by S L Shelton
I remained quiet. I knew what was coming next, and I had to hold on tight or risk overreacting. This conversation already hurt, and I hadn’t even heard the words yet.
“I have to go back to school soon,” she continued. “The past three months with you have been wonderful. The best I can remember. But I can’t hold off my whole life’s plan for something that might happen.”
I pulled my knees up like she had, resting my chin on them, but I remained quiet. This was her moment; she had built up to it, and I wasn’t going to derail her any longer.
She watched me for a few seconds, looking for my reaction before continuing.
“I don’t know if it’s just timing, or if we’re going slow for a reason, or if this is just as far as you and I can go…” She paused again, reaching for her words carefully, but the constriction had already started creeping up my neck…this was to be a break up. “But I don’t feel confident that…” A long pause. “I don’t feel confident that you can commit to this relationship enough to justify staying here and missing another semester of school. There. I said it.” She looked at me for a moment, and then she said, “Damn...that was way worse than it had sounded in my head.”
There was obviously a battle going on in her mind between logic and emotion. I looked at her sideways for a moment and then spoke slowly, purposefully, and gently.
“I understand. You have a lot of time invested in your future, a clear direction, and a strong momentum,” I said, pausing to let that sentiment be felt. “But I want you to know, that if you decided to stay in this area to finish your doctorate, I would remain your understanding and supportive...” I stopped. Uh oh, I thought. I’ve created a verbal booby trap. I have to define what I am to her.
“Stop,” she said suddenly.
That was it. I hesitated at a moment when she needed certainty. I had just closed the door she cracked open.
I dropped my head. Damn it, Scott.
She smiled before everything shifted to a very pleasant get-together between friends. I had my opportunity, and now the moment was gone—so was she, emotionally anyway.
“Dad invited me to go with him to the Netherlands before the summer semester starts. So I probably won’t see you for a few weeks. But we should get together when I get back...before I have to pack up and leave for school.”
And that was it. The deed had been done with no tears, no yelling, no drama—just a heart-wrenching yank and the slow vacuum of cold air backfilling the void that had just been formed.
The ride back to my condo was a theater of friendly conversation. I could see the glassy sheen on her eyes, but she would not cry…not in front of me. And she would not stop chattering as if we were college roommates catching up on everything before summer break.
“So when we get to Amsterdam, Dad has a couple of days to do the whole ‘tourist thing’ before he has to jump into the trial,” she said, having obviously, recently decided to go on the trip with her father. “I’m looking forward to some time with him. We’ve both been too busy recently.”
Ouch. That was aimed directly at me.
“Maybe the change of scenery will help me figure out if I’m going to expand on my masters’ dissertation linking failed federal corporate regulation with the collapse of corporate lobbying rules, or if I will change course and go for ‘International Trade agreement.’” Her voice was steady, but I saw her lip quiver. She was obviously now addressing everything she had put on hold because of me.
“Besides,” she continued. “It’s time to aim this expensive education at something like a career. I just have to decide if I’ll follow Daddy’s footsteps or go for a lobbying job.”
By the time we got to the condo, I was nearly desperate to say good-bye. I had an overwhelming urge to grab her around the waist, tell her not to go to Amsterdam, finish her doctorate at Georgetown instead of Harvard, and move in with me. But that would have only been my reaction to her, not how I truly felt.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit! I hate guilt, deserved or not.
Objectivity was nowhere to be found as I hugged her good-bye. “Have a safe trip,” I said, before she stepped into her little sports car and drove away. Outwardly though, I could feel I was smooth and unreadable as ever—an asshole.
As soon as she turned off my court and onto Fair Ridge Drive, I took a deep breath, shoving down my ache. I wasn’t even consciously aware of turning to go inside.
I plopped down into my overstuffed green chair and swung my feet up on the ottoman. I immediately felt a mild sense of relief lurking there under the ache. As I surfed through all the TV listings, I hit each channel twice before realizing there was nothing to hold my interest.
Only a few seconds after I had turned the TV off, my phone rang. It was Bonbon. I didn’t really want to answer it because I knew she would already be aware of this morning’s breakup. Barb would have been on the phone with her as soon as she pulled out of the parking lot.
“Hello,” I said sleepily.
“Do you have something to tell me? Something to say? I’m sure you do. Think about it for a second, and it’ll come to you,” she spilled out in a single breath, her tone bitter and accusing.
“Bon. I’m not in the mood.” I said plainly, with an edge in my voice.
“Mood?” she questioned sarcastically. “What are you in the mood to do? Are you in the mood to ruin a perfectly good relationship because it’s moving a bit too fast for you? Are you in the mood strain a friendship? Are you in the mood to—”
“Stop. Please,” I said, interrupting her tirade before it could gain more momentum. “I’m not in the mood to be guilted for a tough decision—mine or hers.”
“That’s all fine and good,” Bonbon said. “But there are other things at stake here. She was crying.”
“I don’t know if she shared this with you or not, but she is the one who decided to leave for the Netherlands, and then head back to school in Massachusetts. Not me.”
“You didn’t give her much choice, did you?” she said, clearly having picked a side in this debate.
“Bonny… She has her own speed, needs, and expectations, and I have mine. She clearly doesn’t think they jive.”
“Whatever,” she said flippantly.
What? I thought. There was no way I just derailed Bonbon with the “Everyone makes their own decisions” argument. Be careful, Scott. It’s a trap.
“I’m sorry, Bonbon,” I said softly. “I really would have liked for her to stay in the area. She just needed more of a guarantee than I could give. That’s a heavy burden to put on someone after three months.”
“Again. Whatever,” she replied coldly.
“Okay. Well, since this isn’t going to be the supportive conversation I need after a hard breakup, I’d rather just hang up and sit here alone for a while,” I said, reminding her that she was my friend too, and that this hadn’t been easy on me either.
There was a long pause. “I’m sorry, Scott. You’re right,” she said sincerely. “I was just really hoping you two would make it.”
“Me too, Bonbon. I promise,” I said. The exhaustion from the conversation was already creeping up on me.
There was another pause, during which I imagined she was planning her next line of attack. The frontal didn’t work, so she needed a flanking move now.
“Me, Storc, and a couple of other people from work are going out tonight. You should come with us. Get your mind off it,” she said finally. I could tell by the tone of her voice that there was no use trying to resist. She would have her way.
“I’m so tired, Bonbon. I don’t—”
“We’ll make it an early night. I promise,” she said, knowingly lying to me.
“Okay. For a couple of hours. But when I’m ready to leave, I’m just leaving. Okay?” I said, setting up my exit unapologetically.
“Okay. Deal!” she said excitedly. “Ultrabar at nine-thirty. No… wait. Better make it nine .”
“Alright, Bonbon. I’ll see you then.”
> “Don’t back out. I’m serious. I’ll come and get you.”
“Okay. Bye,” I said, and then hung up before she could threaten me some more.
A long breath escaped through my nose. It made me tired just thinking about going to a club tonight. But if I hadn’t agreed to do it, Bonny would have hounded me until not only would I have gone, but I would have been more tired and more miserable from the resistance. She had us all very well-trained.
**
11:45 p.m.—Amsterdam, Netherlands
VUKASIN POPOVICH sat quietly on a stack of crates in the corner of the warehouse. It was the warehouse where he was meeting with members of the Amsterdam Russian mob. He didn’t like relying on the Russians for this operation, but time and resources were limited—he had little choice. Keeping them in line would be the hard part.
“So we steal truck, we provide security, we burn evidence, and Serbs stand around looking pretty,” said the grating Vova—the second in command of the local mob family.
“Quiet, Vova,” hissed his boss—Rodka.
“Why I be quiet?” Vova protested loudly, trying to show he wasn’t afraid of Popovich as the others were. “Is our risk, our resources, and if they mess up—” he said, jabbing his finger in the air toward Popovich, “it’s us getting caught!”
“Is good deal. You need to stop,” Rodka said, putting his hand on Vova’s chest, trying to get him to calm his tone—but Vova was on a roll.
“Why I stop?” Vova asked incredulously. “Everyone acting so afraid. Is bad plan, is bad deal, and these are Serbs—in old days this would not happen.”
“So you think it’s a bad plan?” Popovich said, rising from his stack of boxes. “What do you think we should do instead?”
He walked over in front of Vova with a calm, questioning expression on his face. “Please. This is not the army. If you have a better idea, let’s discuss it.”
Vova opened his mouth to speak, but he never got to say what he intended. Popovich’s arm lashed out with the speed of a cobra, striking Vova in the throat with the edge of his hand. Vova’s eyes flashed wide, and his own hands went to his throat as he fell backward on the concrete.
A few of the other Russians went for their weapons. But while Popovich stood over Vova, watching him turn blue and twitch, the rest of the Serbs in the room quickly raised their weapons at the remaining Russians.
“Hvatit!” Rodka yelled at his men, his face twisted into a snarl. “Do nothing!”
The remaining Russians tensed on the edge of violence as Rodka stepped between them and Popovich.
“Vova brought it on himself,” Rodka said, looking down at the now-still Vova on the floor. “This is the deal. We agreed to it. This isn’t game.”
“You take this?” one of the other Russians asked incredulously.
Anger spread across Rodka’s face before he stepped up to the big Russian and slapped him.
“Enough, Daniil!” Rodka yelled. “We are in this now. We do what Popovich say.”
The big Russian looked down at Vova’s lifeless body and then down at his shoes. “Yes, boss,” he said pitifully. The rest of the Russians relaxed their stances after that, though still fuming over the assault.
“We’ll need someone else to steal the truck now,” Popovich said with a smug grin on his face. The big Russian—Daniil—looked up and glared at him, but didn’t make another move toward violence.
“Elvis,” Rodka said, turning to one of the other men. “You will Sunday night find box truck and take to safe house on Amstel. You stay until we arrive.”
“Yes, Rodka,” Elvis replied meekly.
“Take plates from another truck and cover back,” Rodka continued. “No mistakes.”
Elvis nodded his understanding, trying hard not to look at Vova’s body or Popovich.
“Truck will be taken care of,” Rodka said. There was hate in his eyes, but Popovich knew he wouldn’t risk his whole family over the execution of one man—the lesson had been effective.
The other Russians had already begun to leave when Rodka motioned them toward the door. He stayed a moment longer, watching them depart, before turning to Popovich once they were out of earshot.
“Vova was your pilot,” Rodka said, anger still boiling in his eyes.
Popovich smiled and watched as the Russians dragged Vova’s body into the back of their van. “As I recall, you did a fair amount of flying in the army as well.”
It was clear that Rodka had hoped that information had stayed forgotten. But Popovich didn’t seem to forget anything. Rodka reluctantly nodded his acceptance before turning to leave.
“Rodka.” Popovich yelled across the floor of the warehouse when he was halfway to the van. He waited for Rodka to turn. “Let’s have no more need for lessons. These are your men. Next time I will hold you responsible for their disrespect.”
Rodka looked as if he were on the edge of saying something, but he suddenly turned away, obviously thinking better of it before joining his men in the van. As they drove out of the warehouse, Popovich smiled with satisfaction.
“Some dogs are harder to train than others,” he muttered as he walked past his men. They chuckled at the comment.
**
8:55 p.m.—Ultrabar, Washington, D.C.
I took the metro into the city and got off at Metro Center, before walking the three blocks or so to the club. It was 8:55 p.m. when I arrived, but 9:10 p.m. before I got in.
Bonny had failed to mention which part of the club she would be in, so I wandered for a while, getting a beer from the bar before I set off looking for her. In one of the dance areas, I bumped into Stacy, a girl I had dated a couple of times. She danced up to me.
“Hey ya, Scott! How are you doing, baby?” she yelled at me over the music.
“I’m well!” I said, smiling. “I’m looking for Bonny and Storc. Have you seen them?”
She thought for a second. She was drunk already, and the evening had just started. “Nope! Haven’t seen them,” she said, rubbing her hand across my arm and chest, bouncing to the music.“Why don’t you just hang out with me for a while and let them find us?”
I smiled. “Sorry… Maybe later. I have to find Bonny and Storc.”
“Okay…later then.”
She kissed me on my cheek before I wandered away.
The drinking had been the reason I didn’t go on more than a couple of dates with Stacey. She was very sweet, but I felt there was something painful in her life that required nearly constant self-medication.
I don’t mind going out and drinking to have a good time, but I refuse to drink so that I can allow myself to have a good time. It results in too many hangovers, damaged brain cells—which I prize above all other cells—and very little free time to improve myself. To date her would mean spending all my free time drinking or, at the very least, watching her drink.
I wandered into another dance area. My beer was empty, so I pushed my way through to the bar to get another. As I leaned into the bar, someone came up behind me and put her arms around my waist. I turned.
“Hey Bonny!” I yelled over the noise.
“Hey Scottman, Scottmiester, Scott-a-lama-dingdong!” she slurred. It appeared as though Stacey was not the only one drinking for a goal tonight.
Storc followed behind her, reaching for Bonny quickly to keep her from tipping us both over.
“Hey! Easy there, Bonbon,” Storc cautioned. “Let’s get you back to the table.”
“I wanna dance!” she yelled, protesting.
“Later,” Storc said. “The night is young.”
“And so are we,” she sang in response, but she followed him as he made a path back to the table where our friends from work were sitting.
When we arrived at the table, Bonny plopped down on the bench, bouncing on the cushion once before settling. Storc squeezed in beside her. I sat on the opposite side of the table, purposely trying to avoid Bonny in this state. I knew it would only be moments before she remembered the reason I was
there… And a drunken Bonny was not someone you wanted a serious conversation with.
I sat next to Tina and Janet, the “twisted sisters,” as they were called at work. Though not sisters, they were rarely seen outside of each other’s company, and though they looked nothing alike, they spoke sometimes in unison, as twins often do.
They too had been drinking heavily. I found it amazing that in the time it took me to get into the club and drink one beer, nearly everyone at the table had managed to consume a half dozen drinks each…everyone but Storc, who, in chronic worrier fashion, was the self-appointed designated “sober thinker”.
“How long have you all been here?” I asked over the loud house beat that was vibrating every surface.
Bonny leaned forward and yelled, “An hour or two.” She was clearly unaware of the time.
Stoned as well, I thought.
Storc shook his head. “Forty-five minutes,” he corrected.
Bonny proceeded to argue the point as Storc patiently nodded, agreeing with her, having learned long ago that arguing with Bonny was pointless, and that arguing with Drunk Bonny was dangerous.
A passing waitress stopped at the table. “What can I get you?” she asked.
“Something dark on tap,” I replied.
As soon as the waitress departed, another girl I knew wandered up to the table, dancing.
“Hey, Scott,” she said as her body rippled to the techno beat.
“Hi, Claire,” I said back, speaking over the roar around us.
“Come and dance!” she said seductively. Her friend, whose name I could never remember, stepped up beside her and started bumping hips with Claire. They both reached out and tried to pull me from my seat, but they were interrupted by an angry Bonny, who began to climb across the table on all fours, like a puppy who hadn’t quite figured out how to walk yet. Overturned drinks and bottles followed in her wake as she moved across the surface.
Both Claire and her friend took a giant step backward as Bonbon poured herself over the edge of the table toward them and fell on the floor. Storc and I quickly lifted her and checked to see that there was no bleeding.
