Holding Out for a Hero

by Victoria Van Tiem

  A cab’s easier. I give them the address, they take me and I pay; but there aren’t any cab benches, and I want to sit. I’m also using the time to give Dora and Finn a piece of my mind. Well, their machines, or voicemail, or whatever.

  My foot taps under the bench, keeping time to my words ‘. . . and you know what else? You can forget the rest of your Eighties intervention Breakfast Club dates, cause yeah, not gonna happen, Bucko. I’m done. With all of it.’ I huff and fume into the phone, even though I’m aware that I have an audience.

  A young guy in a fedora sits beside me and pretends not to listen. Why a fedora? Or the better question, why that one? It’s too small for his head. I look right at him. ‘Blind dates suck, right?’

  He shrugs.

  ‘See?’ I say into the phone. ‘Even the fedora guy next to me agrees. Here . . .’ I push the phone near his mouth. ‘Tell her.’

  ‘Blind dates suck?’

  ‘Exactly. Nice hat.’ I show him mine. Yes, I kept it. I tried to kidnap the parrot, too, but I only succeeded in ripping Nigel’s shirt when I swiped for him. ‘And you guys can forget the party too. I don’t celebrate birthdays, and you bloody well know why. I’m skipping it all. Screw birthdays and screw the Eighties intervention thing.’ I press end and plop the phone in my lap. Screw everyone.

  The guy looks at me sideways. Well, not him, he’s way too young; and that hat, I mean, really.

  ‘I once tried to skip Christmas.’ I cross my arms and shrug. ‘That didn’t work out either.’

  And that’s all I have to say about that.

  I drum my fingers. ‘You have any chocolate?’

  I’m safely at home, happily tucked in for the night, and talking with Ollie as usual. I understand what Dr P. was saying about distancing myself, but I can’t help it. I’ve just finished telling him about my misadventures with mini-man on the seven seas, and he’s cracking up.

  ‘So how did you leave things?’ Ollie asks.

  Squeezing my eyes tight, I cringe. ‘I told him I had cramps and had to leave that instant.’

  ‘Libbs.’ He busts out a laugh.

  ‘I know.’ Maybe I should’ve faked an injury, but I glanced at my waist-pack and, well . . . ‘I just couldn’t take him seriously. The nurse’s station iced him and gave him an eye patch. A ridiculous eye patch, but the worst part is he wore it. And he kept talking pirate. Everything was arghhh and shiver me timbers. When he said he loved booty and looked at mine, I told him to walk the plank. The whole thing was disastrous. I hate golf anyway.’

  ‘You like golf courses.’

  I look up to consider, then smile. ‘That’s different. We didn’t actually play the stupid game, we just, well . . .’ Ollie and I would park in the course’s lot. It really was pretty, and at night no one was there.

  ‘There’s still three more dates ahead, right?’

  ‘It should just be you.’ I clench my teeth, waiting for a response.

  Silence fills in the blanks.

  ‘You know what? Forget I said that. Sorry.’

  Between losing my store location, my deteriorating youth and after tonight, my sanity, I can’t bear to rehash losing Ollie too. I don’t want to think about it, or anything.

  I’m already in Davy Jones’ locker.

  CHAPTER 10

  ‘Shout’

  Tears For Fears, 1984

  Oh, I’m gonna

  It’s Saturday, and everyone except Finn is gathered round our usual table at Shermer’s. I have no idea where he is, but I’m pretending I don’t care. Just like Dora’s pretending I’ve accepted her apology about their second date fiasco, which I haven’t.

  The diner’s filled with the normal clamour: rattling dishes, bits and pieces of casual conversation and the outside bustle of traffic whenever the front doors opened. I keep glancing over to see if it’s Finn. It isn’t, and I’m growing restless and bristly. I’m really ready to just let him have it. I’ve been building my case since last night, and I don’t care how good he is at prosecution: today, he’s gonna need a good defence.

  In preparation for the diner drama that’s about to unfold, and since I’m self-represented, I thought it best to self-express in the truest of colours. I’m Libby Lauper, Cyndi Lauper’s distant third step-cousin, twice removed.

  My hair’s tied with a black headscarf, my black T-shirt layers over a longer white one, and I’m sporting three long necklaces with different pendant charms, since I was thinking about Madonna the other day. I was half-tempted to wear a netted glove, but decided to heed the wise words of Coco Chanel: before you leave the house, look in the mirror and remove one accessory. So voilà, no glove.

  The door opens again. Not Finn. Maybe I should summon him by phone.

  ‘Oh, speaking of your dress . . .’ I say, because Dora was. ‘I dreamed about it last night.’ This is surprising, considering what little sleep I had. ‘It was my dress, my wedding, and I couldn’t button it up. So I’m walking down the aisle holding the blasted thing together while straining to see who’s at the end waiting for me.’

  ‘Who was it? Nigel the Athlete?’ asks Dean, forgetting himself.

  My eyes narrow a warning, but then I shake my head and laugh. ‘Worse. It was my cats, in mini-tuxedos.’

  Dean’s lips pull into a dramatic frown.

  ‘I know, right?’

  ‘Oh, there’s Finn,’ Dora says, looking towards the door.

  He’s in jeans, a pullover sweater and another man-scarf, this one blue. In other words, he’s not dressed for the occasion. Maybe he doesn’t realize he’s about to stand trial. He gives a wave and ambles over in his slow, leisurely gait. ‘Sorry I’m late.’ He pulls out a chair, forcing everyone to scoot round.

  I don’t move. I’m not going to.

  ‘Libby, budge over,’ Finn says, practically sitting on my lap. He glowers with an eye-pop.

  I unleash my death stare and his head jerks back from the impact.

  ‘God, Libbs—’

  I’m still staring when the waitress arrives. My heart’s thumping, my stomach sour. I could spit acid. Like a llama. Well, if llamas could spit acid. Finn avoids my glare while orders are taken, then keeps everyone chatty with friendly banter. Dora and Dean’s baby plans, Dora and Dean’s engagement, Dora and Dean’s wedding, how fabulous and divine he is, blah blah blah . . .

  ‘Libbs? Libby, you OK?’ Dora nudges Dean’s shoulder. ‘She hasn’t blinked.’

  I flutter my lashes, bringing them into focus, then turn to the accused. ‘Aren’t you going to comment on the message I left you, Finn? Ask me about the fabulous date you so nicely set me up with?’ I lean on the table, daring him to begin his pitiful defence.

  He blows out a slow, calculated breath and lifts his cup of tea. His left brow quirks, arching high into his blonde pompadour do. ‘Are you going to apologize?’

  ‘For what?’ My jaw unhinges and literally sits on the floor. I may need to scoop it up just to form coherent words. ‘Me? You think I should apologize? Seriously?’ I give questioning looks to the witnesses, which would be Dean and Dora, as if to say, did you hear what I heard? Is he out of his bloomin’ onion mind? OK, no one actually says that, but I have a craving and kinda wish they served those here.

  ‘And really, Libbs, how could I call you back when I was on the phone all night with sad Nigel? Yeah, I heard all about it.’ Finn shakes his head in disapproval, then takes a deep breath, leans back, and calmly begins to state his case. ‘Nigel’s funny, fit and always fun. So, I don’t see what you’re complaining about—’

  ‘I have plenty to complain about!’ My eyes widen. He’s just unleashed the Kraken. The original one from 1981, not the remake, so he’s been bound up for a while and is raring to go. ‘Nigel’s three feet tall, drives a ridiculous monster truck, and took me to mini-golf. Mini pirate golf!’ I break out my best pirate speak. ‘It was all, ahoy ye scurvy dogs this, shiver me timbers scallywag that, and there was no rum. In fact, there was no meal. He fed me a mushy-gushy prot
ein bar.’

  Dora looks confused, Dean entertained. Hash-Brown Harry, the old guy to Finn’s left, looks somewhat distraught. He’s stopped eating, leaving his fork to hang in mid-air.

  ‘He got the bar from his pocket, Finn. From. His. Pocket,’ I repeat for drama. ‘I mean, God, what were you thinking?’ My voice steadily gains in volume, and now almost sings theatrically. ‘So, yo ho no, Finn. Just no.’

  Dora and Dean throw glances between us, knowing things are just getting started. It doesn’t take a Real Genius to figure it out. Even the twentysomething couple in matching grey sweats at the next table are leaning over and taking an interest.

  Finn gives me a long-suffering look while propping an arm on the back of his chair. ‘I was thinking maybe you’d give him a chance. He’s a really nice guy.’

  He’s wearing his ‘I’m a superior lawyer’ face, the one that stays cool and unruffled, and makes me want to smack it and hurl food in his direction.

  His eyes pinch. ‘Did you even ask him anything about his life, Libbs? Do you know anything about him? One thing?’

  I slump a little in my seat as he glances to the jury, which now includes Dean, Dora, the matchy-match couple and Hash-Brown Harry. The waitress even rubbernecks as she passes by to offer refills.

  My mouth opens, but Finn doesn’t let me respond. ‘Did you know he’s a full-time professional bodybuilder, and even won the strong man contest in Vegas last month? You didn’t, did you?’ He looks round, building his case and tearing mine down. ‘Or that he works with last-chance troubled teens three days a week at the gym?’

  He’s playing the good-guy sympathy card. He drives it home with a grand, sweeping gesture of his hand. ‘For free. That’s right, and that’s where I met him, at his gym. The one he owns. Did you even know that, Libby London?’ His eyes narrow, smugly. ‘Did you even know that?’

  That last repeat was a bit overly theatrical, but whatever.

  Finn slaps the table, gaining more attention. ‘In fact, might I persuade you to name one thing you do know?’ Finn gazes deep into the jurors’ eyes, lingering on each one. Each juror, not each eye, ’cause that would take forever.

  ‘So, I ask again . . . Name one thing you bothered to learn about this charitable and highly accomplished man, who only wanted to take you out and show you a fun-filled evening.’

  Now all eyes are on me. Except Hash-Brown Harry’s. He’s back to gumming his potatoes.

  ‘I object,’ I say, holding my ground. ‘You’re leading the witness. All of them.’

  Dean lifts a finger. ‘Technically we aren’t witnesses, because we weren’t there—’

  ‘Overruled,’ I say.

  ‘You’re overruled.’ Finn declares with self-appointed authority. ‘Just answer the question, Libbs. Name one thing you know about poor, dear Nigel Harrington.’

  ‘Nigel Harrington from Get Slim Gym on 26th?’ asks one of the Doublemint joggers. ‘He’s a superb trainer. A really fantastic guy.’

  Great, he has a character witness.

  ‘Well?’ Finn pushes. ‘Then I rest my—’

  ‘He likes parrots!’ I all but yell.

  ‘You killed his parrot,’ Finn says, pointing a manicured finger in my direction. The room gasps.

  ‘You killed his parrot?’ Dean repeats, mortified, his face screwed up. Dora pats his arm in comfort.

  ‘No. No!’ I protest, looking around at my accusers. ‘I didn’t kill it, because—’

  ‘And –’ Finn blurts, totally grandstanding the situation, ‘she ripped his new shirt he specifically bought to impress her, in the process.’

  ‘The bird wasn’t real, OK?’ I shout, pleading my case. ‘Not real. It was a stupid fake parrot pinned to his shoulder, and he kept making it talk.’ I eye-pop everyone, then backpedal a little, remembering. ‘But yeah, the shirt may have ripped when I accidentally—’

  Finn tuts.

  ‘Accidentally bumped him,’ I finish, knowing Finn’s far from done.

  ‘Oh, there was an accident, all right.’ Finn waves a hand in the air and scoffs. ‘Little Miss Mayhem over there swung her club all willy-nilly, causing her golf ball to ping throughout the place. It actually zinged back and struck him! He almost lost an eye. Poor guy had to visit the doc, ice it, and wear a medic eye patch.’

  Dean gasps. Dora’s hands are over her mouth. The couple at the next table gawk.

  ‘He liked the patch,’ I mumble, but no one’s listening.

  ‘Is that what you told yourself when you bailed on him?’ He spins to address the entire restaurant, nodding as he makes his closing argument. ‘She did. She just ditched him and the parrot, leaving them wounded and alone. Said she had cramps.’

  A universal gasp ensues.

  ‘Using the cramp card’s pretty low, Libbs,’ Dean says in a whisper.

  The back of my neck warms, and I’m sure my cheeks are pink. My head smacks into my hands. God. How in blazes did Finn turn this all around? Lesson learned: never argue with a court attorney. I never stood a chance, even if his idiotic date set-up was an inch tall, with a parrot and . . . I peek over my fingertips at my accusers and sigh.

  Finn has his arms crossed, shaking his head. Dean and Dora are just staring; they may be in shock. The matchy-match running duo stabs me with their glares. Even Hash-Brown Harry is eyeballing me. Or maybe he’s looking over my shoulder. I’m not really sure he can see.

  Regardless, it’s a hung jury. Mine.

  Finn knows he won. ‘If anything, Libbs, you owe Nigel an apology.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ everyone agrees.

  Their words slap me across the face, and my cheeks burn from the strike. The whole thing’s embarrassing. I open my mouth to say one thing, but something else comes to mind.

  The truth.

  They’re right. The minute I saw Nigel Harrington the Athlete was mini, I ruled him out; and wow, I was kind of awful. He never stood a chance, did he? I mean, he’s not Ollie. Ollie, with that warm laugh and rogue smirk when he thinks he’s clever. Or the stare that lingers, unblinking, and you think surely everyone in the room will notice.

  After a moment I drop my hands and admit apologetically. ‘OK, fine, I get it. I’m guilty.’ I look to the eavesdropping couple. ‘Guilty as charged, OK? I sentence myself to formally apologize.’ I shrug to Finn. ‘Do you have his address? I’ll send him a card, maybe a new shirt—’

  ‘And he had to pay for the hat you stole.’ Finn’s brows arch.

  ‘Libbs . . .’ Dora says, aghast. Then the waitress appears with our food, stopping my persecution.

  Too bad I’m not hungry any more.

  It’s late, and although I did manage a few hours of shut-eye, I’m in my TV room staring at the wall. More specifically, at the small crack that runs diagonally through it. I follow its line with my eyes until it splits and ends near the baseboard. Does it breach the foundation, or is it merely surface? Without hiring an expert, I have no way to determine the extent of damage.

  Earlier, all I did was shout, and now I’m wracked with tears and fears. Both things I can do without. So pathetic. Thank God people don’t know what a massive cry-baby I am. I’m not sure they’d believe it if I told them. And they certainly wouldn’t understand it. I’m not sure I do. It’s weak and pitiful, and I hate it.

  I blow my nose and fold my knees up to hug them, which used to be easier when I was younger and minus the squidgy middle.

  I keep thinking about Pretty in Pink, and Ollie, and the unfortunate Athlete date. I really was all kinds of awful. I didn’t even see it that way until Finn flipped the script on me. First thing tomorrow, I need to purchase Nigel a new shirt, and I’ll send it with my hat. Maybe he can get his money back from the mini-golf place.

  And I should send him a parrot.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Criminal

  The better part of my morning and afternoon has consisted of shopping. I’ve found the perfect replacement shirt for Nigel. It’s a sporty long-sleeve, non-wicking compress
ion thing. At least that’s what the salesman said (minus the ‘thing’ part). I packed it with my pirate hat and a nice apology card. Then I drove to his gym to personally hand-deliver it all, because I also got him something that can’t be mailed.

  A mid-size, blue and green, real macaw parrot.

  His name is Bluebird. Not exactly original, but he does in fact have blue markings, so it fits. Although, I’m calling him Bluebeard and he doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe he thinks I have a strange New York accent where instead of dropping my r’s, I twist them.

  When Bluebeard said ‘Hi, pretty lady’ in the pet store, he completely won me over. And after sharing my sad, pathetic story, I won the shop keeper over. He practically gave him to me for free, so how could I refuse? Nigel would forgive me at once and my guilty conscience would be absolved.

  Fat chance. I’m still being punished.

  Bluebeard talks, all right: he also does non-stop super-loud sound effects. I learned this in the car when he shrieked police sirens the entire ride, which explains why the pet store owner was so quick to be rid of him. By the time we got to Nigel’s gym, my nerves were completely raw and frazzled. The staff looked at me like I was crazy. Can’t say I blame them. I was dressed for my legal meeting at Pretty in Pink with Seth Merriweather, the Criminal, and, well . . .

  Regardless of whether Seth and I like each other enough to go through with a real date at a later time, I need him to take my store situation seriously – which means taking me seriously – but I really didn’t have anything appropriate to wear. It’s not like I own a proper suit. So I made do with what I found crammed in the back of my closet.

  It’s a polyester-blend black skirt set with football-sized shoulder pads. And it’s not exactly cheer-worthy; in fact, it’s rather bleak. I hoped that adding a bright yellow tank, matching bangles and my signature one star dangle earring would negate its sad aspect and poor fit. The last time I wore it was in high school.