Shameless Self-Promotion: Chapter 6 of the next project

Hey all...

I'm going through a first pass of my next book, before an editor can get to it, and before beta reads.  But... I figure a little out-of-context taste of what I'm doing couldn't hurt.

So, all feedback is welcome.  Enjoy!

6.

Alex

     Don’t know what to expect as I pull up in the driveway.  That guy – whoever he was – doesn’t still have a car here, so bonus for that.  There’s nothing worse than finding some strange dude’s sports car on my street.  My darling wife’s car is still here.  Maybe not so much a bonus.  I’m not sure if I’m going to pack some stuff and hit a hotel, or tell her to pack her shit.  I’m not sure I want do either.

     I can’t get the last 10 hours out of my head.  The kiss in the bar.  Watching Sabrina.  Catching, I mean.  Catching Sabrina.  This morning with Lucy.

     Lucy and I went at it hard today.  The way she moved, how she looked perched up on me.  The natural tightness of her body, how her ass and tits defied gravity, but she clearly hasn’t spent a minute in the gym.  Not muscular, not fluffy, just the perfect body at the perfect time in her life.  You can’t replace youth, and she can’t be any older than 25. 

I haven’t been with anyone since I met Selena.  That’s ten years of being completely faithful.  I should feel bad.  Guilty.  But I don’t, not really.  I mean, she fucked up first.  I am absolutely justified. 

So why don’t I feel good about it? 

Ah, this sucks.  Every time I think I feel guilty, I can’t stop the image of watching… catching her bent over on the living room floor.  Every time I think Sabrina’s a whore, I picture Lucy, on top of me with her hands on my chest and her top teeth tugging at her bottom lip, and her body rocking back and forth with her dark curls covering her red face.

     I’m slow and deliberate as I turn the key.  I hope she’s sleeping.  I hope she doesn’t hear me.  Kind of wish I could just fast-forward past this.

Sabrina

     The key turning in the deadbolt lock wakes me from the power nap I was taking on the couch.  I check the clock on the wall – minutes to noon – and realize that it’s been close to six hours since I heard that little performance.  I probably shouldn’t be so fucking mad; he did walk in on a compromising situation, but I can’t help myself.  I can hear my heartbeat.  It sounds like explosions in my head.  I’m dizzy.  Gotta breathe.  Breathe.  Slow it down.  Inhale, exhale.  Why the fuck is it so hot in here?  Do I have a fever?  This is a hell of a time to get sick.

     Six hours.  Not a call.

     Six hours ago, I was hoping that the man I loved wasn’t dead, or didn’t leave me.  Now I wish he had. 
     Left, I mean.  I don’t want him dead.  I don’t think, anyway.
     He opens the door and glances at me before heading up the stairs to the bedroom.   I still don’t quite know what to say.  I’m hurt, angry, embarrassed, sorry, and have no idea which one is the right one to express.  I can hear him sifting through drawers and slamming them closed.  A few minutes of that and he heads into the kitchen.  I guess his night made him hungry.

     I figure I should take a look at the damage he’s done to the bedroom.  I get in there and see all my clothes, dumped in a pile all over our bed.  I check the top two dresser drawers.  They’re empty.  So are the laundry baskets and my side of the closet.  Everything I own in this bedroom is on the bed.

I rush down to the kitchen and see him leaning on the breakfast bar, drinking a glass of orange juice.  He looks at me, takes a giant chug and puts the glass down on the counter.

     I want you to leave, he says to me.

Alex

     I walk into the house and there she is, on the couch wearing her bathrobe, just sitting there, like she was waiting for me to get home.  I catch her out of the corner of my eye, looking up at me.  Something in her eyes, a look of anger, maybe a touch of regret.  It’s too much and I’m not ready yet to return the look.  I head to our bedroom and have a seat on the bed.  This is the first real breath I’ve had all day.  I stare at the furniture in the bedroom, all a deep brown cherry-wood, polished and lacquered.  They were her choice, and I have grown to like it.  I stand up in front of the dresser and before I really know what I’m doing, I’ve emptied the top two drawers.  I go into the closet, yank down all the hangers from her side and grab her laundry basket.  All her stuff, her sweatpants, her underwear, t-shirts, I’ve dumped them all onto the bed.  I hustle my way back to the kitchen; she’s not on the couch anymore.  I need a drink.

     I pour half a glass of orange juice and add a splash of vodka.  It helps me calm my nerves.  I take a gulp and notice her standing at the entrance to the kitchen, staring at me with this “what did you do?” look.

     I want you to leave, I say to her.

     Her mouth drops open a bit, a reaction to shock.  I don’t buy it.  There’s no way she didn’t see this coming after last night.

     “Excuse me?” she says.  Her voice is trembling, like she’s trying to hold on to her last bit of calm.

     I need you gone.  I can’t be here with you anymore.

     She bites her lip.  She’s holding back tears.  “And where do you expect me to go?”

     Not my problem, I say.  You probably should have thought of that before you brought your boyfriend home.

     She goes red in the face.  “He’s not my boyfriend,” she starts to say.

     I don’t give a shit who he is, actually.  This marriage is over.

     She can’t stop the tears now.  “And what, that’s my fault?  Where were you last night?”

     I pause; should I tell her?  It doesn’t matter where I was, I say.

     “Who were you with?”

     What are you talking about?

     “Don’t play stupid.  I heard you with a woman when I called you.  You forgot to hang up your phone last night, you ass.”

     It hits me; that’s why my phone battery died all of a sudden.  I didn’t hang up when I threw it down.  A momentary wave of relief comes over me; that was an expensive phone and I would hate to think I damaged it.

     Pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think? I say.

     “So what, you had to go get revenge?  Hurt me for hurting you?”  She huffs and puffs and wipes away tears.  “I hope the bitch was worth it.”

     Fuck you, I tell her.  I’m yelling now, I don’t ever yell at her.

     “Obviously not,” she says.  “Can’t believe it took this to realize you never really did it for me.”

     She says that and I feel my heart stop.  I get in her face, nose-to-nose, angry with her like she’s a guy.  I feel like I’m watching myself grab her face.  This can’t be me, I’ve never raised a hand to her in anger.  Get out, I watch myself say.  She slaps at my arms.  She’s always been tough, strong, and I’m not surprised that her hits sting my arm.  When the harmless slaps turn into punches, I let go of her face and with one arm I grab both of her wrists and push her back against the fridge.

     And I kiss her.

Sabrina

     I hear myself saying “you never really did it for me,” and I know it’s not true.  I know I’m pushing the wrong buttons and pushing them too hard, but so what?  What’s he going to do?  Even as he grabs my jaw in his strong right hand, I know my man.  I know he’d never hurt me.  But the pressure he’s putting on my face is starting to get uncomfortable.  He gets in my face and tells me to get out.  And I realize that maybe I don’t know my man so well.

     My heart’s pounding from fear or anger, I can’t tell which.  He’s telling me to get out of my house and he knows I don’t have anywhere to go.  And before that part of my brain that would say “No, don’t, this isn’t a good idea” gets a chance to speak, I start to hit him.  “Let me go,” I say.  I don’t think he’s hearing me.  I go from open hand slaps to punches, hard, to his arm.  He grabs my wrists in his hands and puts them up above my head, then pins me against the fridge.  He grabs my jaw again, and I don’t know when the last time I’ve ever been this scared.

     He kisses me, hard, passionately.  Everything stops.  My eyes drift closed and I feel him pressing his lips against me, the day-old stubble of his chin razing my face.  It’s rough and prickly and tickles.  I feel his tongue forcing its way past my lips and I let it in after putting up a cursory resistance.  I take a deep breath for the first time.  I hate him.  God this feels good.

     I bite his lip, not hard, not softly, and his hands loosen from my wrists.  I grab his face and push away, taking a breath to try and get the flush out of my face.  I slap him across the jaw as hard as I can and kiss him again.  I tear at his shirt and buttons pop and I’m raking his chest with my fingernails.  He moves his prickly face to my neck and bites down.  It hurts, but there’s no pain in my voice.  I throw my arms around his neck and dig my nails into his back.

     It feels so good.  I hate the cheating bastard.

Alex

     A grunt escapes my throat as she scratches my back.  The sting from air and sweat means she’s probably broken skin, but right now I can’t say I care.  Her skin warms in my hands, in my mouth.  She tastes great.  I throw off her bathrobe and rip off her tank top, and she moans at the sound of the cotton ripping.  I lift her off the ground and her breasts to my face.  She squirms in my arms and her feet flail in the air, and she lets out noises I haven’t heard before.  Holy crap, this is incredible.  Is this what she was like last night?

     I bite at one of her nipples and she pulls my head in closer.  She’s trembling.  She slips through my hands to the ground and works her hands on my belt and pants.  I slide her pajama bottoms to the ground, and she quickly shimmies them off her ankles.  Then my pants are around my ankles.  I kiss her again, hard and deep and pin her wrists behind her.  She wraps those strong dancer legs around my waist and I’m greeted by warm and wet.  I’m watching myself pin her against the wall and drive into her.  I want to give myself a thumbs up.

     We’re both making animal noises as we make love.  No, come to think of it, this isn’t making love, not at all.  I’m angry, and I can tell she is too.  We’re hitting the wall so hard that our cabinets are shaking.  A ceramic plate falls out and smashes against the floor.  There is very little love in this.

     She starts to squeeze me and I withdraw.  I don’t want this to end just yet.  I put her down and bend her over the breakfast bar and slide into her as she’s still trembling.  One hand’s on her back and I have her thick dark curls wrapped around my wrist.  I grab her hip and drive into her, hard. Fast.  Repeatedly.  She squeals, part pain, part pleasure, but I’m not going to stop.

Sabrina

     One minute we’re fighting, the next minute we’re screwing on the breakfast bar.  When I look at this in my mind later, I’m sure I’m going to laugh at how crazy this is.

     We’re going at it pretty hard.  There’s a broken plate at the cabinet and I think I knocked over a glass from the breakfast bar.  I’m holding on for dear life as he’s ramming me from behind and there’s a part of me that can’t help but think if this is what he did with her, whoever she is.  Did she get it this good?  Was he this savage with her?  And I’m surprised at myself to realize that the thought is what’s driving this.

     Did he bend her over something in her kitchen? Oh, God!

     Was he pounding her this hard?  Shit, yes!

     Did he slap her ass the way he’s slapping mine?  Fuck me!

     I don’t know if I’m thinking it or screaming it, but he’s going at it so hard it almost hurts.  So, so good.

     My knees are buckling again and I know I’m about to cum.  He brought me so, so close last time and stopped, the asshole, just to do this again.  I want this, need this, can’t let him know.  Hold my breath.  Don’t clench.  Feel my face going warm.  Oh, shit.  Gotta hold it.  Gotta hold it.  For the love of God, please don’t stop.  Oh, God!

     He pulls out and I let out that breath- Fuck yes- and my knees feel like jelly. I feel a warm trickle down my leg.  Oh, god, am I peeing?  How can I be peeing?  Wait, wait a minute.  This isn’t pee.  I’m not peeing.  That’s new.

Alex

     There’s a small puddle forming at my feet and I’m suddenly not so focused on the anger anymore.  Wow.  That’s definitely a new trick.  I take a breath and pat myself on the back in my head.

     Did she do that last night?  Did she do that for him?

     I see red and drive into her again.  I grab her by her hips and pull her into me.  She’s not even putting up any resistance, even throwing her hips back at me.  She’s moaning like a little whore, not even forming words.  Her knees buckle and her body trembles in my hands.  I can’t hide my smile as I grab a handful of her hair, and her breath catches in her throat.  The one word she says comes out as a long and raspy whisper: “Yes!”.  I haven’t seen her dick-drunk in years.

     She clenches up again, right at my moment of weakness.  Fuck, I’m gonna blow.  My entire body seizes and I let loose inside her.  My limbs go heavy and I feel my eyes roll back.  The kitchen is getting hazy, and where a second ago I was gripping her to pound her harder, I’m holding on now to keep from falling over.  My legs wobble and fail, partly because of the vigorous workout and partly because I let off twice in the last eight hours and I’m just not used to all this sex.  I pull out and she drips and oozes on the floor.

I’ll probably have to clean that up.

     We both take a few silent, heaving breaths.  We’re drenched in sweat.  I can’t muster up the same kind of rage I just had not too long ago.  Too tired.  Too relaxed.  I know, I hope, whoever that guy was he didn’t get this out of her.  This was for me.  This was mine.

After a moment, she stands upright and strides over to the pile of her clothes near the fridge.  I haven’t seen her naked like this in so long, I forgot how stunning she is.  Tall, long, lean, muscled legs, toned stomach, perky breasts, naturally tanned skin with freckles at her chest and cheeks.  She bends to pick up her bathrobe and shorts and I take notice of that ass of hers.  My red handprint is still visible.

“I’m taking a shower,” she announces.  “I’m sweaty.”  She walks away, out of the kitchen and upstairs toward the bathroom.

And then I hear her call out, “You coming?”

Review: Adultery by Paulo Coelho

Meh.

Paulo Coelho comes to me well-recommended.  I'm told The Alchemist is a life-changing book and Aleph is captivating.  Maybe I should have started with one of those.

I can't say I loved Adultery.  It wasn't terrible, and this is a virtue of Paulo Coelho being everything as a writer I was told he would be.  His style is accessible and conversational.  You can blow through large chunks of text while sipping a coffee or a beer and you're never left grasping at what happened.  However this story, while well told, wasn't terribly compelling.

Adultery is the running inner monologue of a woman in her 30's who has everything she can ask for -- perfect children, a husband who adores her, a fulfilling career, the ability to flit about the world at a whim -- and yet is terribly unhappy, largely because she chooses to be.  She inexplicably one day blows a politician (who happens to be the ex-boyfriend from high school that she was so into that she fantasized about him constantly through her adolescence), and that kick-starts a vicious cycle self-hatred and bad decision-making, all while her doting husband tries desperately to help her find her way of whatever depression and melancholy she happens to be in.

I find characters who do the  super-entitled pity party ("woe is me, I have everything) to be grating, especially when they narrate the story, as in Adultery and  Douglas Brunt's Ghosts of Manhattan. It's hard to empathize with them as a reader because for me at least, it's impossible to understand them, especially when at the end, they haven't changed very much because their lives are so insular, so perfect, they're not required to.  Adultery's narrator, Linda, almost ruins two marriages -- her own and her lover's -- and never has to face the consequences. She's spared the humbling embarrassment of having to say she cheated, while putting her lover in a position to lie to his wife's face.  At the end of the day, her relationship with her husband somehow ends up stronger because she realizes that she has it all and decides it's not a prison.  I mean... come on.  Reading this calls up some advice my dad once gave me: the worst thing you can give a woman is everything she wants.

I will say this: Paulo Coelho's style is everything it's cracked up to be.

Pros: Easy Read, crackling style
Cons: Whiny narrator, no significant character change at the end.

2 out of 5 stars.

Wings. (Vacation, Day Three: Brooklyn, NY, Lower Manhattan, NY, and Hoboken, NJ)

A day that started in Brooklyn, went past the World Trade Center, cruised through North Jersey, and ended in Brooklyn.

Ah, it's much less dramatic than all that, but I did get a really good shot on my phone.

That is a picture of the Fulton Transit Hub with 1 WTC in the background.  Shot with a Droid Phone, only in New York.

So let's recap.

I spent the morning at breakfast with my sister and my niece, catching up over coffee and IHOP, expressing our differences of opinion regarding sugar vs. substitutes, organic food vs. non-organic and the appropriateness of singing in public.  If I'm being honest, there was no difference of opinion on that last one.  Singing in public is always a good idea.  We chatted and laughed and talked about all manner of fun things.  I realized I hadn't had the chance to catch up with these two in any real manner in months.  The last couple of days had I had focused my energies inward, and because of my schedule and the three hour time difference, I'm never able to catch them on the phone for any real length of time.  These two women are among my favorite people.  After breakfast and a long walk, my niece went to work and I went to sleep.  I've slept more in the last three days than I have in the last three months.

After my morning/afternoon nap, I arranged to meet with my longtime friend from college, Sara, who I haven't seen since my father's passing a couple of summers back.  On the way to meet her I got to take the Subway into Manhattan.  For as long as I can remember, I've always loved the New York Subway.  Not the cost of it, of course, $2.75 is railway robbery.  But it is beautifully efficient as a people mover.  I made it a point to take the train to Cortlandt Street, first time I had been at that station in more than a decade.  Cortlandt was one of the more heavily damaged stations in the aftermath of 9/11, and Hurricane Sandy a couple of years ago didn't do it any favors either.  It was shuttered for several years until the completion of the Fulton Transit Hub.  The World Trade Center was complete when I was last in town, but not open, so it was all kinds of cool to see people going in and out for work or what have you.  If I wasn't on the clock I would have ponied up the money to check out the observatory.  Oh well...

From there it was a trip on the PATH train to Hoboken.  I've never been to Hoboken.  Imagine my surprise when I stepped out of the station to find a city that seemed...

... well, a lot like Downtown Brooklyn.  Great views of the skyline.  Awesome seaside park. Vibrant, energetic, young.  It was cool.  I went to the W Hotel and hung out at the bar, engaging a couple of locals in a conversation about what's wrong with baseball while I waited for my friend to arrive.  It was entertaining.

Here's a little backstory: Sara is one of my oldest and dearest friends, having long ago earned herself a spot on the bullet list, the short list of people for whom I would take a bullet, largely because they wouldn't put me in a position to do so.  She was the first fan of my writing, which is what made me think "I can do this," instead of pushing for a more stable/prestigious/boring career in criminal justice.  She's been a stable friend throughout the three major deaths my family has dealt with.  I attended her wedding and congratulated her very loudly at the birth of each of her three children.  She has stated that my atheism is the only reason I'm not her kids' godfather, which is fine.  My Brando impersonation is terrible.  I'm guh make youa offa you can't refuse...

We had a drink and caught each other up on the events of our lives.  She was happy for me and my relationship, I made googley noises at pictures of her soon-to-be one-year old.  She asked about my mom, my grandma, and my family, I asked about hers.  She was supposed to be planning her kid's birthday party but her husband let her off the hook to hang out with me.  I said he should have got his ass out here too.  We laughed and talked and enjoyed company like we did 20 years ago in school.  Then we realized how old we both were.  20 years.  We are nothing like the kids we were back then.
We laughed loudly and reminisced wildly, recalling some of the misadventures we had as teenagers and young adults.  Her son Noel accelerated her maturation into a grown-up, whereas I'm just now getting my feet wet in the adulthood arena.  After a couple of hours and a brief tour of Hoboken (birthplace of Frank Sinatra, apparently), we parted company, and I headed back to my city.

Back in NYC, and eager to erase the Jersey funk off me (sorry, Jersey is still Jersey), I walked a couple of blocks around the World Trade Center area to find the one thing I had been searching for the last six years I've been in Washington... a good slice of pizza.  My vacation goals are easily attained, aren't they?  Pizza is supposed to be cheese and sauce and perhaps some form of cow, pig, or chicken product. The dough is to be made with mineral-heavy New York tap water (otherwise known as wau-tuh.  My New York tongue returns!), not whatever it is they put on it or in it on the West Coast.  It's not supposed to have anything artisanal or soy or low-fat.  Dough, sauce, cheese, meat.  In that order.  The pizza place I went to, whose name I can't remember but is right next to the New York Dolls Gentlemen's Club, had two sausage slices that I claimed as my own (I was willing to do it Ariana Grande-style by licking the damn thing).  Three long but well-spent minutes in the oven later, and I was snarfing down hot pizza while making sounds like I was really enjoying a lap dance.  I even took the long way back, so I could enjoy my slices in pizza... I mean peace.

Wow, that was a baaaaad joke.

This week, I'm learning something about being home.  It's not so much the place I miss.  Don't get me wrong, the place is awesome, and I definitely miss it some.  No, it's the people I miss.  People I associate with these places.

Tomorrow is the last full day before I take off to London. Maybe I'll finally make it to Coney Island.

I Believed That We Would Win

Okay, so a day after the US was eliminated from the World Cup, it's time to take a quick look back at what it did.

Despite what Ann Coulter said, it kind of reinforced the commonality of all Americans.  No matter our walk of life, political alignment, ethnic background, or religious slant, we all supported our team.  We all chanted.  We all watched. 

We all gave props to Tim Howard for his gutsy performance against Belgium.

The beauty of it all was that we did so without hesitation, without consideration of whether the person chanting next to us was pro-choice or not, without worrying about the confrontation between creationism and evolution.  We did so without the worry about whether or not climate change was real.

For the first time in a long time, it wasn't the 1% versus the 99%.  It was the USA against the World.

Maybe it was because we were such huge underdogs, and everyone loves underdogs.  Maybe it's because secretly, some part of our evolving national identity loves soccer as much as NFL or baseball.  But for some reason, we were all believers.  And it's even lasted after we've lost.

We need to hold on to this feeling of unity.  Moments like this, where even an embattled President and his supporters and rivals are all on the same page in support of our country, are too precious to allow to pass.  And they should happen much more often than every four years.

Metamorphosis

It snowed the other day in Bellingham and I turned myself into a shut-in.  This was the view from my patio.

So weird, isn't it?  I lived in New York for the first 30 winters of my life, and we'll say that New York's winters aren't known so much for their mercy. The Blizzard of '96 is still legendary for it's inch per hour accumulation over 2 days. Yet the first -- and likely last --two-inch snowfall in Bellingham this winter has me freaking out.  It's the biggest fear of my life: I've acclimated.

NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

Oh the agony, I've gotten used to quiet nights and nature, to occasionally seeing deer grazing out my bedroom window.  I've gotten used to friendly people and cheap rents and getting a cab when I need one.  I've learned to live without the subway. So, so sad.

There was a point, exactly half my life ago, when the thought of living outside the five boroughs was like forced exile, and gave me hives and cold sweats.  I thought I would die on the block where I grew up.  (No, not in the negative way, either.  I thought I would grow old and die there once. ) I thought it was my inalienable right to be an a**hole if I so chose.  Not that I ever did choose, but still.  Now, I've grown accustomed to space, to mild winters, to kind hellos and cordial goodbyes.  I've gotten used to spoken conversations instead of grunted greetings and handshakes.

Now, I'm conscious of other people's presence.  I wave hello and smile to strangers, despite a lifetime of instincts to the contrary.  I've forgotten how to scowl.  I go back to New York at least once a year to get my re-up of my New York-ness.  I've been back two or three times this year already, and it didn't take.  My god, what's next, tourist neck?

What's happening to me?!

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

So, I spent much of the summer radio silent on this blog, poking my head out only once or twice to call for men to better to the women in our lives and so on.  It's not like I stopped writing, or stopped caring, I just got busy.  This has been a very interesting summer on a lot of levels, and while I usually don't talk too much about personal life details all that often, I'll get nice and personal right about now.

My summer began with the grand adventure of dating.  Those of you who know me best know how much I hate the dance of getting to know someone, and pretending to be the sexy version of myself so that I can have the privilege of buying dinner and paying for a movie so that maybe, sometime down the road, we can possibly have sex at some point (Yes, that IS sarcasm, but it's bleak out there).  I was reminded that things tend to work out better when I don't try to be the sexy version of me, or the smart version of me, or whatever version I think someone will like.  I tried being myself, a move I haven't done in a few years.  The result? I get to hang out with an amazing girl on a regular basis.  We're sappy and cute and disgusting -- in public, no less -- and it's kind of cool.  Don't get me wrong, if I were to watch a couple like that from a distance I would probably projectile vomit all over the place (I'm a hypocrite.  I'm also probably bigger than you.) but it IS nice to be so comfortable with someone you don't really worry about what the rest of the world thinks about it.

Midway through the summer, my brother and his wife announced that they are expecting a baby (everyone after me... awwwww).  And then then world got like, hormonally crazy.  People I knew are dropping babies like crazy.  I haven't seen an epidemic like this since my days in the Diamond District! (Seriously, don't drink the water.)  In a few days, a wonderful couple I met through my brother are expecting their own bundle of joy, and after the story I heard about the kid's sonogram pose, I acquired the nickname rights and hereby dub the soon-to-arrive person "L'il Baby Cool Breeze."  I also expect to not hear from those parents until the kid is 6 with that nickname.

Of course, no story worth living is completely happy, and toward the end of the summer I said goodbye to my father.  Without airing business, I will say that while we weren't as close as I would have liked to be (and I take a portion of the responsibility for that), I loved him, respected him, and will miss him dearly.  I hope he was proud of his children, because we all turned out pretty damn good.

The positive to that story is in several parts; number one, it reunited my family under one roof for the first time in a while.  Six boys, two girls, with spouses and children and baby bumps all over the place.  It was chaos.  I was in heaven.  Secondly, my brother took my dad's SUV in order to have a vehicle to drive their kid around in (sidebar: newborns live the life.  They get valet service, chauffeur service, room service, free rent, AND they get adored for it.  It's their world, we're just living in it.).  He's living in Louisville, Kentucky now, one of those places that no one ever thought any of us would move to on purpose, and he's happy there.  Go figure.  Anyway, getting the car there meant one thing: Road Trip!  I logged my first ever road trip, getting to see Pittsburgh and pass through some very pretty country on the East Coast.  Definitely one of my better memories.  Lastly, my father's death made it necessary to do something I was looking at doing anyway.  Last minute flights are expensive, so in order to do the flight back to New York, I had to take a loan.  But since I was going to take a loan out to publish anyway, I did that.  My next novel, The Favorite, should be out by the end of the year!

This summer has been a big one for me.  I can't think of one that's had this many stories in it worth telling, and summer don't end until the Yankees are done playing, so who knows what more can happen?  If the Yankees make the playoffs though, I'm going to be hard to deal with.

Sound and Fury

The news that NBA center Jason Collins is gay is about six hours old at this point.

This is of course a major deal in professional sports, as he is the first active male professional athlete in a major sport to come out.  There has been talk of NFL players coming out in the near future, and now that Collins has done so the way has been paved for other athletes in pro sports to do so.  The resounding outpouring of support he's gotten from the NBA community at-large is impressive and shows that the league has come a long way since the insensitive commentary of Tim Hardaway some years ago.  Collins is a widely respected player in the league, and is viewed as a locker room leader and all-around great teammate.  And you know what?  Good for him.  I can't imagine what it was like for him living a lie, having to behave like he thought professional athletes should to maintain some image.  From a human standpoint, I'm happy for the brother to have finally publicly acknowledged who he is.

And yet...

Before the Jason Collins news broke, odds are if you were asked who Jason Collins was, unless you were a hardcore hoop-head, the answer would have been "Who?"  I'm a hardcore hoop-head, and my response was, "He's still playing?"  He's been described by his own GM, right after the announcement, as a "utility big," someone who is somewhere between 11th and 15th on the depth chart.  His career averages of 3.6 points and 3.8 rebounds doesn't scream "upper-echelon player."  He's played 12 years for six teams and is a free agent this year.  He's 34 years old, which in NBA terms is like 65.  To be blunt, his recent career has seen him be a bench player for a bad team.  As much of an important step as this announcement is for that community, Jason Collins has unfortunately branded himself as a "gay ballplayer" as opposed to a "ballplayer who's gay."

When Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier decades ago, the concern was whether he was the "right guy--" talented enough, humble enough, respectable enough -- to legitimize the black athlete.  Jason Collins is not Jackie Robinson, at least not in the respect that he's an elite player.  He's on the downswing of a long but unremarkable career.  Collins is a Stamford educated man.  That is to say, he's not an idiot.  I'm sure as an athlete and as a businessman, he has to have come to grips with what this could mean for his career going into his free agent year.  And while I agree with Charles Barkley in that it's nobody's business who he sleeps with, putting this into the public eye makes it a public conversation, and unfortunately part of the talks in terms of continuing his career.  Big picture: it's a blip, and not because it should be a blip, but because Jason Collins isn't Kobe Bryant, LeBron James, Carmelo Anthony, or Dwyane Wade.

Now, I sincerely hope that this is the first step to this FINALLY not being a big deal anymore, the way being a black athlete, entertainer or executive is not a big deal anymore.  I hope that this announcement inspires an athlete of more clout to step up and embrace who he is, which in turn inspires more people to embrace who they are, and finally encourages the rest of us -- forces the rest of us -- to accept who they are.

Mission statement.

"It is what it is."

I've heard those words a lot, especially lately, in regards to a situation that isn't to our favor, to something that's glaringly wrong, but we feel we can't do anything about.  A relationship going sour?  It is what it is.  A job we don't love, or barely like, or can barely will ourselves to show up for?  It is what it is.  Home situation sucky?  It is what it is.  I've used those words for each of those things, and more.  Until tonight.

I had something of an epiphany tonight.  While dealing with a situation I legitimately can't do very much about, a friend of mine told me about a situation that she has the power to fix, if she so chose.  The fix would be difficult, and benefit would not be shown in the near term, but it could be done.  Instead?  Shrug of the shoulder.  It is what it is.  I can't do that anymore.

There's a prayer from the days I used to be able to cross the threshold of a church that popped into my head:  God, grant me the strength to change what I can change, the serenity to accept what I can't change, and the wisdom to know the difference.  I think that too often we are too stuck on the second part.  No more.  Not for me.

There is too much that I legitimately can't change, too much beyond my control, for me to not actively and frequently affect the things I can change. Too many times, I have been denied what I really want simply because I lacked the stones to go for it, instead chalking it up to one of those things I couldn't change.   I'm tired of painting myself the victim of circumstance.  No more excuses.

Patient Conversation (short post)

Had an interesting conversation with a patient at work.

I was setting her up while "The Bachelor" was on, and she was fascinated by it.  She never really got into the show until the end of last season, at the insistence of a friend.  I shook my head and said that it was kind of disappointing.  She asked why.  "Because I believe in love," I answered.

I made the point to her that "The Bachelor" turns the whole dating thing into a competition where the prize is getting an engagement ring, and our natural thing as animals is to overcome and eliminate competition.  There's no love on that show.  No real lasting connection.  Just a bunch of people competing for fame and notoriety.  It's so utterly cynical, and we have all bought in.  Don't get me wrong.  I'm single, and dating is very much like a competition, but it isn't -- and shouldn't ever be -- such an openly direct one.

The patient smiled and agreed with me.

I believe in love, in a connection to another person that makes you want to succeed with them, fail for them, shield them from hurt.  In something that enriches both people's lives to the point where it's like cable TV, and you wonder what you did before that person.  That makes me sappy, or overly romantic, or whatever, but I don't want to meet my future wife on what amounts to a game show.

I like to think I'm more of an optimist than that.

Brave New World

So here we are, New Year's Day, and we're all still here.  The world didn't end, we were not all consumed in hellfire and Brimstone.  Those kooky Mayans pulled one over on us.  Since we're past the date of the scheduled Apocalypse, that makes this a post-apocalyptic world.  What shall we do with this brave new world?

Every year, we go about the task of making resolutions, of stating in grand fashion the things we would like to change or improve of fix.  This year... meh.  It's 2013.  I'm 34 years old, and minus a few tweaks here and there, I'm basically the person I'm going to be.  So, what now?  Well, instead of thinking of the things I'd like to change, there are things I'd like to actually do.  The Mayan Prophecy, as illusory as it was, gave me a bit of perspective.  The world could end tomorrow.  It's not likely, of course, but anything could happen.  And even if the world is still spinning, my time -- our time -- on it is finite.  This is a wonderful world, and we should not be afraid to do the things in it.

Like snowboard.  Or sky dive.  Or parasail.  Or succeed.

We try sweeping changes looking for a big win.  I came to realize in the last year that it doesn't work quite like that.  Very few people hit the lottery.  The "big win" that we observe from the outside is a combination of little wins, medium losses, and big lessons from all.  Nothing comes without effort, and effort doesn't come without guts.  So I "resolve' to have the guts to at least do some of the things I've never been able to do for fear of failure, embarrassment or death.

Happy 2013, everyone.

Role Model (repost)

Found this digging through some of my old writing.  It is surprisingly still relevant.



Who do you celebrate; the man or the athlete? 

Men (and women) are flawed, make mistakes and poor decisions, have to validate their choices, their very existence to themselves and loved ones. Athletes are these impossibly heroic superbeings, perfect in form and physique, whose talents and feats elevate them to a place of near godhood. 

Who do you celebrate? 

Tiger Woods is the greatest golfer the world has ever known. He is the elite athlete in a sport that traditionally shunned men and women like him. He is the most marketable name in the pantheon of marketable names. He is the epitome of what can happen if you work long and hard at a particular skill, of the success that can be attained through perseverance. He is a hero. 

Tiger Woods is a wealthy and powerful individual with a family, who, it has been revealed, acted as wealthy and powerful men do. He had mistresses. Several mistresses. Who acted like the mistresses of wealthy and powerful men do. They kept the secret until the secret came out. Tiger Woods betrayed his wife and children. He is the villain. 

Alex Rodriguez may go down as the greatest baseball player since George Herman Ruth. He admitted to cheating, to artificially enhancing his body for three years to boost his stats and make the people love him more. He is the ultimate douchebag. 

Alex Rodriguez is a father/was a husband. He admitted to cheating, many women on many road trips. He was divorced, taken to the cleaners, lost. He has found love again. He is the ultimate reclamation project. 

Derek Jeter is the face of the most popular and successful franchise in sports. He has numerous personal accolades, several world championships. Plays the game "the right way," and his peers have gone on record to say they would lose faith in the game, in sports, if it ever came out he was cheating the game. He is the ultimate idol. 

Derek Jeter is a wealthy young guy living in New York City. He has a vast multitude of women at his disposal, from entertainers to beauty queens. He is the ultimate player. 

The question is, who do we want our children to be like? The athlete or the man? Here's the kicker, the answer is none of the above. We wnt our children to be OUR heroes, live the lives we never could, be all that we could not be. Succeed where we failed. All in the name of wanting the best. 

So here's to all the children, our role models. And all the parents, our devoted fans.

You Kiss Your Mother With That Mouth? (short post)

Whoa.

I don't get it.

I don't get the assault on the rights of women to control their own reproductive system.  A woman requiring birth control pills to inhibit the growth of a cyst is not all that much different from, say, a man needing to take medication to retard the growth of a testicular tumor.  And yet, this fine citizen Limbaugh suggests that in return for having that paid for, we should get to watch her have sex.

That's just wrong.  It's this kind of talk that drags our openness about the concept of sex further and further behind the rest of the world.  Should we hand out scarlet letters at Planned Parenthood too?

Reality Check.

Once upon a time, when we were children, we all said we would save the world.  I remember a particular English class in IS 391 (Thanks, Ms. Amy Greenberg) in which we wrote our own eulogies, and listed the accomplishments we would have made.  Some of us said we'd cure cancer or AIDS, some said we'd be rappers or movie stars, or famous lawyers and authors.  And while we have all enjoyed a modicum of success, I hazard to guess that very few of my friends from IS 391's class of 1992 have impacted the world the way we thought we would.  I guess that's a consequence of the reality of adulthood, putting away the bigger dreams of our childhood in favor of more practical ones.

I came across a YouTube clip of someone around my age who, when she was a child, actually TRIED to save the world, and is actively still doing so.

The young woman in question is Severn Cullis-Suzuki, who at 12 was an environmental activist.  She gives a compelling speech 20 years ago at a UN Environmental summit that is painfully relevant today.  It silenced a room full of adults in 1992, and very likely would do so again today.  It was honest and heartfelt, and filtered only through the honesty of a child.  In it was no political maneuvering, no base to pander to.  It was a direct, simple statement that showed how we did, and still, make things like communicating as adults more difficult and complicated than we need to. While some would criticize her naivete, her lack of understanding of how the world works, I believe that same quality is what makes it resonate so strongly.  She doesn't understand the way the works, not because she doesn't know but because it makes no sense. It moved me very nearly to tears and put a couple of things very sharply into perspective.

For starters, though we are taught differently as children, we are very wasteful people as adults.  We seek to consume and dominate without ever seeking balance, and what doesn't fit gets thrown to the wayside.  Our society is like this in every phase, from living environment and feeding, to work, to play, to religion, and everything in between.  Human nature seems to be about creating and overcoming struggle, and it doesn't need to be about all that.  Especially not us in the Western world, especially not in this day and age.  And a quickie review of the things in my life that are wasteful, I on a personal level don't need to completely rewrite my life to make things better for the people around me.

The other thing that was put into perspective was the definition of impact.  Ms. Suzuki made an impact that is still rippling today, as evidenced by the fact that the things she was right about in the above 1992 video, she's still right about now.  We are still watching her humble a room full of delegates, businessmen and "important people."   It made me stop and think about the lasting impact my actions have had, or will have.  How have I affected the world around me?  How will I?

And that's the big reality check.  I wrote in my eulogy in 1992 that I would cure cancer and AIDS before dying old and rich in the arms of my young supermodel wife.  It's funny now, but I genuinely believed I would back then, and that it would be no big deal.  I haven't done anything more important in my life than have that dream when I was 13.  And though some of us have families to provide for, mouths to feed, lives to help shape, I would dare say that most of us have never had dreams wider in scope than when we were 13.

And that, my friends, is a tragedy.  We have become the adults in the video.

PS: Severn Cullis-Suzuki is STILL trying to save the world, these days for her child and that generation.

NaNoWriMo, Day 15

At the midway point, I'm at just over 11,000 words.  I'm a little behind, but I'm working on it!

I had a plan to make the rough draft available in snippets once I had it completed.  But to be honest, I'm really excited about this project, so I'm showing off the rough version of the Prologue and first two chapters... right now!  Feedback is welcome.

Prologue

Alex

     She’s got a hell of a grip.

     My fingertips are going numb right about now.  I shouldn’t complain.  The doctor did give me the option of being on the other end, but somehow I didn’t think seeing my wife push out a baby would necessarily encourage me to ever want to see her naked again.  So that leaves me here, getting my hand crunched by superhuman pregnant-chick strength as the doctor tells her to push.  My heart’s pounding and I can hear it in my head.  I’ve never been so scared, so excited in my life.

     “Okay guys, she’s crowning.  Next push should free the head.  You ready, Sabrina?”

     Sabrina muffles a response as she nods her head.  I tell her it’ll be okay and stroke her hand.  She loosens her grip on my hand just long enough to readjust it, interlacing our fingers instead of crunching my hand entirely.  I’ll have to remember to thank her for that, even though I somehow don’t think that in the things to remember about the next few moments, her changing her grip so she wouldn’t completely crush my hand will rank very high.

     I have to say, I never thought we’d be here, especially given the last year we had.  There was a point there where I thought we were done for.  And what a shame that would have been.  A baby changes everything though; we’ll be closer, more intricately tied, forever and ever.

     Which means there’s no clean break anymore.  We’ll be tied to each other forever, never completely able to eliminate the one from the other’s lives.  A baby changes everything.

     “Okay, Sabrina, push!  Push!”

     The pressure points between my fingers get hit hard when she squeezes my hand.  Her nails dig into the back of my hand and she screams right into my ear.  The doctor is yelling over her scream but I can’t quite hear what he’s saying.  All I can think about is the stuff Sabrina and I have been through over the last year.  And the fact that there’s a 50-50 chance I’ll be raising someone else’s kid.

     After all that, I really hope this baby is mine.

Sabrina

     Whoa.  That was a big one.

     I’m not giving birth to a child.  I’m giving birth to a football player carrying a truck.  And why in the hell does anyone listen to the pregnant chick who says no to the epidural?  I’m in labor, damn it!  I’m not in my right mind!  Drug me!  Make it stop!

     Alex tells me it’ll be okay.  Smug bastard.  Easy for him to say, he doesn’t have to squeeze this kid out.  They’re lying when they say it’s like trying to push something the size of a watermelon out of something the size of a lemon.  It’s like trying to push a big ass baby out of a little ass vagina.  There is no direct comparison.

     The doctor tells me to stop pushing and I finally take a breath.  Alex strokes my hand and tells me very sweet things, that I’m doing great, that I’m so beautiful.  Liar.  I’m sweaty, crying, and I may have shit myself trying to get this kid out.  And it’s all his fault.  That’s it.  I’m not letting him anywhere near my naked body again.  Screw that.  He did this to me.  As a matter of fact, if anything with a penis comes near me again, I may have to bite it off.  I’m letting go of his hand.  He doesn’t get to touch me again.

     The next push should free the head, the doctor says to me.  Don’t let me go, Alex.  We link fingers.  He’s so wonderful, I love him so much.  We’re going to be parents.  What if he doesn’t want me anymore after he’s seen me like this?  I mean, I really think I may have shit myself on that last push.  What if I can’t dance anymore?  Oh God, I should have thought about that before now.   What if my hips are permanently screwed up because of this?
     The doctor tells me to push again, and all I’m thinking about is Alex.  He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, I love him so much.  I don’t want him to leave.  I really hope this baby is his.

     Oh God, what if it isn’t?

  

1.

Eleven months earlier…

Alex

     It’s 6:45 when the alarm goes off.

     I find myself staring at the blinking green numbers for a minute or two, wondering what happened to the wide-eyed kid who swore after the first semester of college that he would never again wake up to an alarm at oh-dark-thirty.  Only garbage men and serial killers get up this damn early.  I spend about a minute debating whether or not to answer the alarm when my lovely wife stirs next to me.  And in three, two, one she will say…

     “Mr. Spence, are you going to do something about that alarm?”

     6:46 AM.  Like clockwork.

     There was a point where the alarm would be a precursor to early-morning sex, or what I like to call the benefit of marriage.  I mean, I don’t have to be at work until nine, and I live 15 minutes from my job.  Now it leads to me sitting up in bed and scratching myself for a bit before I drag myself to the shower.

     When we first got married, I used to think her calling me Mr. Spence first thing in the morning was cute.  Funny that.

Sabrina

     I tried earplugs.  I tried Ambien.  I tried all sorts of things to sleep through that god-awful air-raid siren of an alarm.  But every morning at 6:45, that damn thing blows up and he sits there and listens to it forever.  It makes me grind my teeth, it’s so irritating.  I mean, there was a reason we moved the alarm clock to his side of the bed.  So I ask him if he’s going to do something about that.  He groans and grumbles before he hits the off button, and finally there’s some peace and quiet.

     Time was I’d offer sex to get him to shut that thing up.  That was back when we both slept naked.  Now it’s too early, it’s too cold, and quite frankly I’d rather sleep.

     Seriously, you would think after seven years of marriage, ten years together, he would realize I’m not a morning person.

Alex

     A shower helps me focus, shakes the last bits of sleep loose from inside my head.  I get a good look at myself in the mirror and say the same thing I’ve said to myself since I was a teenager.

     “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”

     That was something my dad would tell me when I was a kid.  It was supposed to inspire hope and motivate me to do well.  It worked through school.  Lately though, it makes me look at things and I feel a little more tired, a little less alive.  If every day of the rest of my life is looking like this, then something went off the rails somewhere along the line.

     Sabrina usually makes breakfast while I’m in the shower.  Today it’s scrambled eggs with spicy chorizo.  Like yesterday.  I brought that on myself.  I told her once that I could have that every morning for the rest of my life and be a happier, if chubbier, man.  And she’s made it for me every day since.  For the last five years, every morning, it’s been two slices of toast, chorizo and eggs, and a cup of coffee.  I didn’t even drink coffee five years ago.  Now I can’t imagine a morning without it.

     She’s a damn caffeine pusher, that’s what she is.

Sabrina

     Thanks to my darling husband, I now get up before the roosters.  As much as I would like to sleep, after that alarm goes off for as long as it does, I find myself totally unable to do so.  Maybe if he would stop showering with the bathroom door open so I wouldn’t have to hear him talk to himself in the mirror I’d have a better chance.

     I get out of bed mostly to not listen to the noise of a shower going.  I’m sure I could use one myself, but this early in the day, who am I trying to impress?  I start breakfast every morning at about seven so that it’s ready when he comes down from his shower.  He told me a while ago that he loved my chorizo and eggs so much he could eat it every day.

     Really?  Does he realize how difficult it is to get chorizo in Bellingham?  Only a couple of supermarkets in town actually sell the stuff.

     I start a pot of coffee, even though I can’t understand how he drinks the stuff.  The smell makes me gag every day.  I guess there is some truth to caffeine being addictive.

Alex

     I give her points for efficiency, that’s for sure.  Every day, by the time I’m dressed and ready for work, breakfast is hot and ready on the breakfast bar.  We sit and we eat, me in a shirt and tie, her in a blue plaid bathrobe.  I used to think she looked sexy in a bathrobe, showing off those sexy dancer legs and tight midsection while rocking boy-shorts and a midriff-baring tank top.  Now I think it’s just lazy.

     “So what’s the plan for the day?” she asks me, the first words she says to me every morning.  I tell her the same thing I do every day: on the slate for my day is a slew of phone calls regarding overdrawn accounts, a couple of appointments with some older couples regarding their pensions, and the odd 401K consult.  It’s always the same.  I start filling my mouth with food whenever she asks, just to cut the conversation short.  After a mouthful of food finally works its way down into my stomach, I ask her what she’s doing today.  She proceeds to tell me her schedule, which is the same as it’s ever been since she opened the damn studio.

     Noon to 2:00 – Tango lessons

     2:30 to 4:30 – Dance fitness

     5:00 to 7:00 – Waltz lessons for upcoming weddings

     7:30 to 9:00 – Salsa/Merengue lessons

     Lately she seems more agitated.  I think she needs more sleep.  Or some of this coffee.

Sabrina

     I swear he doesn’t get it.

     Every freaking day he asks me what my schedule is like.  I’ve owned the Rhythm Academy for years.  How does he not know what my schedule is?  And good lord, how boring is his job that he has the exact same list of things to do for five years?  How can he expect me to pay full attention to him?  The only reason I’m up this early is because I promised myself that we would have breakfast together every morning.  It certainly isn’t for the conversation.

When I was a kid, the best times my family had was when my mom and dad, me and my sister Mercedes sat down for a meal.  Mercedes married that drugged-out ballplayer after she had his kid, and we saw less and less of her.  When she died, my family broke.  It was rough for a while.  When I married Alex, I swore whatever family we built wouldn’t break like that.

But have you ever gotten to a point where you think you’ve heard everything that this person has to say, everything he has to offer?  There’s nothing new anymore.  And on top of that when I try to talk to him at breakfast, he never looks up.  I only see the top of his head, and he stuffs his mouth full of food.  It’s so rude.  And to be rude at this hour of the damn morning, when I don’t really have to be up for at least another couple of hours, and the only reason I’m up is to keep him company as he eats breakfast, well damn.

The best part about owning your own business is setting your own hours.  And I’m not a morning person.

2.

Alex

     Working at the bank is boring.

     On a good day, I can see ten or twelve different people at my desk, setting up new accounts, closing old ones.  Giving financial guidance in our times.  Parts of the day, the place is like a library, so quiet and dead, no activity.  Usually, between nine and eleven in the morning, it’s a ghost town. Occasionally on paydays the few older people in town who haven’t quite embraced online banking or direct deposits will come in and drop off their paychecks or make a payment to their credit cards.  Those days are getting fewer and farther between.  It’s amazing how I can work for possibly the largest financial organization on the planet, yet we only have two branches in town.

     Well, three, if you want to count the one in the supermarket.

     At noon, me and a couple of the tellers go to the diner a couple of blocks up for lunch.  We go there because we don’t see people like us there.  We see the town: part retirement age hippie, part hipster artist, part undefined student.  They range between the clean-cut and the severely unwashed.  Some have this too cool for the room attitude that I used to have when I was in school.  It’s annoying to see that now.

     There’s a waitress here that I like.  I mean, she’s nice to me, not that I like her like that.  I’ve only been coming here a couple of months.  The food here’s shit, but they have good coffee and will boost it up with Irish Crème if you ask nicely.  That helps me get through some of the Fridays.

     “Hey, it’s the suit!” she says to me as I walk in, flashing those bright white teeth.  It’s slow here today so the lunch crowd must be out busying themselves outdoors since it’s one of the 65 dry days we see in the Pacific Northwest.  I take off my black jacket and park myself at the counter right in front of her.  “Good day or bad day?”

     I tell her it’s a better day now that I’ve seen her.  As she smiles, I tell her it means my day’s half over.  I realized too late that she was about to smile, but she indulges me anyway with a laugh.  She pours me a cup of coffee and slides me a menu.  When no one’s looking slips me some Irish Crème.  My day’s looking up.

Lucy

     He’s cute. In that exotic, one of the four employed black guys in town kind of way.

     He doesn’t come off as a total sleaze either, which happens a lot in this business.  Some of the customers you get are these old perverts who like to comment on your tits and ass, or like to inform you that you’ve made their masturbation playlist.  This town has all kinds.

     But this guy doesn’t do that.  He comes in, orders his stuff, sometimes he eats and sometimes not.  For an hour, I don’t feel like someone is staring down my black top and avoiding talking to me.

     First time he came in, I asked him if he liked cream in his coffee.  He looked at me all confused for a moment and said he was married.  I don’t know if he was trying to be smooth or whatever, but it was cute.  He sat down that day and asked if he could have some Irish Crème in his coffee to take the edge off a rough day.  I couldn’t resist.

I said how did you know I was Irish?

     Anyway, he came in today, and I could tell he was having a rough one.  He sat at my counter like he was sitting at a bar.  I swear, I thought he was going to ask me for tequila.  Some of the lawyers in town do that, but I didn’t figure him for the legal type.  I set him up with a cup of really strong coffee and when no one was looking, filled the creamer dispenser with some Bailey’s.

     I asked him who died.

     He said he did, a long time ago.

Alex

     I kind of blurted that out.  It wasn’t supposed to be as dramatic as all that.  I guess I was more tired than I thought.

     She smiles and says, “You look pretty damn good for a dead guy.”  Then she laughs.  Her laugh is a big, full body laugh with her shoulders shaking and her mouth open wide.  It’s contagious and shakes me out of my mini-funk.  I chuckle in spite of myself.

     I tell her the secret is good dry cleaning.  If you put enough formaldehyde in the suit, it seeps into your pores and preserves you.  She laughs even harder and I join her.  I completely forget about the morning, the boredom.  This is the high point of my day.

     She very casually tugs at her necklace and draws my attention to her breasts.  I catch myself staring before I have a moment to remind myself that I’m married and shouldn’t be staring.  Then she catches me staring.  Busted.  There’s that awkward moment of silence that follows that moment where she catches me checking her out, followed by me awkwardly clearing my throat and paying the bill.  I leave a double-sized tip to ease the guilt.

Sabrina

     There’s a new face today.  He’s cute.

     My noon dance class gets a decent crowd, most of them professionals looking for a new way to work out or meet women.  They get disappointed in a week when they realize the women are older and chubbier than they expected, or in three weeks when they realize how hard it is to get one of those “Dancing With The Stars” bodies.  I do have my regulars, mostly elderly people who have a lot of free time at home or parents of young children who absolutely have to get out of the house.  The new guy stands out.  He’s too young to be one of the professional douchebags, seems too single to be a parent and judging by the way he moves – coordinated, like an athlete of some kind, but lacking any real grace or lightness in step – he’s never danced a day in his life.

     But my, oh my, he’s cute.

     I can tell he’s never danced by the way he stretches.  He seems to be really big on loosening up the upper torso and neck, but doesn’t limber up his legs much at all.  Rookie mistake.  He’ll feel that tomorrow.  He seems entirely too sure of himself, like he knows he’ll pick this up easy.  He has a smug look of “this can’t be that tough” written all over his face.  He’ll feel that tomorrow too.

     But he is cute.

Max

     Everything and everyone seems to stop when she enters the room, and with good reason.  Oh, damn.

     She has a presence, authoritative.  She owns the room.  The studio is undeniably her space.  She works the room silently for a minute or two, weaving her way through the students, obviously checking for new ones.  Her eyes hit mine a few times.

     She moves with a predatory grace.  Long, lithe movements underscored by lean, powerful muscle in her lower body.  My brain screams, nice legs.  She sizes up the room, sees her regulars and her new students like a jaguar in the jungle, stalking a kill.  I notice because I’m a predator as well.

     I own whatever space I’m in, can tell who I’m dealing with, what I’m dealing with, inside of two minutes in the room.  All salespeople can.  We find the right bait that can get you interested, then we hook you and reel you in.

     She catches me staring at her, this beautiful creature, and I’m already trying to figure out how to hook her.

Sabrina

     We start with a few basic stretches, loosening up the lower body.  The new guy, Max, surprises me.  He’s pretty flexible for someone who looks like a gym rat.  Most of my regulars are in today, and these old people and new moms can’t touch their toes, probably haven’t seen them in some time.  Max with the flat stomach can.  Easily.  I can see muscle tone underlining his long sleeved top.  We go into some yoga stretches, trying to get the lower back released.  My regulars are struggling a little, but this damn new guy can keep up.  I don’t want someone to impress me today.

     We start with some simple movements; this is Tuesday, my beginner’s day.  I may have my regulars, but some of them are just not going to progress past the beginner’s classes.  The new guy finally stumbles a bit with the footwork, and he seems very frustrated about it.  Not as easy as you thought, huh tough guy?  Still, there’s something about his movements I haven’t seen in a while.  For what he lacks in fluidity, he has in liveliness.  His body is finely tuned.  He’s alive, unlike half my class with a foot in the grave.  His movements project strength. 

The women in my class are staring at his ass, have been for twenty minutes.  I’ve got the frontal view.  Oh, God, did I just think that?  Why did I think that?  Once you think that, you can’t unthink that.  Oh, great, now I’m thinking about his junk.  Why am I smiling?  Is that drool on my lip?

Max

     This is supposed to be the beginner’s class.  So why does it feel like these tango steps are so complicated.  I can’t quite get it.  It doesn’t help that I’m paired up with this lady who keeps whispering to me that she’s married and just had a baby.  It’s a little creepy.

     Sabrina, the instructor, keeps coming by, stopping our dance, adjusting our body lines.  She’s developing a habit of straightening my back and adjusting my hips.  I wouldn’t think anything of it if I was sure I didn’t catch her checking me out while we were stretching.  My partner, Diane, whines that I’m her partner, and Sabrina says to her that she should be taking better care of me, seeing that I’m a beginner and all.

     The music continues, elegant and orchestral, reminding me of that scene in “Scent of a Woman,” where Pacino tangos the hell out of that skinny pretty chick.  I think the song is the same too.  I tell Diane in my best Pacino voice, “If we get tangled up, we just tango on.”  She laughs, and Sabrina comes over to correct our lines.  She pounces on us, and is getting more and more agitated about Diane and me.

     She likes correcting my body lines.  I’m just starting to think she likes grabbing my ass.  I respond though, more eager to be the teacher’s pet than I ever have in my life.  Her touch makes me realize that there’s only one way to get the respect of a predator like her; you have to match her on her hunting ground.

     I’m going to be the best damn dancer she’s ever seen.