by J. J. Murray
The game ended.
Allison tried to get number 98’s attention, but he quickly skated away.
I know what you mean, man.
Matthew guided Allison out of the Garden to a cab.
“Allison, where do you live?” Matthew whispered once he had gotten her to sit up in the cab.
Allison looked at him through bleary eyes. “Aren’t we going to your place?” She pawed at his leg and missed.
Several times.
“I’d much rather see yours,” Matthew said.
Allison licked her lips in what she might have thought was a suggestive manner.
It wasn’t.
She looks like I look after getting a cavity filled at the dentist.
“I’d like to show you yours,” Allison said, giggling, “as long as you show me mine.”
Fortunately for Matthew and perhaps unfortunately for the driver, Allison passed out with her next breath.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“One sec.” Matthew dug into Allison’s purse and found her ID. “Two-forty-one Wythe Avenue in Williamsburg. And please take the L-I-E to 278.”
“I hear you,” the driver said.
Twenty minutes later, Matthew hauled Allison up the stairs of an anonymous apartment building, found her keys in her purse, tried twelve keys before finding the right one, and opened her apartment door. He hoisted her onto an all-white couch and found a light.
Ho . . . lee . . . shit!
“Isn’t this an apartment to die for?” Allison said.
Maybe to die in. This is Martha Stewart’s apartment. Everything is white, even the floors. He stared at several white bookcases crammed with hundreds of white photo albums. He looked at the white carpet under his feet. Who would put down white carpet everywhere, even in the kitchen?
Allison lurched to her feet. “I’m just going to something into slip more comfortable, Boo.” She giggled. “I said something into slip! Ha! I meant, I’m going to slip into something more comfortable. You sit there and wait on Mommy.”
I need to leave, I need to leave, I need to leave . . .
Matthew heard her fall heavily twice.
He heard her giggle twice.
He heard a door open and shut.
Maybe she’s gone to sleep. Should I leave now? I’m kind of curious what she’ll wear. Probably something white.
He heard a door open. He looked into the kitchen and saw her.
Oh . . . my.
Allison returned wearing only a gray sweatshirt pulled off one shoulder and some red high heels worn over footy socks. She settled to the floor in front of him and struck up a pose.
I am seeing a scene from Flashdance. Does she honestly think she’s Jennifer Beals? I wish I had a camera.
“You like what you see, Boo?” Allison asked.
You’re sexy as hell, yes, but really—footy socks and high heels? “Maybe we should get you into bed now, okay?”
“Bed. Oh, yes. We are going to have such a good time.” She reached up both arms. “Help me, Boo.”
Matthew helped her to her feet, and she slumped into him.
“Carry me,” she whined.
Matthew swung one arm under her legs and lifted her, one of the high heels clattering to the floor. He carried her into her completely white bedroom, and by the time he put her under her bright white covers, she was snoring, her Heineken breath smelling slightly like, well, pee.
She is so beautiful, but the socks . . . Wow. Oh, and the drinking, cursing, and “Boo” business. Not sexy at all.
He tiptoed out and passed a spotless dry erase board attached to her refrigerator.
It’s wrong to leave without saying good-bye somehow.
He picked up a black marker. What do I write? “Had to run away!” is the truth. She’s not a horrible person. She might actually be fun if she didn’t drink so much and say so many inflammatory things about my hometown, a place I hope she’s only visiting. Should I leave my number?
Matthew wrote, “Had a great time, sorry, had to run” and his cell phone number.
The “sorry” will soften the blow, I think.
He added a smiley face for good measure.
He locked the door behind him and walked out onto Metropolitan, turning south on Driggs past Angela’s place. That’s where I’ll be working late the next three nights. It’s where I belong after these last few weeks. Somewhere safe. Somewhere peaceful. Angela has always been good company.
Once inside his own apartment, he settled into his easy chair and watched SportsCenter.
He didn’t see Allison climbing the glass.
The phone rang. “Hello?”
“Where are you, Boo?” Allison cried.
The date that never ends. “I’m at home, Allison. Are you okay?” “Why?” she whined.
“Why am I asking or why am I at home?” Matthew asked.
“Why aren’t you here?” Allison moaned.
Because you’re a crazy drunk woman. “You needed your rest.”
“Please come back, Boo,” Allison said with a burp. “I don’t feel so good. The bed is tilting. I’ve already puked twice on my bedspread. It’s ruined.”
I feel your pain, but only a little. You’re the alcoholic who bought an impractical, bright white bedspread. “Allison, I’m really tired, too. Just . . . go sleep on your couch.” Where you might make a matching stain.
“You let me drink all that beer, so it’s your fault I’m sick,” Allison said. “You should have stopped me.”
“I hardly know you, Allison,” Matthew said. “And you’re a grown woman who should know when she’s had enough to drink.”
“I know, I know,” Allison said, and she began to cry.
For five minutes.
“I’m so sorry, Boo,” she cried. “I didn’t mean to yell at you. Do you forgive me?”
Forgiveness is the first step to reconciliation. I do not wish to reconcile with this woman. “Get some rest, Allison.”
“I just expected you to be beside me when I woke up,” Allison whispered.
And puked the rest of your chicken picatta and ten Heinekens on me. “Please get some rest, Allison. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Did you like my drapes?” Allison asked brightly.
She’s deaf when she’s drunk, too. “Yeah. They’re nice. So . . . white.” Why am I still talking to her?
“I love the color white,” Allison said.
Technically, white isn’t a color.
“Is your place as big as mine?” Allison said.
“Get some rest, Allison,” Matthew said.
“Where do you live?” Allison asked.
Do not ever tell this woman where you live! “Oh, wow, my cell’s battery is dying. I always forget to charge it.”
“Plug it in, then,” Allison said. “Oh, Boo, the next time you come over, you have to stay, and you won’t need a toothbrush. I have plenty of those in every color of the rainbow. Only a few of them have ever been used. Oh, do you like meatloaf? I make the best meatloaf.”
“Allison, I gotta go. Good night.”
“What size do you wear?” Allison asked.
What size?
“I have a closet full of men’s clothes from some of my exes who never came back to get them for some reason,” Allison said.
They were very wise.
“Oh, I have to write down our date in my diary,” Allison said. “Did you see my diaries on the shelves?”
Those weren’t photo albums. They were diaries. There must have been four or five hundred of them. “Allison, it’s very late, and I’m very tired.”
“Oh, is my boo tired?” Allison cooed. “I better let my boo go then. Sweet dreams with me on top.”
Matthew suddenly had a vision of Allison dry heaving on top of him. He winced. “Bye, Allison.” He ended the call.
A minute later, his phone buzzed.
Allison again.
He let it go to voice mail.
He had
to shut off his phone five messages later.
In the morning after a few hours of sleep, he listened to Allison’s messages as he shaved:
“Why won’t you answer? Oh. You’re probably dreaming sweet dreams of me on top of you. I need you, Boo. Call me anytime you want. You are my clouds on a sunny day. You are the wings beneath my wind. Did I get that right? Happy Valentine’s Day!”
He deleted the message and listened to the next:
“I’m making a heart-shaped meatloaf tonight, Boo. And afterward, we can go to Ikea, okay? It’ll be a fun Valentine’s date. I love Ikea. It is such a fun place to shop. Then we can go to my place and read all my diaries. I want you to get to know me so much! I know you’ll like what you read. I sometimes even draw pictures. I am the best doodler. You’ll see! See you soon!”
Ikea. A fun date. Wow. He deleted the message and listened to the next:
“I wrote a lot in my diary just now about you, Boo. Want to read what I wrote? You’ll have to come over to do that, silly. Call me soon, okay, or I might write bad things about you in my diary tonight. I’m just kidding. I know I won’t be able to concentrate at work today because I can’t get you out of my head! You can send the flowers and candy to the Bloomingdale’s on Broadway. Isn’t it amazing that I know you’re sending me flowers later today? Bye!”
It’s not amazing, Allison. It’s not even iconic.
It’s only sad.
He deleted the next fifteen messages without listening to more than a few words of each, with “Boo” the most popular greeting.
Very scary.
His phone buzzed again.
Very scary, indeed.
Chapter 11
Matthew’s phone buzzed all day Thursday and continued to buzz on Valentine’s Day as he stood rubbing his arms and stamping his feet outside Angela’s place a little before six AM.
Angela didn’t say a word as she undid the many locks and opened the door, ushering him to the middle booth, his eggs, bacon, and sausage already steaming on a large china plate, a large cup of coffee and a small plate of assorted of pastries completing the feast.
Matthew didn’t say a word as he sat.
His phone buzzed again.
Matthew turned it off and spun it on the table.
He nodded once to Angela, and he dug in.
Angela slid into the booth beside him. “The Rangers are decent this year, but whenever they play the Bruins, they fall apart.”
Matthew grunted.
Angela nudged his knee with hers. “How bad was it?”
Matthew swallowed. “The eggs are good. Nice and cheesy. Just the right touch of pepper, too.”
“I know,” she said. “I made them.” She put her elbows up on her half of the table. “Tell me how bad it was. I want to gloat.”
Matthew took a long swig of coffee and swallowed. “Angela, I can never turn on my phone again. I may have to change my number. I will most likely have to go around Williamsburg in disguise.” He stared out the window.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Angela said. “Did you bring me flowers, Matthew?”
“No, but Allison is expecting flowers and candy today.”
Angela rested her head on her hands. “So soon? I never would have guessed she’d be a stalker.” She batted her eyes. “You never guessed it either, did you?”
Matthew sighed. “How often did Allison come here?”
“Oh, half a dozen times. She always got two mugs, and I always cleared away a full mug after she left crying.” Angela smiled. “From the way you’re watching that window, you’re expecting her to come walking through that door any second.”
“I am.”
“You’re not afraid of that skinny thing, are you?” Angela asked.
Matthew wiped his lips and picked up a pastry. “Don’t let her size fool you. She’s insane, and even skinny insane people can do a lot of damage.”
Angela smiled.
Matthew sighed. “I know why you’re smiling.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You’re smiling because you were right, and I was wrong.” He sighed. “And now I have to clean this place for the next three nights.”
“That’s part of it.” She leaned back in the booth and put her hands in her lap.
“What’s the other part?” Matthew asked.
She raised her eyebrows. “I’ll let you know later.”
Matthew squinted at the front door. “I count . . . seven locks. Are they good locks?”
Angela looked down. “Yes. They’re the best.”
“The front glass looks thick enough.” Matthew bit into a pastry. “Unless Allison has a car. Do you have an alarm system with a screeching alarm?”
“I have a little sticker on my window that says I do,” Angela said. “The ADT alarm system I had died one year into a three-year contract, and despite calling them for months, no one ever came out to fix the problem because they said it was working fine at their end. I had four motion detectors, and none of them ever worked. I kept calling and calling, and then they concluded that lightning had hit my shop, and the maintenance contract didn’t cover lightning, so if I paid twenty-five bucks for a service call, and oh, I’m sure you need an upgrade. That’ll be another three hundred, ma’am.” She sighed. “It was pure foolishness.”
“Was this shop hit by lightning?” Matthew asked.
“No.” She smiled. “You look like you’ve been hit by lightning, though.”
Matthew shook his head. “Lightning just keeps striking in the same place for me.”
“Uh-huh. Do you really think Allison is insane?” Angela asked.
“Yes.” He shook his head. “She’s insane when she’s drunk and psychotic when she’s sober.”
“That’s some combination.” Angela crossed her arms and elbowed Matthew in the side. “When did you know for sure that she was crazy?”
“I think it was when she started naming her future daughters alphabetically,” Matthew said.
Angela shrugged. “That’s a little strange, but it isn’t necessarily crazy.”
“Amaryllis Anne?” Matthew said. “Bethany Barbara?”
“She’ll have her children stuttering their own names,” Angela said. “What else makes you think she’s crazy?”
“I am already her boo.”
“No,” Angela said.
“Yes,” Matthew said, nodding. “She’s expecting her boo to show up for heart-shaped meatloaf and a fun shopping trip to Ikea tonight, and she has two entire bookcases full of diaries. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases. There must be five hundred of them. We’re supposed to read them all tonight so I can get to know her better. She said if I don’t call her, she’ll write something bad about me in her diary tonight.”
“That isn’t crazy,” Angela said. “I used to keep a diary.”
“Were you in your thirties?” Matthew asked.
“I was twelve.” She shook her head. “She’s still not crazy.”
“How’s this: her entire apartment is white. The kitchen counters, the appliances, the carpeting, the furniture, the cabinets, the lamps, the drapes, the bookcases, the—”
“I get the picture,” Angela interrupted. “Okay. That’s a little . . . odd, but it’s still not crazy.”
Matthew glanced out the window. “I just know she’s going to stalk me.”
Angela picked up Matthew’s phone and turned it on.
It buzzed immediately.
“You see?” Matthew said. “Turn it off.”
“Wait a second,” she said. “I want to give her time to leave a message.” The phone beeped two minutes later. “I’ll bet it’s a juicy message.” She waved the phone in front of Matthew. “Does this have a speaker?”
“You want to listen to it?” Matthew asked.
Angela smiled. “I’m still gloating. Work with me, Matthew.”
Matthew dialed his voice mail, turned on the speaker, and set the phone on the table.
“Boo, can you hear me?” Allison asked
. “I’m in the shower!”
Angela howled with laughter.
“I only use Roberto Cavalli shower gel and coconut frosting shampoo!” Allison yelled.
Angela continued to howl.
Matthew had to admit it was pretty hilarious.
They heard the water shut off.
“I’m getting out of the shower now, Boo,” Allison said. “Don’t you wish you could see me? I bet you do. I’m all wet and naked.”
Angela stopped laughing.
Matthew listened a little closer.
“I’m putting on my Roberto Cavalli body lotion now. Don’t you wish you could see me—”
Angela shut off the phone. “Are all her messages like that one?”
Matthew shook his head. I shouldn’t have deleted the other fifteen !
Angela frowned. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t turn on the phone.” He nudged her knee with his. “So, is she stalking me?”
“She’s stalking you,” Angela said.
“What do I do?” Matthew asked.
Angela looked Matthew in the eye. “This has never happened to you before?”
“Never.”
Angela turned her head slightly. “I doubt that.”
Matthew smiled. “That was almost a compliment.”
“Almost.” Angela nodded. “I guess you can hide out here until I close. After that, you’re on your own.”
“Where does your back door lead to?” Matthew asked.
“Grand Street eventually,” Angela said softly.
“I may have to use that exit.” He looked at the grand opening sign now up across the street. “When’d that sign go up?”
Angela sighed. “Sometime last night.”
“You think they would have opened it a day earlier to coincide with Valentine’s Day,” Matthew said. “I guess pink clashes with red and yellow.”
Angela nodded.
And now she seems sad. Maybe this will cheer her up. “Do you have any Valentine’s Day plans, Angela?”
Angela looked at her hands. “No.”
And she has a shy streak. “Neither do I.”
“I hear the sewage treatment plant on Newtown Creek is offering tours today,” Angela said.
“No way,” Matthew said. Greenpoint has all the fun places to visit.
“I know, nasty, right?” Angela said. “And after looking at how they dispose of poop, they give everyone a Hershey’s Kiss.”
