Dodger Page 5

4

  I SIT AT THE BAR and drink in agony. It's October first again. Rapidly becoming an infamous date in my history, there's the matter of a two year tradition to uphold, a tradition that can't be ignored even though its existence always is, even though the sentiment behind it is always utterly sacked.

  The call.

  But of course, first, booze.

  To pile on the pain I'm drinking at the bar where Kara and I first hooked up, the one that makes its own beer, the one that she used to work at that I used to frequent. I'm drinking on the same bar stool in fact, because I'm that goddamn nostalgic. Misty eyed. Sentimental.

  A jackass.

  I slide my empty pint forward.

  “Jim, you did this last year. Why don't you just go home and play your guitar?”

  Max. Maxie. Max-a-mundo.

  “Max, I can't,” I say. “I just can't. There are certain things, certain traditions a man must uphold that will continuously define who he is. Who he's meant to be. For you, it's your archery. For me, it's this.”

  “I'm not an archer. I've never held a bow and arrow in my life.”

  “But there's time! There's time, Max. And that's what it all boils down to. Time. Timing is everything.”

  My bartender slides me another pint.

  “If you say so, Jim.”

  Guzzle guzzle. To timing.

  “Jim? Jim Bailey?”

  I'm in the middle of my third round of tequila shots with these DePaul hippie kids when there's a tap on my shoulder. I turn to see a vaguely familiar blonde hottie with auburn highlights, holding a highball and smiling. I squint.

  “Yeah?”

  She frowns. “Jim, it's Paige. Paige Scott. Remember?”

  It starts coming back to me. I fight it.

  “Oh, oh yeah. Paige. Paiger. Yeah, I remember.”

  “You know, I think to this day, you're still the only person who's ever called me Paiger.”

  “Well, I love giving nicknames. They're endearing.”

  “You're right.”

  “Buy you a drink?”

  “I have one, thanks.”

  “Buy me one?”

  “Sure.”

  I blow off the college kids and we roll. She looks as good as I remember. I won't abandon the reason I'm getting hammered in the first place, to completely embarrass myself for yet a third year in a row by drunk dialing Kara on her birthday, but while I warm up I can definitely have a drink with the one and only Paige Scott. Why not? She's hot.

  We get to the bar, order, she pays, we cheers.

  Then she looks me dead in the eye.

  “So, Jim, what the hell happened to you?”

  I sip, look at her in faux shock. “What?”

  “You never called me back.”

  “Oh, did you call me?”

  “Yes. Twelve times over a two week span, if I recall.”

  “Oh, geez. Well, I don't recall.”

  “I went to your apartment a few times, too. They said you moved.”

  “Well Paige, after I lost my job, things got a little tight. I had to move back in with my dad.”

  “Why'd you lose your job?”

  “Because I was a liability. They thought I was going to kill myself in the restaurant. In front of the customers.”

  “Why did they think that?”

  “Because I said I would.”

  Her eyes narrow. “You should've called me back, Jim.”

  “Oh yeah? Why?”

  “Because you could've had it all.”

  “All of what?”

  “Fame. Money. Everything a person could want out of life.”

  “Who said I want that out of life?”

  “Everyone does.”

  I roll my eyes. “So why didn't it happen to me?”

  She drinks, sighs. “It didn't happen because you disappeared. You had people salivating for more after that nutjob interview and instead of cashing in on it, you just disappeared. You could've had commercials, endorsements, promotional appearances, maybe even your own reality show. But you bailed, Bailey. And now look at you.”

  I sit in silence, absorbing her words. Drink my drink. Maybe she's right. Maybe I should've sold my soul for the almighty buck and lived my life in front of cameras and moved to LA and married a Kardashian. Maybe I would've made an imprint on society, a tiny blurb in a footnote in a People magazine, and the people at People would've had a good hearty laugh about the rise and fall of the Dodger. Maybe that's the life I should've chosen.

  But I didn't.

  And I'm peachy.

  “Well, Paige,” I begin, “I'm sorry you see it that way. Cause I don't. Two years ago when I dodged that bullet, when I became a national idiot? Shocking though it may seem, I was a complete basket case. That's what I tried to tell you before we went on the air that day. And even though fame would've been nice, or money or whatever, two years ago, I couldn't have handled that.” I sip. “I got what I wanted, all right? What I needed. People left me alone. Everyone did, in fact.”

  She downs her drink, then slams the glass down. “Kara.”

  I feel my face turn red as memories start to infiltrate. I exhale slowly and try to remain calm, but my past isn't having it and swoops in for the kill. It's a falcon, I'm a guinea pig, it's Jaws, I'm a ten year old on a raft. I attempt to fight back but I'm outmanned, outgunned, and outnumbered.

  I set my drink on the bar and it comes rushing back, the sick, twisted chronology of it all, what I said, what she said, what I did, what she did, how it was handled, botched, and destroyed by both of us. The total unification of a shitstorm that left a void in me larger than Earth itself. All the precious moments I often dream about. All the scarring jars that fill my nightmares.

  Paige moves closer.

  “Jim... tell me everything.”

  It isn't easy to talk about this. It's not easy to pull up the roots of the mistakes you've made with the person you love the most and relive them. It's altogether mortifying, honestly. I'd rather gnaw off my own hand just for fun. I'd rather do slave labor in a Klingon prison camp. I'd rather give butt waxes at the DMV.

  But instead, I'm pulling.

  The first memory that breaks on through is the morning after.

  I awaken to the sound of birds chirping, children playing, and cement trucks cementing.

  Good old Rogers Park.

  I stir, exhausted, yet surprisingly satisfied. I look over and there she is, under my comforter.

  Kara.

  Whoa.

  I look around. Our clothes are all over the place. I look under the sheets. We're both naked as jaybirds.

  I start to remember... oh my God. I fucked Kara.

  I fucked Kara!

  Holy shit! She's so fucking hot!

  How did I do it? How did I get this precious little angel to come home with me? How was I able to put on a believable facade of maturity and sensibility long enough to where she actually found me that attractive?

  Wait, isn't she seeing another guy?

  I thought I heard things.

  People said stuff.

  But maybe I'm wrong.

  I admire the freckles on her face for a bit, the glow of the sun beaming off her red hair, the way her cute little nose exhales every breath. I take a snapshot in my mind because I never want to forget this moment, having the one I've craved for so long in my bed, inches from my dick, inches from my heart.

  I wake her for morning sex.

  “Tell me about how you first met.”

  “What? Why the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

  “Jim, tell me.”

  “More shots, more drinks.”

  “Fine.”

  Kara is part of the Iowa Contingent.

  About five years ago, me, Ray, and this other cat Eric decided to get a place together because we all got along really great. Eric was in the middle of a divorce. Ray had just broken up with his live in girlfriend. My lease was up on the shitty studio I rented. Needless to say we were all in need of
a bro type environment, and the three bedroom palace we found on Pine Grove and Sheridan was nothing short of a dream come true.

  Eric was also a recent graduate of the University of Northern Iowa, fresh to the city, and with that responsibility came even more responsibility – he served as the beacon to which all other UNI Theater Program graduates bound for Chicago would flock. So with him came more. And more. And more.

  Three years later the smoke cleared and at least thirteen of them had made their way into our regular social circle. It was around this time I began to harbor quite a distaste for acting, not because of the craft itself, but because these people, these friends by association, just didn't do it for me. I thought actors were supposed to be interesting, witty and insightful, full of the unbridled unexpected, human carousels. These people were dull as hell, always quoting obscure movies and TV shows I hated, talking about boring, insignificant things, things that had nothing to do with acting in the least, and since they all fought to be the center of attention, it became a competition to see who could take the spotlight and spew the best boredom.

  Ho hum, humdrum. Not for me.

  Then... there was Kara.

  She stuck out immediately. I don't know what it was. Her eyes, probably. Maybe her smile. She was one of the other Iowans' girlfriends' at the time and I found out she was just visiting him that weekend but hoped to move here when she graduated. I talked to her for precisely thirty one seconds, long enough to feel the spark, the 'I'm with someone else but I wouldn't mind talking to you' vibe, the arm brush, the ghostly grasp, the fatal flame. The lightning bolt. I felt something immediately but you can't say stuff like that to someone you just met who's someone else's girlfriend. The feeling fleeted, flat, and she was gone.

  A month goes by and she's here again, in our apartment, celebrating someone or other's birthday. I wasn't invited to the party even though I live there but I live there so I stay. I talk to Kara for maybe two minutes about either music or movies or a novelist we both like, but I'm three sheets to the sunset and pass out early. The next morning, through my crusty awakening, her face highlights my memories.

  Then she just kind of vanishes.

  Weeks go by. Months. I nail a co-worker who turns out to have a boyfriend but didn't tell me so now I'm dealing with all these feelings for her but really, truly don't care, and even though I don't care I act like a little bitch anyway when she starts banging another guy from work after the guy she originally cheated on went and married her best friend. After they broke up of course, after she admitted to fucking me.

  This chick was an actress, too. I wasn't surprised at the outcome.

  Towards the end of all that, I wandered into the bar that makes its own beer and saw a few friends sitting at a table. So I joined them.

  “Hey, ladies, what's shaking?”

  “Oh, not much, Jim. Just trying to get Kara a job here.”

  “Kara?”

  She rounded the corner and like a punch in the face, it all came rushing back. This chick. Holy shit. I remember her. This chick is fucking amazing.

  She sat down, shy only in the sense that she didn't know me. But she remembers.

  “Hey... Jim?”

  “Yeah. Kara, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You're, uh... what's his name's girlfriend.”

  “Actually, not anymore,” our mutual friend interjects. “They broke up.”

  I look at Kara with sympathy laced tigerness. “Oh, well... grrr.”

  She smiles, embarrassed but flattered. I proceed to leave them and get totally drunk and forget the whole thing ever happened, until I see her there three days later, in uniform, serving some douchebag a beer.

  She got the job.

  I saw her every time I came in and that led to me coming in even more.

  We would talk in passing, bullshit, make small talk. Discuss the Iowa crew. What good concerts were coming up. Terrible movies we just saw.

  And then, one night... it just happened.

  I was there when she was done.

  I invited her to sit down.

  And that was that.

  Paige drinks her drink. “Wow. How sweet.”

  I slovenly swill. “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, Jim, that you're full of shit.”

  “What?”

  “You said she was seeing someone else when you first hooked up. But now you say she broke up with him. Are you going to tell me the truth or not?”

  I shake my head, my shot of Jame-O shaking with it. “No, Paige... it was a different guy.”

  “A different guy?”

  “Yeah. A real short fella. She broke up with a short guy to date a... short guy.”

  I close my eyes and see the jerk in my head, those cross eyed eyes, that stupid flattop hair. Birthmarks all over his face. That dull, redundant stare.

  “Pete.”

  I never even met the guy but know all about him. Drummer for a pop band. Has a three year old daughter. Survived a car accident that ultimately swayed Kara's feelings in his direction. My nemesis, my Dr. No, my Borg. Pete.

  I saw him once when they were at the bar the same time I was there with a few co-workers, maybe a week after she ended things between us. We hadn't spoken since. One of my friends was an extremely hot blonde who was down to go along with being into me to make Kara jealous. So we're flirting the whole time and I can see from across the bar that Kara is getting irritated, so much to the point where she takes the long way to go to the bathroom, and then about ten minutes later, we realize that without word or warning, they've gone. I sent her packing. I made her jealous. I infiltrated her heart.

  Not that this was my goal of the evening or anything. It was just a nice coincidence.

  She could do so much better, anyway.

  “So, she cheated on this Pete guy with you?”

  “They'd only been seeing each other for a few months, but I guess, yes. At one point... ah.”

  “At one point what?”

  “At one point... I had the chance to steal her away from him.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. She drunk dialed me one night at like three in the morning, wanting to talk but not wanting to talk, and when I asked her what was wrong, if anything was wrong, she slithered out of the conversation and hung up. But I know it was about Pete, and the guilt, and the possibility that maybe, just maybe, she wanted to be with me instead.”

  I finish my beer.

  “But I blew it.”

  Paige finishes hers.

  “How?”

  I sigh, shoot my shot.

  It was a Sunday morning, cold and chilly, much like the night we first consummated. Kara picked me up in her shitty Orange Nova around nine AM. She was checking out apartments and wanted a second pair of eyes to help her evaluate pros and cons. I had the day off and was dying, dying to see her, so like an idiot, I said yes.

  The first place we see is garbage, complete garbage. I'm reminded of the house in Fight Club, old sinks and yellow water, a brownness on the walls that's probably not coming off. Kara agrees and we bounce immediately.

  The second place is pretty cool, floor to ceiling windows and a spacious backyard, but it's a little out of her price range so we tell the realtor we'll let her know. It's bright and clear and translucent outside. I feel nauseous.

  So we're walking along the gated yard of the building and it's killing me so I bring up the drunk dial and me and her and the other guy when in reality I know I'm the other guy so I try to play it off as best I can when then, just like that, she tells me she should be with him. With Pete. Even though I make her laugh, even though she has a great time with me, she should be with him.

  She drops me off at my friends' apartment where we are having chili, beer, and cocaine while watching the Bears play the Cleveland Browns. I invite her in but she declines, saying she has to work later. I give her a hug, the first of many I think will be our last, and let go, really let go. She drives away, into the sun
and out of my life, onto a dumbass, head first into a mistake.

  Dragging behind the car tied to the bumper is my heart, rupturing at every pothole, spurting blood with every bump. My aorta has gone AWOL. My ventricles cease to lease.

  Downfall, begin.

  “What did you do?”

  “What do you mean? When she would text me to try to make peace, I'd be a brat and lay a guilt trip on her. Like it was all her fault. I knew deep down she had a boyfriend when I started pursuing her, but I didn't let that stop me. I pursued. I pursued away. But it was only because I thought she was the best person I'd ever stumbled across. Really. Just the best person ever. I really regret putting her in that position. I guess I never really thought about it until now. Her life was thrown into upheaval too. I'm not the only one who feigned resistance. But still, I had to give her up. I started it, so I had to finish it. So I did. And now...”

  I take a moment to raise my glass.

  “Now I'm fucked.”

  From somewhere beside me Paige Scott yells “Cheers!”, and it's the sweetest voice I've heard in two years.

  I miss Kara.

  “Whoo! Come on, Jim, do it!”

  Another shot of to kill ya has made its way in front of me. I'm a gentleman so I lift it with the sole intention of finding it a nice home, maybe a PETA for tequila, a safe haven for victims of alcohol abuse, a blonde willing to drink it and end this starry eyed, dead end voyage.

  I wind up taking it.

  “Whoo!”

  Hello, hello, away we go. Shenanigans. Paige is now almost fully drunk as well, and she goes at my arm like a scratching post.

  “I want to know more!” she yells. “What was it about her? How old is she? Aren't you bothered by the fact that she was seeing someone else at the same time? Why did she drive you crazy?”

  Memories of my traumatic appearance on Good Day America start to resurface from all the goddamn questions. Paige must notice my eyes bulging or my jugular throbbing because she quickly nixes the inquisition.

  “I'm sorry, Jim. I didn't... mean to...”

  “It's not like she's the most beautiful woman in the world or anything like that. In fact, a lot of my friends say they don't think she's that hot at all. But it all depends on what you're into, Paige. Me, I'm into girls who look like aliens, elves, and sprites. Big eyes. Pointy ears. Cute little noses. Freckles. Hair that comes down to just above their shoulders and not an inch higher or lower. Christina Ricci. Zooey Deschanel. Avril Lavigne. Nicole Kidman. Ellen Page. Any Vulcan chick from Star Trek. It's a melting pot of traits that combines hilarity, hotness, genius, familiarity and awesome. That's my girl. That's my Kara.”

  I'm sloshed now and feel like the room is made of liquid. I'm swimming in gin and tonic, wading in Rolling Rock, cruising in Captain. Nose dive, swan dive, into a Fat Tire. Barefoot Pinot Grigio, here I come. Absolut? Absolutely.

  To. Kill. Ya.

  I may be hammered but I don't forget the mission at hand, my mission, my reason for being. Here. Tonight. October first.

  The call.

  I wait for Paige to go to the bathroom, then head outside. Dial. Ring, ring, ring. Voicemail.

  “Hi, you've reached Kara, leave me a message, thanks.”

  Her outgoing hasn't changed. Neither have I.

  “Hey, okay, Kara, it's Jim. I just uh, wanted to wish you a happy birthday, I always remember yours because it's a day before Ray's, so, happy birthday. I hope you're doing well. It's been a few years and I really really hope you're well. I went to Hamburger Mary's a few weeks ago, did I tell you that? No of course I didn't. But I did. Had the same burger I had that morning we went there. God, do you remember that? It seems like ten years ago but I still remember it like it was yesterday. It was so cold that day and we had mead at that bar and talked about your play and why babies should be drafted like NBA players and how Asian carp probably bust out karate moves after they jump onto those poor unsuspecting fishing boats ---”

  Beep, I'm cut off. End, redial, voicemail. Beep.

  “Just spending that day with you and getting to know you made those twenty four hours so special to me. That spark of something right on the cusp of magic, of mystery, of something bigger than both of us. If you had told me it was gonna end up like this I would've never called you after that day. Then I could've preserved it, and it would just be one day my heart would have to forget instead of a whole tragedy. I still think about you every day, Kara. I still miss you beyond words. But words are all I have left. Happy birthday.”

  I hit End. Again.

  And again.

  Behind me, someone stumbles out of the bar. A cigarette is lit. I sway in the breeze like a tree with no branches, smoking two cigarettes of my own.

  “Jim!”

  I turn. Paige.

  I stare her down.

  “Hey... it's Dodger.”

  We're not at the bar anymore.

  As the sun rises, I smoke a cigarette on her bed. Our lips haven't touched because I won't allow them to and our bodies have behaved in nothing but a gentlemanly manner. She lays on the bed watching me as I smoke and ramble.

  “Okay, fine, you want one more? I'll give you one more, Paiger. So, it's still the morning after. We have sex again, and again, and we lay there sweating in each others arms. When we finally come to after an orgasm coma it's then, then, that she calmly yet awkwardly brings up this guy Pete. How it's only been a few months. How it's not that serious. I didn't see it then but I realize now that she was just keeping me at bay, baited, like she wanted me on deck just in case things with that guy didn't work out. I was a new toy, new batteries, just in case the old ones died. And she's so hot, she's so the one I want to be with, I should've just played it cool and not showed her how big of an idiot I actually am. I played it cool for all of eleven days.” Drag. “I was just so goddamn vulnerable from that whole stupid bullshit with the other actress chick that I was emotionally trashed from the very beginning. The timing was fucked. And timing, my dear, is everything.”

  I continue blathering on about God knows what, then start telling crude and offensive jokes. At a particularly disgusting punchline, Paige pulls the sheet over her head and starts laughing her ass off. I load a bowl amid my own laughter, and after we smoke, slowly but surely, slumber somehow succeeds.

  Paige's head never leaves my chest.