

  I knew I should have been thinking about my next move, what I was going to do when we got out of there, but I was too tired. I was coughing up a storm (an effective tool when you’re in a cell, since no one will mess with you); had no idea when we were getting out; and if Jordy had heard stories about the previous evening from any of the girls and took a guess who Benny was in jail with, then I might never get out at all. The best course of action seemed to be to sit there, let our clothes dry, and see what happened.

  “At least we got to see the Lorraine Motel,” Benny said.

  For a guy who had never been to jail, he seemed very comfortable. Of course, that might have just been complete resignation revealing itself. He looked around the cell. A few white guys with terrible ink were passed out on the cement floor.

  “You know, deep down, everyone thinks they’re creative,” he said. “It’s a common human conceit. But all you have to do is look at your average tattoo to know that’s a fucking lie.”

  I smiled, but I was tired, and eventually we ran out of steam, closed our eyes, and crashed out seated against the wall, until around noon, when we heard a guard yell, “Fowler! McFarland! Let’s go!”

  I was delirious and looked around the cell for McFarland until Benny elbowed me and said, “You’re McFarland, genius.”

  We walked out into the harsh light of a sweltering Memphis afternoon. Jordy was standing in front of a rented Chevy Malibu, arms crossed, but she was too far away to recognize me.

  “You better go, man,” Benny whispered to me. “Head any direction but this one.”

  Before I could make a decision, she started walking toward us. Either curiosity or instinct had gotten the better of her. She wanted to get a look at Benny’s Graceland buddy.

  “Shit,” Benny muttered. “The jig’s up.”

  Jordy marched up the stairs. Took off her sunglasses. Stared at me.

  “You wait in the car,” she said, handing Benny the keys to the Malibu. “You can turn around, Ray. You’re going right back inside.”

  I didn’t move. She shrugged. Marched toward the entrance of the police station. Benny handed me the car keys. “Go,” he said. “Take the car.”

  “You sure?”

  “Go. I honestly don’t give a shit anymore.”

  I was hesitant. Running from the police station didn’t seem like a great idea, but neither did making off with Jordy Fowler’s car.

  “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “It’s over anyway. She’s never going to forgive me. And let’s face it: I’ll be fine. She’ll make my life miserable over Chloe, but what can you fucking do?”

  He hugged me, and then I ran down the stairs and hopped into the Malibu. It had a nice new-car smell.

  “Ray!”

  I lowered the driver’s-side window.

  “L’s getting married tonight!” Benny hollered. “Nine o’clock. Peabody Hotel.”

  I nodded. Punched the gas. Drove away from the jail and adjoining courthouse as calmly as possible. I must have passed no fewer than a dozen patrol cars before clearing the complex and rolling into the parking lot of a First Tennessee Bank and checking my messages. I had received either texts or calls from pretty much every single person in the United States except Renée. She was either in the air or had found the batteries to the remote.

  I knew I wouldn’t be able to just stroll into the Peabody and talk to L. Word was out that I was in town, and the cops would be none too happy when Jordy told them that they’d just let Ray Parisi walk. I figured it was time to change my hair color again, so I zipped into a Walgreens, bought some Just For Men Real Black 55, and went to the bathroom at a nearby RaceWay station to do another dye job. It didn’t turn out to be much of a change from what I currently had, so I went back to the Walgreens, grabbed a Norelco home-grooming kit, returned to the RaceWay bathroom, and gave myself a buzz cut.

  Satisfied with my decision, I strolled back out to the Malibu, which I had parked behind the station, and then looked up when I heard a buzzing in the sky. Above me was an old biplane pulling a banner advertising Fourth of July drink specials at none other than Wet Willie’s.

  I had to laugh. Things come full circle somehow. I had hired exactly that kind of plane to propose to L out in Montauk years earlier. My friend Matty Besser had just started his own skywriting business, and he’d offered me a great rate to give him a try and be his first client. I didn’t think it was the world’s most original idea, but he sold me on it pretty aggressively, so I took L out to Montauk on the Jitney, ostensibly to celebrate her finishing undergrad. We had agreed that we’d wait until she’d finished at Emory and possibly even gotten through law school before we got married, but I couldn’t wait, so I borrowed some money from a friend in Atlanta (Marty Tepper, now that I think about it), bought a ring, and arranged everything with Matty Besser the weekend before L was to start up at Yale. I called Lucille and told her about it, since L didn’t have a father to ask for permission, and she started blubbering over the phone. She was a real romantic, Lucille, and loved the Montauk plane idea, though again, I didn’t think it was very original and thought about abandoning the plan the entire bus ride out there before deciding to go through with it, mostly because I really wanted to ask her but couldn’t think of a better way to do it.

  We walked along the shoreline at sundown. My heart was pounding, and I was trying to engage in normal conversation without giving away what was coming up. I knew she’d say yes, I knew she loved me, but I was still terrified. I kept glancing up, waiting for the biplane to appear on the horizon, and finally it did, gliding through the late-afternoon sky with such elegance that it was all I could do not to stare at it and give things away before the writing started. It looped and twirled, and suddenly smoke began to trail behind it.

  W I L

  W I L L Y

  W I L L Y O

  W I L L Y O U M

  L
looked up, a smile beginning to crease her perfect face. After the M, more smoked poured out, but it just spat into the sky without form, and then came a sputtering, the sound of the engine dying, and soon all was silent. The biplane glided along for a few moments, and then it spiraled toward the water. Matty leaped out, opening a bright red parachute, and drifted down as the plane plummeted, crashed into the water, and broke into pieces. There was nothing left of it. Matty continued his leisurely descent, easily maneuvered the parachute, and landed in the shallow water not twenty yards from where L and I stood, mouths agape.

  After the authorities came and the cleanup began, we went back to our hotel for dinner. Since Matty was fine and no one was around to get hurt, we both realized that we had one of the great proposal stories of all time on our hands. An unoriginal idea had turned into a wholly original story. We were so excited to start telling the tale to our friends and Lucille, first and foremost, that I forgot to actually propose. We were done with our entrées and perusing the dessert menu when L sighed and said, “So I’m assuming you have a ring?”

  We delighted in telling the story for years. It symbolized everything that we felt was unique about us. Countless people said it should be in a movie (which it was supposed to be until I started surfing with Cyrus instead of writing with his brother). And then years later, when L returned from Myrtle Beach, she started framing the story in an entirely different manner. She began to view the Montauk incident as a tale of foreboding, a glimmer of impending doom, not something to be celebrated as an anecdote but rather an ominous and portentous sign that never should have been so blithely ignored. This was the kind of revisionist history I was up against.

  After I gave myself the crew cut and climbed back into the Malibu that Jordy Fowler no doubt had already reported as stolen, a wave of texts poured in from Renée. She had just arrived in Memphis, and all her messages must have been backlogged. There were a slew of “where r u?” “whatz goin on?” “R U OK?” missives, and then a picture of ducks swimming in the fountain of a fancy hotel. “at the peebody. wait n 4 u in lobby! where r u?” read the last one.

  Well, what do you know? She had gone to the Peabody because the ducks were cute, no doubt, and had accidentally stumbled into where the wedding was. This was ideal for me, as I couldn’t really show my face there, shades and black buzz cut or not. Renée had come through, and while I should have been pleased that I’d had the foresight to have her fly to Memphis when I was about to be arrested, the more I thought about the entire situation, the more enraged I got. L thought she was going to sneak off and get married without me finding out about it? No way. Not in this life, and not in any subsequent lives, either. I kicked myself for wasting time partying in Vegas, but I tried not to dwell on that and instead remembered that I was the guy who’d gone from having about a hundred bucks on Wednesday to having $2 million on Saturday. How many people have ever been able to say that? And how many people would have had the instinct to get a fake ID that ultimately saves their bacon? And how many people would have not only figured out that something was fishy on the Boyd front, but also discovered where the fishiness was taking place? I had done the impossible and still had eight hours left to find L. All in all, I was doing pretty damn well, wasn’t I?

  I texted Renée, told her to stay where she was, got directions to the Peabody from a trolley driver, and parked the stolen car deep in the hotel garage. I put on my shades and walked upstairs into the lobby as carefully and quietly as possible. My clothes had dried, the cough had subsided, and my buzz cut made me feel anonymous, if only because it was so new to me. I’d never shaved my head before, and it made me feel a little like an outlaw, which I guess is what I was.

  It was an old hotel, luxurious by Memphis standards, and again, it must have been something to see in 1972. In the center of the room was the fountain Renée had sent me pictures of, but there were no ducks swimming in it. I saw a uniformed cop milling about by the concierge stand, and over near the elevators stood another uniformed cop. In the lobby bar, a cluster of people in hideous patriotic garb drank Bloody Marys and mimosas. I recognized some of them, but there wasn’t an Ally to be found. On the bar TV, highlights from that morning’s Coney Island hot-dog-eating contest played. (I participated in the event on my show years earlier, managing to choke down seven Nathan’s Famous hot dogs before I vomited, delighting and disgusting the enormous Stillwell Avenue crowd in equal measure.)

  I finally spotted Renée sitting by an old woman playing the piano. She was wearing red-framed Wayfarers, an American Flag slip dress, and red, white, and blue Chuck Taylor high-tops. While there were a lot of aggressively patriotic outfits on display throughout the Peabody, none of them came close to touching Renée’s. She looked like the Founding Fathers’ wet dream.

  I walked around the corner to the gift shop, which was basically to ducks what the Graceland shops were to Elvis, and texted Renée: “Come to the gift shop.” Two minutes later, she strolled in. And walked right past me.

  “Pssst. Renée.”

  She turned. Looked right through me.

  “It’s Raoul.”

  After a professional double take, she got it. “Holy disguise! I mean, whoa. You look soooo different. But still totally hot. Like, Channing Tatum hot.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You like my outfit?”

  “It’s outstanding,” I said. “You’re the American Dream.”

  “Hey—I found out about the ducks. It’s this whole thing. You wanna hear about it? It’s, like, totally tradition here. Wait—why do you look like that?”

  “My sister has turned everyone against me. I have to be very careful,” I whispered. “They don’t know what I know about this guy.”

  “Has he killed somebody?”

  “I’d, you know, rather not say,” I said.

  “Cheese and rice, Raoul. Your sister can’t go marrying a psycho,” she said, taking off her glasses and wiping them on her dress. “This is getting so Law and Order. I love it. What’s the plan?”

  I looked at her. Obviously the plan was to find L, but I wasn’t sure how to do that. One thing I was sure of was that I needed to have the money with me when I did find her. I couldn’t just tell her about the Kinder House Plan. I had to show her. Once she got a look at what I’d done for her, I’d be home free, but I needed to get that bag of cash. Two million dollars would say a lot more than I could, especially since I looked like my own ugly twin who had been dragged behind a car for six miles.

  “I think I’m gonna get one of these duck tote bags,” she said. “Which one you like best?”

  I looked at the rack of bags. They all featured ducks. “I’m leaning toward the one with the ducks.”

  “Hardy-har.”

  I bought Renée a tote, texted the pilot, and we cabbed it out to Wilson Airfield. There’s a distinct possibility that Renée was even more excited than she had been at the Forum Shops. She had somehow become part of a grand adventure with a rich and colorful character, and most important, he needed her. He had sent for her, and if he needed her this much after just a couple of days, how much might he need her in the days ahead? There were two people in that taxi carrying grand visions of the future. Futures full of adventure. Of romance. Of the world as it was meant to be. But the fact of the matter was that there was room for only one happy ending there in Memphis, and let’s face it: This was my dream. This was my story. Renée deserved a lot more than a duck tote bag for her troubles (hell, she deserved her own miracle, just like I did), but that wasn’t something I was thinking about. I’d like to say I was, but it’s not true. The clock was ticking. I had to get to L. Nothing else mattered.

  Nothing else had ever mattered.

  YOURS AND TERRIFIED

  September 15

  . . . he was one of the most beautiful writers who ever lived. Maybe the most beautiful of them all. I think Gatsby is the only perfect book ever written. Not a word wasted. But that oft-quoted line of his about there being no second act
s in American lives? That was just wrong. It seems to me that there’s nothing but second acts in American lives. It’s our whole narrative . . .

  RENÉE AND I MET THE pilot at the plane, got the duffel bag of cash, and headed back toward the hotel in the blistering heat. The jet would be leaving at ten P.M. with or without us. On the way back, we decided on a plan. I’d wait in the rental car and stay out of sight while Renée hung around the lobby bar and tried to find out where in the hotel the wedding was taking place and where Boyd Bollinger and L were staying. Once I got that info, I could figure out a way to get L alone (this part of the plan had to remain flexible), make my case, and get back to the plane by the deadline. Would there be a lot of crap to sort out after? Sure. But according to some texts from Maurice, the jockey was going to make a full recovery, I didn’t have any priors, and my wife knew all the best lawyers in New York. It’d be a hassle, but with L back, what did a couple of court appearances and some community service matter? I was planning on doing a lot more volunteer stuff anyway. It obviously mattered to L, and now that I understood that, I could make the necessary adjustments and be a better citizen and partner. This was how people grew, right?

  It was stifling hot in the garage, so while Renée went off on her assignment, I ducked across the street for some barbecue. I was too wound up to eat, though, so all I ended up doing was taking out my phone and Googling “Ray Parisi Wanted.” Let me tell you something: You don’t want to get into trouble during a slow news cycle. It was too early to care about presidential politics, there were no climate-related catastrophes burying poor people in mountain regions, and no one had gotten beheaded in a few days, so my story was getting way more play than it might have under different circumstances. I clicked on a Huffington Post article. There was a video with an interview. The place looked familiar. So did the guy being interviewed. It was none other than the Sarge.

  “You want it straight? There’s something wrong with Parisi,” he barked. “Knew it the second I laid eyes on the guy. He’s weak. No character. No toughness. Just like that one over there.”