Chelsea Avenue

by Armand Rosamilia

  “Sure you don’t want something stronger, sir?” the flight attendant cooed, flipping her blonde hair behind her ear.

  “I’m fine.” Rick put his soda on his tray and opened his magazine to a random page until she pushed her cart to the next aisle.

  “They have to bother you, right?”

  Rick looked up and smiled at the woman next to him, swishing her rum and Coke in a cup. She looked like this wasn’t her first. She was quite attractive, probably in her late twenties.

  Rick put his head back down in his magazine and grinned.

  “What’s so funny?” the woman asked, leaning over the armrest separating them.

  Rick took his time turning to the woman and plastering a smile on his face. “I was just thinking of something funny from the last time I was on a plane.”

  “And what is that?” she smiled and exaggerated her eyes with long blinks.

  “The last time I was on a plane,” Rick said as he leaned toward her, “there was a beautiful woman sitting next to me on that flight too.”

  The woman laughed too hard and tossed her hand in the air before settling it on Rick’s arm. “Do tell.”

  Rick was about to use the Maverick lines from the movie Top Gun but couldn’t remember them well enough anymore. He’d used them before on women like this, women who didn’t have a clue that he was quoting cliché movie lines to get in their pants. “I just find you very attractive.” He smiled again, his perfect teeth catching her eye. “It’s a shame that I’ll be flying into Chicago but only staying there for four hours before my next flight out to Vancouver. I would have enjoyed getting to know you.”

  “Four hours, you say? Plenty of time to get to know me.” She squeezed his bicep and grinned. “You’re a pretty big guy under that suit jacket. What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a sports agent. I’m flying up to Canada to visit with a potential client.”

  “You’re like Jerry Maguire?”

  His smile faded for a second, and then he looked away and cleared his throat. If I had a dime for every person who ever mentioned Jerry Maguire when I mentioned my job, I’d be rich. He detected a Tom Cruise theme for the flight and laughed at his own joke.

  “You’re laughing again,” she said.

  “I do that when I’m happy.”

  “What are you happy about?”

  “Life is good.” Rick winked. “You seem very nice. What’s your story?”

  “Not much to tell. I’m heading to Santa Monica to see a friend. I was born and raised in Binghamton, New York. That’s it.”

  “Nice.” Rick acted like he hadn’t noticed the woman slip off her wedding ring as she spoke and pocket it. What did he care? She would be another notch on his belt, a pretty distraction between work assignments. He already had this kid in Canada all but wrapped around his finger, images of signing bonuses and buying the big house for his parents and all the ladies climbing over him. Rick was going to get a signature, take the family out for a steak dinner, and then fly back to Baltimore, catch an Orioles game or two, and relax until the next high school superstar was born.

  “Did you play sports yourself?” she asked.

  The question was always a blow to Rick. Usually, he got it when he was tired and his pronounced limp was more noticeable. Even at thirty-nine, he was in excellent shape. He worked out five times a week, even while traveling, and hit a tanning salon in the bigger cities. His looks were what made it for him, and he knew it. He was built like a football player with big, broad shoulders.

  “I played high school football, but I broke my leg.” Even with over twenty years distance between then and now, he could still remember the sound of his leg snapping. The Thanksgiving Day game between his high school team and their cross-town rivals was always an intense one. You played against the guys you played with in junior high, and the bragging rights of the winning team went all year. Rick, as star running back, had already scored seven running touchdowns and caught another two in a lopsided blowout, the most they’d ever won by.

  Coach Christopher had taken Rick aside with less than three minutes to play. “You’ve tied the school record for most touchdowns. This will be your last time on the field in that uniform, son. Your Rutgers career awaits then the pros. It’s up to you. Do you want to break the record?”

  “I noticed that you didn’t order a drink,” she said, pulling Rick from the past.

  “I’ve been sober for twelve years. I had a bit of a drinking problem and lost my twenties to it.” He sipped his soda and closed his eyes, chasing away the past again.

  She gave him an exaggerated pout and stroked his arm but looked confused and didn’t say anything.

  Rick was getting bored with her already, and he hadn’t even seen her naked or gotten her to moan. He almost slipped and asked what her name was but didn’t much care to know. He was too lazy to keep track of everyone he’d ever slept with and probably couldn’t remember half of them at this point. Some guys make lists of all their conquests so they can brag to the guys at the bar on a lonely Friday night and pretend it means anything other than getting off. Rick had stopped counting when he hit triple digits, and in his twenties, he'd slept with so many women while drunk he couldn't even estimate how many there had been. Or would be.

  “Have you ever been to L.A.?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course. A few of my clients play for the Dodgers and the Raiders in California, and another group of them live there in the off-season. I make that trip about five times a year.”

  “There’s such a difference between Upstate New York and L.A. Not only the people. The food is so different…”

  Rick tuned her out and decided that he would spend his four hours in Chicago taking a powernap once he checked in with a client on the Cubs. The flight was starting to bother his bum leg, and he knew that the trip to Vancouver would put him in some pain as well. He didn’t want to think about it just now.

  “…and I was a cheerleader in high school. Isn’t that ironic?”

  Rick patted her on the arm. “I have to go to the little boy’s room.” As he stood, they locked eyes in the small aisle before he moved past her and whispered, “Meet me in there in two minutes.” He figured the games were over, and he’d either get her now on the plane or never, a win either way. If she decided she wasn't actually ready to cheat on her husband or feigned anger or some self-righteous bullshit, he'd go find another seat or read his magazine and ignore her. But Rick never got turned down for high-risk sex.

  She grinned. “Mile High Club? Naughty.”

  Rick went to the small bathroom and washed his hands and face, winking at his chiseled face in the mirror. He was going to keep the streak alive, and he tried to remember off-hand how many times he'd nailed some chick in a plane bathroom. Too many to remember. It seemed like more often than not, he was doing this.

  It took her less than a minute to tap on the door. Rick let her in, and she immediately went for his groin as he helped both of them undress. He had done this enough and had a system for getting clothes off and the perfect angle for sex.

  He covered her mouth with his big hand to keep her from screaming as he thrust inside her from behind, watching his work in the small mirror. She had her head down, her hair swinging in the sink, and her eyes closed as she moaned with each savage push.

  She shuddered and came at the same time as Rick. It just happened to work out that way since Rick was thinking only of himself.

  They were back in their seats in a few minutes, both grinning.

  “I’ve never done that before,” she said.

  “Me neither.” It was a lie, but Rick thought she, too, had lied. It didn’t matter anyway in the grand scheme of things. Within a week, he would probably forget about this, having moved on to another couple of easy lays.

  “I hope there’s more left in you for when we land,” she said and stroked his face.

  “Plenty more. I need to get my luggage and then make a quick phone call to my client to tel
l him about my change in plans. Then I’ll meet you near the taxis, and we can get out of the airport. Sound like a plan?”

  She nodded and held onto him for the remainder of the flight, telling him about growing up in Binghamton and all of the places she’d traveled when she was younger.

  Rick nodded every now and then, acted interested, and gave her a small kiss before they left their seats to exit the plane.

  She took this as a good sign: a flirtatious peck before they got to a hotel room.

  Rick wondered a half an hour later, when he was on his way to meet with his client, how long she would stand out there, alone, before realizing that he was already done with her.

  Mile High Club on the airplane trick is getting old. Maybe a stewardess next time, he thought. It didn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things.

  He toyed with the idea of seeing how long he could go between sexual conquests. That might even be harder than sex with random strangers. It was worth a try. Since he'd become sexually active at fourteen, he couldn't remember going longer than three or four days between doing it. He decided, after this trip, to see how long he could go. Rick frowned, remembering the Las Vegas trip coming up next weekend. He was sure he'd have too many women on him then. Maybe the following week, he could start…

  Rick was admiring the ride in the cab when his head started to hurt. When he screamed suddenly in pain, the cabdriver glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “You alright, buddy?”

  “Yes, yes, just get me to the airport.”

  “We just left the airport.”

  Rick pushed against his temples. “I need to go back to the airport. Now.”

  “It’s your dime, buddy.” The cabdriver made a quick turn. “We’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

  Rick tossed the driver a fifty even though the ride was about a third of that and rushed back into the airport.

  “Hey,” he vaguely heard the woman from the plane calling to him before he was dashing to the nearest ticket counter and booking himself on a flight leaving in six minutes for Newark International Airport. He didn’t know why.

  Manny sipped his coffee and closed his eyes, putting his head on the worn headrest of the squad car. He felt the warmth slide down his throat and tried to relax.

  He'd been idling across the street from the Chelsea Avenue lot for the last thirty minutes, not knowing what he was expecting to find there. Manny still hadn't exited the vehicle, afraid to see another dead body on the lot.

  The chain link fence was all but gone now, parts sunk into the soaked earth and the side nearest the ocean mysteriously gone, posts and all. It never really kept anyone from entering the lot although most locals shied away from this street now and used the many other beach access points north and south of Chelsea Avenue.

  Maybe I'll try to sell, Manny thought, but he knew no one with any sense would buy it even if he practically gave it away. The bloodshed was too new. Every now and then, a patrol car would encounter weird paranormal groups or mediums trying to get onto the lot, and they'd be escorted off. It was private property. “My own private hell.”

  His patrol would be getting off in the next hour, and he knew, today, no one would mess with him. He was like an extra man out here with no real calls coming to him unless someone needed backup. Manny hated being treated differently but understood why. Besides, he would still be sitting here, waiting for the ground to erupt and the Devil himself to rise from the rubble and smile at him.

  He gulped the last of the coffee and exited the car, stretching his legs. He needed to get to the gym. He was starting to get complacent with married life, and Gina could cook up a storm. If he wasn't careful, his little gut in his mid-twenties would become a prominent beer gut in his mid-thirties and an extra hundred pounds in his mid-forties.

  Tonight, she would be making something special for his birthday even though he'd been begging her all week not to make a fuss. This was the worst day of the year for him, but Gina was insistent they honor his parents as well as Manny with a festive night of dinner and lovemaking.

  The sex part he was looking forward to. A year into their marriage, and they were still like rabbits at times. He loved her, and when she'd begun hinting about children, he warmed up to the idea. God knows he liked to try to make one, and she was still so damn sexy. Manny was a lucky guy. Now, if he could only keep it in his pants when she wasn't around…

  He walked around the lot, looking for something odd but never stepping onto its soaked ground. He didn't want to make contact with even a speck of the mud on the lot. There was a safe distance he needed to maintain, or he'd be literally sucked into the water and lost forever. Manny saw the various stunted trees, brown bushes, and dead grass for the first time as individual pieces in a morbid puzzle. He wondered if so much blood and extreme violence could change the environment around it. This lot was the perfect petri dish of horror. Each branch of the nearest tree stretched not toward the sun but to the west and away from the ocean as if trying to escape the water. There was so much black mud even though the ground should be mostly sand this close to the Atlantic. The puddles and rivulets of streams reminded him of blackish blood, veins running through this living embodiment of evil.

  Lost in deep and depressing thoughts, Manny's foot sank into the mud. He realized with a start he was standing three feet onto the lot, his left shoe disappearing in the muck. He pulled it out with a sick sucking noise and fell back onto the pavement.

  He crab-crawled back to the middle of Chelsea Avenue, lucky no cars were coming by and there were no witnesses. Manny was panting as if he'd run five miles, and his heart was pounding in his chest.

  There was a hum coming from the lot, too low to be heard clearly, but it was there. Menacing. Manny stood and shook off the feeling of impending doom, trying his best to relax now that he was no longer standing on the lot.

  He decided to get another cup of coffee from the deli and get off of Chelsea Avenue and finish out the shift.

  There weren't any bodies lying in the weeds and no bloodstains in the puddles of water. Just clear sky and sun, the smell of the ocean and a peaceful feeling coming over him.

  Maybe the spell would be broken and tonight, Manny could relax and enjoy a birthday without death and despair. Maybe tonight, he'd give it another shot to have a baby with Gina. He couldn't wait to get his hands on her. Maybe his early birthday present would be going home and having some fun before all the hoopla tonight.

  Manny laughed to himself and went to buy another coffee.

  Rick Toland rented a car in Newark before ten and was speeding down the Garden State Parkway South. His cell phone had been discarded at the terminal along with his small carry-on, his luggage still in Chicago and probably lost. Not that it mattered.

  He was on autopilot, weaving in and out of traffic at close to ninety. His thoughts were on the past. Rick could smell the grass on that high school football field, the cheerleaders shouting his name to his right as he huddled up. A stadium filled with eyes on him, all here to see his run, breaking the record owned by someone from the past. He was the future, here and now.

  The play was simple enough: Toland up the middle, three yards to immortality. Three yards, and he’d be painted onto the locker room wall, his record emblazoned on a plaque in the courtyard and his name spoken for years to come.

  And his college career in his sights, walking onto the field at Rutgers as a record holder and a shoe-in for first string running back even as an incoming freshman. The coaches and coaching staff had made sure to mention several times how they would love to see him in that backfield, carrying the ball and piling up the yards for them.

  His parents had already looked into season tickets, and so had his friends and family. He'd be the star attraction on a team that hadn't been very good in way too long, and Rick knew the idea of a Jersey Boy forsaking a bigger college to play in-state was going to grab some headlines.

  A truck blasted its horn, bringing Rick back to the present. He skidded a
cross the median, almost colliding with oncoming traffic, before correcting and getting back into his own lane. He was amazed to notice that he was a couple of towns past his former home, miles south of that football field and that past.

  Sea Bright was a blur, a small, block-long blip on the radar between the ocean and the inlet. He’d spent many nights in the row of bars and clubs there after high school, drowning himself in another bottle of beer. If they handed out records for most drinks in a night or most fights or most sluts fucked in the bathrooms, he’d have plaques for those accomplishments as well. This was where he'd lost his twenties, regaling fellow drinkers with tales of his exploits on the football field. If you wanted to buy him a drink, he'd be happy to tell you about how close he'd come to the record and all the other amazing games he'd been in. He was a catalog of plays and scores and knew each and every game since Pop Warner he'd played in. Drunk or sober, he could remember them.

  He saw the sign entering another city from his past. “Long Branch?” he asked, realizing that he hadn’t talked in hours. “What the heck am I doing here?”

  Rick had no friends or family he could think of here, no real reason to blow off an important mission to sign a player and come here. But he couldn't help himself.

  His body forced him to make the left onto Chelsea Avenue, and he pulled up to a vacant and overgrown lot on his right. Getting out, he tossed the keys on the seat before locking it. He didn’t like that move but couldn’t stop it.

  Through the weeds, he could make out a tree set to the back of the wide lot. For some reason, he felt compelled to reach it as fast as he could. He took off his suit jacket and tie, discarding them in the street. His dress shirt was pulled open, and he kicked off his dress shoes.

  What the hell am I doing this for?

  Even though his knee still gave him trouble after all these years, he began to sprint through the lot, jumping over an abandoned shopping cart and doing a sweet spinning move to get around a bathtub filled with murky water. His legs splashed through puddles and mud, but it didn’t slow him down. He was in The Zone again, his eye on the end zone and another touchdown and another record.