National Treasures

by Ryan McCord

CHAPTER 11 - NIGHTCAP

  Until today, James McEwing had always wondered just how some guys manage to land the job and/or girl of their dreams. For he has gone 28 years without ever knowing what its like to get either one. Now he finds himself forced to choose between the two entities.

  In order to take their minds off of things for a few hours, James and Tina go to the movies. They choose to see a comedy about six plane crash survivors on a deserted island who manage to salvage one working prepaid cellphone that somehow produces enough of a signal-but with just 14 minutes of call time left and no electricity to recharge it.

  All James can think about, however, is the pickle he finds himself in. Tina, without putting much thought into it, has already told him that there is no way she is going to quit her job to move to Connecticut. She tried to explain to James that for all she knows, she was put in his life to support his sports writing endeavor. To turn away from the principals that conceived this relationship to begin with in support of this newfangled carpentry aim, and to top that with the notion that he plans to hang up his pen and pad, “Would mean two skilled journalists not getting paid to write, living together under one roof.

  “I want to get out of this industry still,” she assured him. “Don’t get me wrong. “But you and I still have some tests to pass here.”

  And though she would never admit it, Tina thought James made a fair argument for stowing away the pen and pad for good. After all, once intellectual maturation sets in, bankruptcy occurs, or because all of their friends started doing it too, most people throughout the history of time have at some point abandoned their childhood ambitions.

  Then there is the arcane, if not cursed mind: that of the artist. For art chooses the individual, and as a result, he or she must wrestle with cognitive patterns functioning on a subtler, if not convoluted level everyday. You’ll hear the established artists say things like, “I spent a lot of time in the lab for that one,” or “I’ll check in with the men upstairs and we’ll come up with something,” even “I have a tendency to live in a bubble.” The artist’s matrix can, among many other things, deliver an impromptu joke, write a poem, or paint a picture. And on occasion, in those brief moments of escape life brings to most of us with the help of calming activities like fishing, gazing at the stars, walks in the park, staring at oatmeal as it cooks in the microwave, or by staying inside a tire store for longer than 10 minutes; the artist’s factory uses this time to deliver a mélange of mind-blowing philosophical clarity to various safeguarded issues in the fabric of society; like trying to fathom just how in the hell American football is legal in the first place.

  The mind of the artist is a 24/7 convenience store providing for itself 44 oz. fountain drinks of imagination. But while most of it all looks and tastes great, who wants to work in a convenience store? For the artist has to deal with a nagging creative anxiety controlled by varied portions of self-doubt that motivates some to get out of bed everyday but also happens to keep most discouraged and seeking answers from an shrink. Doubt implores you to get busy when you’re not working on the craft. Then when you do work at it, and you’ve had an off day, even an off-hour in production, self-doubt is always first to tell you just how precarious all this is and will continue to be. Even some of the most successful artists don’t exactly carry a general demeanor like they will continue to ride the wave. You always have to be thinking about what’s next, whether you’re in the middle of a passion project or your lucky enough to get paid to put out something commercially viable. Every moment in life is not enjoyed and savored as much as it is anticipated, then experienced, and eventually reflected upon as potential material for future use. For this reason, James never leaves home without a pen and piece of scrap paper, just in case the million-dollar dinner bell rings.

  James has shared this hypothesis with Tina once before, so the idea of making an attempt to get rid of this demon didn’t come as a complete shock to her.

  This clearly isn’t a cry for help, Tina thought. He is almost 30. I know he wants to start a family and while the door for him to do such a thing is not closing, he has started to look around the room and taken notice of that door and its potential to slam shut.

  Yet Tina worries, rightfully, about his motive. It is very possible he is mistaking security for aspiring perfection with this attempt at remodeling the blueprint for his future while the foundation for the old one being poured already. If that were the case, James has all but guaranteed himself a midlife crisis.

  “I don’t want to be 40,” James bleats. “Living with mom, making puckish remarks in a blog from a public library.

  “Reclining chair, a garage, a fireplace, a package store within walking distance, building snowmen with the kids on Saturdays, enjoying football on Sundays with a couple walls to frame come Monday while listening to WFAN all day sounds like America the Beautiful to me.”

  Upon leaving the theatre, the unsure couple will walk to a nearby sports bar with hopes that the confluence of alcohol and some heavy petting could provide enough therapy to cope with the growing possibility that after tomorrow morning, they may never see each other again.

  But as much as she wants to go with the flow, and appease her own sexual impulses, she can’t help but have more on her mind. She never thought it would have to come to this. But soon after the first round of micro brews arrives at the table, she will motion for cheers and soon after break out the “emergency use only” counter pitch to James’ earlier proposal. In asking James to move to Chicago to live with her under the condition that he not only sticks to his craft but also works on it everyday, with her unconditional love and unflagging support behind him, seemed like the right thing to do. She has never been as sure about anything in her life as she is the idea of making James McEwing her man.

  Tina knew she would have work at changing him at some point, only she figured this sort of consecration wouldn’t have to come until after the honeymoon period had ran its course. But it will not be easy to convince James to turn down a fine career opportunity and instead swallow his pride to go through in living the big enchilada of all the stereotypes associated with the odyssey of an indigent artist: the freeloading stereotype. Because you can never actually say that you hit rock bottom in your career unless you were once a bum in the form of eating someone else’s cereal while they were at work, for at least three to five rent free months.

  A speech communication minor at Notre Dame, Tina feels she earned enough credits to persuade James with the old college try tonight. For she knows she only has one shot at changing his credo, or at the very least, reopen his mind. The mode of rhetoric behind this sort of performance would have to be a calculated one heralded in incandescent diplomacy-built methodically with a beginning, middle and end. She has to maintain a particular poise and speak with a tone that would enable her to voice herself convincingly. She had to be careful not to patronize or even niggle him. She had to be extra careful not to let her emotions do the talking either, as any public display of drama would assure James’ positioning remains in the status quo. What about sex, you ask? Resorting to spurious verbal flirting and using her body as an artifice to seduce and manipulate his objectives would only guarantee short-term success. And by sleeping with him tonight, she would be surrendering a sizable portion of her dignity that she would never get back, no matter how the future would play itself out.

  In other words, the bounty has been increased, as there could only be one chord or reference moving enough to strike James back to his old self. And evidently, this chosen element would have to be strong enough to steal the show in a form even more powerful than love itself-if there is such a thing.

  Playing with her hair in front of the mirror in the women’s bathroom, she tries to collect herself after going as far as wondering whether or not it would be appropriate to call his mother.

  “How can I make this easy on myself?” She thought, as applying some lip balm helped ground her emotions a little.

  As sh
e heads back to the table, something told her to simply know her role in the relationship and use it to get her point across. Forget about all that has happened today, the inner voice said. What has gotten you two this far in the first place? Be wise.

  She then thanked her inner voice for not advising her to order a second Cosmo earlier.

  “Here’s the truth,” she said shortly after arriving back at the table, grabbing his thigh tightly to help dispel her emotion. “You’ve developed your writer’s voice, we know that.”

  He rolls his eyes and nods with mild abjection.

  “You’re probably one step away from striking gold in your artistic evolution,” she continues.

  “It’s important to know you don’t have to do it alone any longer. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to help keep you going. I have a good feeling that by us moving forward, your career will do the same because of it.”

  James looks around at all the great sports memorabilia. On the wall near his left shoulder, opposite Tina, there’s Michael Jordan flying to the basket, his right hand and ball skyward, patented tongue draped from the mouth. Directly below him, a helpless Xavier McDaniel can only peer up with a look of disgust. The 8”x12” framed picture is actually signed in blue permanent marker by McDaniel himself as “X-Man” followed with “Knicks in ’93”. Next to that picture is another 8”x12” photo of Mike Ditka, George Wendt and Bill Murray posing together, each holding a mug of beer.

  In fain, James continues to help himself to a convenient recess in the sports world, as Tina can only continue to stare him down with that look that every male lover knows all too well-the one when expectations are not being met.

  “James?” She said impatiently. But before he has a chance to respond, she continues on.

  “I don’t expect you to make a decision right now,” she says sharply. “But just promise me one thing?”

  “Sure,” he refocuses and makes a clear effort to show respect by looking at her straight in the eyes.

  “I won’t have enough time to collect and organize it all before you leave,” she said. “But I have some reading material that I think you should take a look at before you make your final decision. I’ll send it to Pullman. Just give it a few days to arrive, okay?”

  “You got it,” he pledged. “Is it anyone I know?”

  “The author?” She responds, taking in a drink before shaking her head. “I doubt it. Its this guy I met years back who specializes in dealing with these sort of quandaries that life throws our way.”

  “Like a life coach or motivational speaker?” He asks.

  She quickly nods her head in affirmation before taking the last drink of beer.

  “The best,” she says with a wink and a smile before checking for the time on her phone. “Now let’s go home and rest.”

  As they stand to exit, James begins to empty the loose change out of his pockets on the table.

  “Are you a good cuddler?” He asks casually, dropping a $5 bill on top of the change.

  Tina folds her arms before counting the fingers from her right hand.

  “Four time All-American,” she cooed.

  Gerry’s agent, Frank Teverbaugh, known to friends simply as Teves, is best known for his silver tongue. Legend has it, he once talked a used car salesman into buying seed packets labeled “Money Tree.” A former Wazzu quarterback, now 46 and a full-time insurance salesman based out of Pullman, Teves is a charming, handsome man with an athletic build, and an up for re-election smile topped with a full head of oily black hair. He could have played James Bond, had the right gods fallen in love with him.

  But as bereft, haggard and disconcerted as Teves’ client looked and felt, Gerry still had enough wit left in him to expect nothing less than a boat-load of propaganda to come his way this evening. In fact, as they sit in the Holiday Inn’s poorly lit sports bar & lounge together, Gerry, seeing the opportunity to maximize all possibilities of pleasure in anticipation for his agent’s performance this evening, goes ahead and orders a hot plate of $9 hotel nachos as if it were popcorn at the big screen.

  A longtime family friend of the Galloway’s, Teves has always held a favorite uncle-like quality in Gerry’s mind. But this is the first time money has ever played a factor in their relationship, as Teves had always represented him for free. But when Gerry was still in Connecticut, out of desperation to find another job in baseball (and half convinced that the idea of joining an independent franchise was a fool’s errand to send Teves on to begin with), he verbally agreed to give half of his signing bonus to his agent, who was already getting paid to be in Chicago for a business seminar.

  For hot bread was already assured to come Teves’ way, but now the possibility to lather some room temp butter on top had him licking his chops. Thanks to a persuasive Power Point email he put together employing the ethos, pathos, logos principles to sell the idea that for the last three seasons; when you factor in his league minimum salary combined with production value and an impressive percentage of games started, Gerry is in the top 5% of the most valuable minor league players. Teves concluded the presentation by reminding the organizational brass that Gerry was, at 28, currently scratching the surface of his athletic prime.

  That was enough to sway the Hard Hats toward guaranteeing Gerry a signing bonus of $1,500.

  To get Gerry to sign that contract, Teves is pushing one particular idea hard: You’re the man. Put your foot down.

  “I’m not saying it’s the industry standard love validation test or anything,” Teves said politely. “But it has a way to threaten without actually being threatening, ya know what I mean?”

  “You’re simply saying, ‘This is what I do. Come along for a season and see what its like first before dismissing it as something that could hurt our future. If you still hate it, I promise to retire.’”

  Teves re-adjusts himself in his chair and loosens his tie a little before holding his right index finger up to signal another So-Co and cola to the bartender. Gerry looked at him in amazement, then chuckles.

  “You know just when I thought there was nothing you could possibly say tonight,” Gerry said. “You may have hit the nail on the head.”

  Teves opens his palms and shrugs, “Worst case, she bails,” he said. “But you still get to keep playing ball.”

  “But she’s not dumb, either.” Gerry shook his head. “It is still an ultimatum, and I don’t know if I’m egotistical enough to go on for the season forgetting my engagement fell through as I’m trotting out to first base.”

  “Jon, you’re a pro athlete,” Teves said, addressing Gerry with the pet name he likes to use for friends and strangers alike. “You could have a new girl every night of the season if you choose to, you know that.

  “All I know is you’re caught in the damn wash. But if you want to continue trying to wipe yer ass with a hoola hoop, just let me remind you first that you only have 43 hours left to do it.”

  Teves stirs his drink around a little before leaning forward to make sure he’s getting his point across.

  “Jon,” he said plainly. “You want to keep your gal along with your locker room, then you’re going to have to be a man about it. Women play their mind games. Putting the foot down is our thing.”

  Gerry goes on to finish his plate of nachos and wash it down with a few more beers before watching the 11:00 news on WGN. Half of the reporting time is dedicated to opening day at Wrigley, and the human-interest package about the fan’s baseball throwing faux pas completes the broadcast.

  “Do you think you could have fared better, Charlotte?” The senior anchorman inquires playfully to the young anchorwoman at his right. They both shake their heads in amusement while shuffling their papers.

  Charlotte looks skyward for a second, clicking her pen a few times before answering, “Oh Gene, I don’t even know what arm I throw with, to be honest with you!”

  Gerry had seen and heard enough for one day. He paid his bill and followed Teves up to the room for some shut-eye
on a rollaway cot.

  Its now 11:39 pm, and with the exception of the bathroom and a bedside lamp, all the lights are out at Tina’s apartment. Duke rests comfortably at the foot of Tina’s bed, while his master lies there in white sweatpants and a Notre Dame t-shirt, channel surfing. Having removed her contacts moments before, her nearsighted set of eyes look feeble behind a pair of bifocals.

  Brushing his teeth, James is dressed down to a t-shirt and pair of basketball shorts.

  “Did you ever try to go see Letterman while you were in New York?” Tina asked.

  “Yeah I tried,” James grumbled after spitting out his toothpaste. “Then some intern calls me and starts asking ridiculous Letterman trivia questions.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, just off the wall production questions,” James said. “I remember I missed one answer by one year, the other two I was clueless on. I answered one correctly: Worldwide Pants being the name of the show’s production company.

  He starts to rinse clean the toothbrush Tina gave him.

  “Is he on now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who’s on tonight?”

  “According to the guide here its Richard Simmons and stupid human tricks,” Tina said in reserved amusement.

  “Mmm, romantic,” James said, before hitting the lights in the bathroom and slowly collapsing himself on top of Tina in bed. They will adjust and pretzel together to meet each other’s satisfaction, remaining that way until 2AM.

  And like a crying baby can do to you in coach, Duke will shatter the slumber by barking his way to the living room as a result of mistaking a few working heat pipes for a cat burglar. Feeling like it was the gentlemanly thing to do, James waits a few seconds before he leisurely follows Duke to check the lock on the front door.

  He whispers upon returning to the room, “Hey? Should I let him out?”

  “I’ll do it,” Tina sighs into her pillow.

  “I already got my shoes on,” he said, standing in the doorway barefooted. He turned to head back towards the entranceway. “You can do it tomorrow night.”

  “What about next week?” She responds inquisitively.

  He tiptoed his way to the front door, as if he wasn’t there to hear her.