by Martin Clark
“So this stuff is going to make me high, correct? Giddy and fun? Carefree?” Mason was on his way to the beer.
“Do electric razors and Chia Pets command the stage at Christmastime?”
“That would be a definite yes.” Mason opened a beer. The metal cap hit the floor and rolled toward the tub. He chuckled. “It’s not even eleven o’clock, and we’ve got seven days of this in front of us.”
“Wake and bake,” Custis said.
“I don’t feel anything,” Mason declared. They were standing in the hallway, waiting for the elevator to arrive. “What’s it supposed to be doing?” He took a drink of beer. “Maybe we need to go back to the room. Or maybe your merchant on the beach took you for a ride without the Jet Ski. Sold you a bag of nothing.”
“From the smell of the goods, we’re okay on that account. Perhaps if your tight ass would relax and slide into it, we wouldn’t have to smoke a bail to get you buzzed.” Custis was wearing a shirt and swimsuit that matched, green, red and black, a “gay Jamaican’s pajama ensemble” Mason had teased. He’d added some beads and bright bands to his hair. The shirt was mostly unbuttoned, and he’d purchased a new pair of leather sandals for the trip. Mason could smell cologne.
“This is the worst elevator I’ve ever seen. We’ve been here for decades.”
“It does seem slow,” Custis agreed. “Any idea where the stairs are?”
A mother and her small son approached and stood beside them. The woman was holding the boy by the wrist, and he was twisting and squirming, his shoulders and nose red from the sun.
“The elevator’s not too swift,” Mason informed her. He switched his beer to the hand on the other side, away from the kid. “We’ve been waiting forever.” He smiled at her, then her son. She zipped him a stern look.
A moment later, she took a step forward and pressed the call button. It illuminated, turning white around a black arrow. Her boy peered up at Custis and Mason, and the elevator arrived almost immediately. Ding.
“Oh, wow,” Mason said. “Good thing you came along, ma’am.”
Custis was struggling not to laugh, his huge hands covering his face, looking out through spread fingers. He gestured for the woman and her son to go ahead. “We’ll take the next one,” he said, avoiding eye contact.
The doors shut, erasing the woman and child, and it was on, oh was it ever, the two men giggling and high-fiving, happy almost to the point of tears. Mason hadn’t felt so good in months, and by the time they found chairs at the pool, he was enraptured with the number pi, punching Custis’s arm and saying, “I’m serious, think about it, it’s this aberrant number, one of a kind, that goes forever, that never terminates or repeats. It can’t be stopped or finished, not by anyone. What an amazing fucking phenomenon—infinite, invincible. Damn.” He asked the waitress to bring him something “sweet and lethal,” and he and Custis enjoyed the sun, the warmth, the new scenery, the separation from home, both of them stoned as cats, their world rendered in concentrated colors and heavy outlines.
They ate plates of French fries for lunch and visited the room to smoke another joint. When they returned to the pool, a DJ was playing music and people were dancing and drinking, the resort afternoon starting to hit its stride. The DJ selected “Electric Slide,” and a rush of people, mostly women, popped up and started dancing. More vacationers trickled onto the pool deck as the song progressed, some with drinks still in their hands. Swaying, clapping, spinning, the group moved together, side to side, up and back, one large woman flamboyantly adding extra shakes and gyrations to every turn in the choreography, her giant rear and huge breasts jiggling like nobody’s business.
“Shit, Custis, here’s our chance,” Mason said, high and half-serious. He was propped up in a chaise longue, a fresh piña colada balanced on his stomach. “Though I have to admit I don’t know how to do the dance.”
“Well, that’s a plus. Here’s a little secret for you since you’ve been on the shelf a while: no man who does the electric slide is ever going to get laid. It’s a universal truth. Take a look at the pigeons and goofs you got out there. Ain’t a women alive who’s gonna be impressed by a bunch of stiff-kneed, upright, counted-out cracker moves—it’s barely above a hoedown. Barkin’ up your do-si-do and checkered-shirts tree. This shit is for the jesters and the wannabes on the undercard who don’t know any better. Don’t embarrass me.”
Mason set his piña colada on the ground. “I knew that,” he said, laughing until he began coughing. “So when do we make our move? We listening for Luther? The Bruce Lee Clan or whatever it was?”
“Wait for your pitch, Mace. Don’t need to be swingin’ at the slider in the dirt. Your man Custis will give you the assist. Try not to screw it up.”
As good as his promise, an hour later Custis had corralled three women at the pool bar, and they were traveling with two affable couples, all of them from a North Carolina doctor’s office, sent to Puerto Rico and the Wyndham every year courtesy of their plastic surgeon boss.
Custis beckoned Mason to the bar and introduced him to everyone there. Two golfers from Ohio, still in their long pants and knit shirts, joined the group, and Custis somehow recruited an attractive older lady who had been reading a paperback book by herself the entire day. He ordered a round for everyone, and Mason commandeered a waitress’s tray and served the drinks, a mock bow and a request for a tip following each delivery. By four thirty, after shots, ribald jokes and several slapstick dives off the board—predominantly cannonballs and jackknives—the celebration had moved to Custis and Mason’s room, more people along for the ride, twenty or so in all, strangers mixing free drinks and chugging beers, music blaring, the women in bathing suits and skimpy cover-ups, sticky with coconut-scented oil.
Custis and two of the North Carolina women found their way to Mason, who was pouring rum into orange juice and eating from a bag of corn chips. One of the women was named Liz; the other’s name he couldn’t remember, but he’d taken to calling her “the Contessa” because of the way she handled her Cosmopolitan at the pool, sipping it daintily with her pinky pointed away from the plastic cup. The women were tipsy and loud, very flirty, both attractive, and Liz hadn’t changed from her two-piece, was flitting around the room in flip-flops, a tattoo decorating her ankle, smoking cigarettes.
“Reggie says you guys know tons of celebrities,” the Contessa said to Mason. Custis had introduced himself as Reggie, and Mason was Holden, though Mason kept forgetting to use the aliases and caused everyone confusion. Having misunderstood him at one point, the golfers were addressing Custis as Festus, and naturally Mason became Marshal Dillon.
“You could say so. Yep.” Mason raised his drink. “Cheers. Everybody okay alcohol-wise?” His speech had started to slip, s’s and d’s affected the most.
“I told your skeptical self twice,” Custis retorted with feigned offense. “Now you gotta come and ask my partner. Being sports agents, you tend to encounter a few folks with a profile.”
“I thought you were lawyers,” Liz said. She was a blonde with short hair and slender legs and arms.
“We are,” Custis told her.
“You want a milkman doing your important sports-agent business?” Mason added. “Of course we’re lawyers. Ask me a legal question.” He took a swig of his drink and shuddered. “Whoa—little too strong there, bartender.” He scrunched his face. “Oh shit, I am the bartender.”
“So who do you know famous?” the Contessa demanded. She was blond also, taller than Liz, with longer hair. It might’ve been the dope, but it appeared to Mason that she’d had her lips and breasts altered. Probably a job perk.
“What we do is confidential,” Custis told her. “I can’t be chattin’ ’bout our clients to strangers at a cocktail party.”
“So we have to take your word, huh?” Liz pressed him. She was smiling, impaired, bullshitting and enjoying it.
“Reggie says you played baseball.” The Contessa was addressing Mason.
“I did.”
“College All-American, three years with the Mets,” Custis said, clueing his friend.
“True, true. Swing for the fences. That’s my motto.”
“I think you two are makin’ this up.” The Contessa pouted her exaggerated lips.
Custis shook his head. “My, my, my. Ye of so little faith. Wait right here.” He left, rummaged through his suitcase and located his cell phone. “You’ve heard of Deion Sanders, haven’t you?” he asked when he’d rejoined them, phone in hand.
“Sure,” said the Contessa.
“The football player,” Liz noted. She shook out a cigarette and touched Mason on the arm to ask if he had a light. He didn’t, apologized. One of the golfers tossed them a plastic Bic. She lit her cig and touched him again, seemed very close. “Do you guys have any tequila?”
“Afraid not,” Mason replied. “It’s one of those tastes you acquire as you get older. Like onions. Or black coffee. Or rare meat. We’re not that mature yet.” He laughed at what he’d said, his own rambling. Slightly dizzy and too warm, he set down his rum and orange juice, aware he needed to take a break. He opened a Coke and drank it from the can.
“So just to satisfy you ladies, I’m gonna put Deion on the line and let you say hello,” Custis announced. Try not to say somethin’ stupid, and don’t mention Tim McCarver. Not a word about Tim.”
One of the golfers overheard the conversation and sidled up beside the Contessa. “Sweet,” he said. “You know Neon Deion?”
Custis made a show of holding the phone in front of him and pushing two buttons. “Motherfucker’s on speed-dial—you could say I know him.” He placed the phone against his ear, waited. “Where Deion?” he said, his voice high, the tone purposefully aggressive. “Tell him his man Reggie’s callin’ from San Juan.” A knot of people had now gathered around Custis; the music had been switched off. “Deion, man, this is Reggie,” he said, evidently to someone on the other end. They bantered for several minutes, the exchange about a Porsche and a barbecue restaurant in Memphis. “Listen, ‘PT,’ I got a lady here wants to shout at you—it might raise Reggie’s stock if you say a word or two, if you take my meanin’. And don’t forget to call me about the variety show with CBS—it’s gonna happen.” He transferred the phone to the Contessa, and she talked awhile, laughing and sipping a beer, before telling the man on the line he could be anyone—how did she know he was really Deion? The golfers suggested a football question, which he correctly answered, and finally Mason heard her say, “Okay, I will,” and she disconnected the call and handed the phone to Custis.
“What? What’d he say?” Liz asked her. “Why’d you hang up?”
Mason was as ensnared as everyone else, buzzed and tripping, wondering about the conversation. He caught Custis’s eye but couldn’t read him.
The phone rang, and Custis turned it so the Contessa and Liz could view the screen. Mason craned to see as well. “Saunders, Deion” appeared on the caller ID. He answered the call after one ring, thanked Deion for the effort and said good-bye. “Deion says to tell you hey,” he told Mason. “You can check the area code, too, ladies—Atlanta.”
“Holy shit,” said the Contessa. “It really was him. Did you see that?”
“Impressive,” said one of the golfers. He slapped a high five with Custis, then Mason.
“I suppose now you’ll want me to call Columbine and prove to you we were there for two weeks, tryin’ to lift spirits and contributing free legal services to the families. Some sad, tragic shit,” Custis said somberly.
“You’ve convinced me,” Liz told him.
“Me, too,” Mason agreed, and everybody laughed.
As soon as he could, Mason pulled Custis aside and asked about the call. “So you know Deion? Really? How come you’ve never brought it up before now?” He dropped a chip on the floor and stooped to retrieve it. “How’d you do that?” he asked, tossing the chip toward an ashtray and missing.
Custis’s eyes were red. “I know my cousin in Atlanta, Deion Saunders,” he chuckled. “’Course drunk white folks at a party usually don’t catch the u, now do they? People go straight for the ‘Deion’ and hell, if they did pay attention, how many people know the difference? Sanders or Saunders. Deion and me, we’ve had that play for years, bread-and-butter, my man.” He bumped his Corona against Mason’s soft-drink can, a toast. “Custis has traveled all the routes before. Consider me your personal cartographer.”
“Shit,” Mason said. “Damn.” He toasted again. “Slick, slick, slick.” He laughed. “The maestro.” He swallowed some Coke. “Reggie.”
Before too long, Custis, Mason, Liz and the Contessa were in the bathroom with the pot, the women hell-yeah good to go when the dope was offered. Mason took only a small toke this time, not wanting to tumble off the revelry cliff and end up passed out before sunset. They made plans to eat dinner together, and Mason and Custis, with handshakes and promises to do it again tomorrow, shooed the party away, switching the CD to jazz, declining the golfers’ invitation to catch a cab into the city and hunt for a strip club. They showered and dressed and met the women at a hotel restaurant, ordering wine and Bailey’s with dessert. Together, they were the kind of voluble, high-flying foursome—large men, one black, with short-skirted blond women—that caused people to look twice or cheat their eyes over a menu and follow them to their table.
The hotel lobby was bygone elegant, in the vein of Batista’s Cuba: marble, chandeliers, polished wood, three energetic bars, live music, well-dressed people dancing with dramatic dips and cha-cha-cha feet and a dark-skinned man with a full mustache rolling cigars beside the casino entrance. Liz wrapped her arm inside Mason’s, and he escorted her to the center bar, the busiest of the three, where she ordered a martini that was impeccably made and served with a flourish. They tried the casino, roulette and blackjack, Custis doing his best to explain the smart strategies and Mason, sloshed and reckless, betting whatever felt good in his gut, somehow not losing his shirt.
Another trip to the room for pot and the night became spotty for Mason. He and Liz made it to the beach, a bedspread on the sand along a seawall, and he kissed a woman other than Allison, remembered it had been years and years, and it felt oddly good, the breeze and her mouth, the lights around them dots, low-hung bogus stars. They had sex, in the shadows, tucked into a hitch in the wall, close and restrained, the bedspread pulled over parts of them, people walking next to the ocean below where they were, the tame waves repeating the same sound over and over.
Mason passed out and woke up to several people quarreling by the pool, and he was lost, spinning, didn’t know where he was, stoned and drunk, and he guessed maybe he was in his front yard, near the barn. Allison was there with him, he could feel her, and he closed his eyes. “Oh shit,” he said, realizing it wasn’t his wife, his stomach stinging, his thoughts haywire. The woman with him was different, and it wasn’t the right neck or shoulder. The way she lay against him was foreign, too low on his chest. He dozed off again, sick and not sure of much.
The next time he came to life, a hotel security guard was crouching beside him, amused and kindly. “Hola, amigo. Good morning.” The guard had a flashlight but was merciful with the beam, keeping it away from Mason’s eyes. Liz was gone.
He revived enough to tell the man he was a guest at the hotel. He didn’t seem to have a key or all his clothes, and he wasn’t certain of his room number but knew how to get there. He recalled his own name and his wallet was still in his pants pocket, enough information to have him returned to their room after a walkie-talkie contact with the front desk. He slept until noon on gritty, sticky sheets, finally shaken awake by Custis.
“Rise and shine, Party King.” The Wu-Tang Clan was on the box, harsh as ever. “Nice to have you conscious.” Custis grinned.
“I feel awful. Uhhhh. Damn.” He dragged a pillow across his face. “How’re you so chipper?” he asked, the question muffled.
“Plenty of water, no hard liquor after midnight, food before bed. I’d
suggest you consider dialing your party back to a steady six or seven instead of red-lining it at ten.”
“Try zero. I’m done.” He removed the pillow. “You’re the fucker who kept at me. Kept pouring the poison down my throat and egging me on. Big of you to worry now.”
“I apologize.” Custis took a seat and began strapping on his sandals. “So’d you do okay with the lovely Liz?”
“As best as I remember, yeah.” Mason sat up against the headboard. “You?”
“Not as fortunate, I’m afraid. It’s one thing if you’re a white woman to dance and kiss and talk shit, bump and grind; it’s a different story to close the deal with Mr. Johnson. Black man’s got two battles to fight with a white girl—it’s tough enough to get any woman to sign up for a one-night stand, much less jump races.”
“Really? Huh. Seemed to me, Mr. Mandela, the only fight you had was keeping the Contessa from screwing you in public. Hell, Custis, she was grabbing your crotch in the lobby.”
“Trust me, it’s not as easy as you might think. ’Course, I’ve still got six days to make my case.” He finished with the sandals and stood. “But I’m happy for my buddy. Glad to see you catchin’ fire again. Not standin’ against the wall moping.”
“Yeah.” Mason swung his feet out of bed, sat on the edge with his head thumping. “It goes without saying it was bittersweet. And now I wish I hadn’t fucked her.” He put the heels of his hands against his temples and rubbed small circles. “I shouldn’t have done it.” He flopped back onto the mattress.
