3 The Case of Tiffany's Epiphany
Page 29
“No, Dad, she wants to hear it from you.”
“I’ll tell you what happened, but you can’t tell your mother.”
“Okay, deal.”
The rest of the way to the school gym, I go through the entire sordid tale. I leave out many of the gruesome details and the part about the Posedown in Pittsburgh because that would be more difficult to explain than the murders. They, of course, are more interested in what happened with Tiffany and if they will be able to see any of the pictures of the party on the Internet. They don’t ask about my well-being. What else is new?
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There’s quite a turnout for the last game of the season. The stands must have at least ten or twenty parents and fans in attendance. The game before ours is coming to an end, with Delmonico’s Pizza the winner over Glenview Car Wash by six points. As these two teams go through the ceremonial high-five handshakes and I wait to take the bench, a tap comes on my shoulder.
“It’s your last chance, Sherlock.”
“Mrs. Whiner, I’m so surprised to see you here. Is Mr. Whiner here too?”
“There is no Mr. Whiner,” she says.
“You’re kidding?” What a surprise.
“Just because this team is undefeated, doesn’t mean they can’t be beaten.” She pulls out a stack of papers, hands them to me, and gets down to business. “Listen, Sherlock, there’s no reason the girls can’t pull this one out today if they stay focused, don’t make any unforced errors, keep their heads in the game, and execute, execute, execute.”
I’m a non-violent person, but the thought of executing Mrs. Whiner immediately comes to mind.
“I want you to go over these plays with the girls. Tell them to play tight, fight for every rebound, take the open shot, and execute, execute, execute.”
“Mrs. Whiner,” I say to the woman as kindly as possible, “it’s our last game of the season. All I want to do is make it memorable for the kids, teach them what the game is really all about, leave them with smiles on their faces, and maybe even something to put on their Facebook page.”
“A victory,” she says, “that’s what they need. A real, solid victory. That’ll show these other teams what they’re really made of.”
“Mrs. Whiner, I got something even better.”
“What could be better than winning?”
I refrain from what I really want to say and remember to be polite. “Enjoy the game, Mrs. Whiner.” I return her diagrams, turn my twisted body away from her, and head for my team.
Our competition, the Spurs from Harry’s Horse Tack and Supply, takes the opposite bench. Their faux leather uniforms boast a patch design with dazzling silver spurs that would be the envy of both Gene Autry and Roy Rogers. I can see in their faces that they are all business. Their two coaches line up the girls at the free-throw line and put them through a series of lay-up, rebound, and passing drills. All are performed flawlessly, but without one smile, snicker, or laugh from one of the players. These kids are just one step removed from being genuine, certified Stepford basketball automatons.
Our team warms up by shooting baskets—or at least trying to shoot baskets.
The ref blows his whistle to announce the tip-off.
I bring the team together and speak from the heart. “Listen girls, there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that this team is going to kick our butts. So, here’s our game plan.”
The girls are surprised at my candor to say the least, but I know that they know I’m right.
“I want you to accomplish one thing today. I want you to have some fun.”
“How are we going to have fun, Mr. Sherlock,” Allison asks, “if we’re going to get our butts kicked?”
“I want you to have a good time while you’re playing. Don’t get down, get up. Tell jokes. Tickle them instead of fouling them. Sing Old McDonald if you want. Dance one of those wacky hip-hop dances. Most important of all, I want you to laugh. Forget about who wins or who loses. Be yourselves, have a good time, have some yucks. Girls, if what you do in your life isn’t fun, then find something else that is fun and do that. That’s what life is all about,” I pause to let it sink in. “What do you say, team?”
Morrie’s Bail Bonds Bailouts take the floor and I take the bench. Kelly sits next to me. “What did you tell them, Dad?” she asks, after hearing the loudest cheer the team has ever wailed.
“I told them if you can’t have fun with what you’re doing, it’s not worth doing.”
“Oh, Dad, do you ever stop with the life lessons?”
“You know, Kelly, one of these days someone is going to listen to me and the world will become a better place.”
“I doubt if that’ll be anytime soon.”
The whistle blows. The game begins—and chaos ensues.
Shemika cuts some wild hip-hop moves that would put the Zanadu dancers to shame. Annie and Kaylyn sing their hearts out. Care tickles their best player to the point where the kid can’t stop laughing. Kelly supplies the music. Even Wilma Whiner gets into the act, laughing for the first time this season—or maybe the first time in her life.
I don’t yell one instruction from the bench. I merely sit back as best as I am able and enjoy the spectacle. The opposition coaches go bananas, constantly complaining to the refs that we’re making a mockery of the game. Who cares?
The Bailouts actually play pretty well. I’m not sure if it’s because we played better, or because the Spurs get totally discombobulated by our style and don’t know what to do. Of course, we still lose by the slaughter rule and the game is over at half-time, but my girls are jumping around laughing, giggling, and high-fiving, while the winners look like they’re filing out of church after a funeral.
I turn behind me to see Mrs. Whiner, pale as a ghost, leaning back against the bleacher seat, passed out like a drunk at the Zanadu, the stack of basketball diagrams resting on her lap. Her season is over.
Kelly’s having such a good time, she puts down her cell phone, and she joins the festivities on the court. The only thing that gets her attention away from the frivolity is a visitor who arrives—late as usual. “Hey, it’s Tiffany.”
“Oh, Mr. Sherlock,” Tiffany cries out as she mars the court with her hard high heels.
“Tiffany,” I call out. “You’re supposed to be home resting.”
“I’ll sleep when I’m ninety,” she tells me as she greets the team and Kelly. “How’d you guys do in the game?” she asks.
“We got our butts kicked,” Allison answers, “but we had a good time.”
“Good for you.”
Tiffany takes me by the arm. “Mr. Sherlock, I have to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“Me,” she says. “What else do I ever talk about?”
“Good point.”
I wait until the commotion dies down, bring the team together on the court for the last time, and announce, “Pizza party, my treat, for you and your parents, at Delmonico’s, right now.”
Another rousing cheer from my team. What better way to start spending my windfall than on the worst basketball team ever?
As we exit the court for the next two teams, Tiffany comes to my side. “I really need to talk to you, Mr. Sherlock. It happened again.”
“What happened, Tiffany?” I ask as we leave courtside.
“I had another vision.”
“Oh, no. Were you in red again?”
“No, blue,” she says. “A dainty little print dress with a couple of gold bracelets and a gold pendant around my neck. My hair had this faint little curl in it that really brought out my highlights and framed my perfect cheekbones.”
“Well, that’s a good sign.”
“The vision told me something, Mr. Sherlock.”
I can’t wait to hear what. And it doesn’t take long for her to tell me.
“The vision was like telling me I have to go back to being the old me. So, no more Ms. ‘Nice Guy’ Tiffany. I’m done with that.”
“Really?”
“You hear that in a song?” I ask.
“I don’t think so.”
“This is quite a revelation, Tiffany.”
“It’s amazing what can happen in your brain after your drink gets spiked or some badass dude tries to choke the life out of you,” she says.
We’re outside, heading for my car. “Did you inform your life coach of this sudden revelation?” I ask.
“I fired her,” she says. “I thought that would be an excellent start in getting back to being the real me.”
There’s a silver lining to every cloud; although it’s more of a gold lining in Tiffany’s case.
“See, the vision told me that being the same old selfish, self-centered me was actually a positive because when those not-so-fortunate, More Misérables types see me parading in all my glory, they’ll have something to strive for.”
“And how was this revealed in your vision?” I have to ask. But if I didn’t, she’d tell me anyway.
“There I was, in my blue-print mini, looking absolutely radiant, walking down Michigan Avenue on a bright, sunshiny day, with hundreds of fashion-challenged girls wishin’ and hopin’ to be just like me. Their tongues were wagging, and their hearts were pounding, and they all followed me right into Saks where they all picked out the right clothes, and left looking the spitting image of me.”
I seem to remember Tiffany already having this vision in the past, but I don’t mention it. It’s as if she forgot the original episode as she was watching the re-run.
“Well, all I can say is more power to you.” I try to sum it all up. “Tiffany, you’ve had quite an epiphany.”
“What’s an epiphany?” she asks. “Is that some new kind of software app for my iPhone?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m techie challenged.”
“That’s right, I forgot.”
Kelly and Care meet us in the parking area. “Tiffany, are you coming to the pizza place with us?” Care asks.
“Sure, but I’m not eating any of the crust.”
When we reach my Toyota, Tiffany asks Care, “Want to ride with me instead of in that awful car of your father’s?”
“Yeah!” Care says.
“Dad,” Kelly says after her sister walks off with Tiffany, “I almost forgot.”
“What?”
My daughter pulls an envelope out of her back pocket and hands it to me. It has Richard Sherlock written on the front.
Before opening it, I react by saying, “I can’t take you this weekend. My back is killing me. I can hardly stand up.”
Kelly gives me that cute crooked little smile of hers.
I open the envelope, take out the sheet, and read:
Mr. Richard Sherlock:
The orthodontist informs me that Kelly can’t wait any longer to get her braces. They will cost $5,500 and must be paid for in advance. His address is on the bottom where you can send the check—ASAP.
The note is signed: Your Children’s Mother.
I peer down at my oldest and all I can think is: I’ll miss that crooked little smile.
.
The End.
Thank you for reading The Case of Tiffany’s Epiphany. I certainly hoped you enjoyed my novel, and if you did, please let others know of your good reading fortune. The easiest way being through cyberspace, via social media networks, such as Amazon, Facebook, Linkedin, Goodreads, and Twitter. Please put out a good review to the above, and to your friends, contacts, and fellow readers. It will be greatly appreciated.
About Jim Stevens
Jim was born in the East, grew up in the West, schooled in the Northwest, and spent twenty-three winters in the Midwest. He has been an advertising copywriter, playwright, filmmaker, stand-up comedian, and television producer.
Contact him at: JimStevensWriter@g-mail.com.
Jim loves to hear from his readers, especially the ones who like his books.
Also by Jim Stevens:
The Case of the Not-So-Fair Trader, A Richard Sherlock Whodunit
The Case of Moomah’s Moolah, A Richard Sherlock Whodunit
WHUPPED
And Coming Soon:
The Case of Mr. Wonderful, A Richard Sherlock Whodunit
Hell No, We Won’t Go
WHUPPED TOO