by Rex Bolt
Chris always thought those strike threats were ridiculous, that the league should just cut the over-paid idiots loose and start over . . . but then the last 4, 5 years the concussion business in the news did sober you up, and yeah fine, these guys are earning their money.
That meant Waylon, if he didn’t have a gambling habit or something, would have more than a decent nest egg socked away -- and in fact you wondered what he was doing here, didn’t these guys typically snap up a house with a bunch of acres, or if you went the apartment route, a penthouse in Boca Raton?
But you assumed Waylon liked it here, just as Chris did, and obviously McBride too, and they each had their reasons, and the relative modesty of the RanchoVillas worked.
Anyhow, this west wall of the apartment did give you the whole shebang if you were so inclined -- where the guy was born (McMinnville, Tennessee) where he lived later and played high school ball (Fort Smith, Arkansas) the college ball years, Morton State, in Winnalston Illinois, where he set a single game total yardage record of 518) and the pro stuff, as he bounced around.
The high school section included basketball and baseball clippings as well, and it was no surprise really that your top athletes who made it as far as the pros, in any of the sports, typically dominated everything back then.
There was a high school basketball mention for example -- which included a photo of a young Waylon and a couple teammates surrounded by a pack of cheerleaders and one of them on a ladder cutting one of the nets off the rim -- obviously following a significant win. The point there being, in the news clipping, Waylon had scored 42 that night, on 16 for 30 shooting from the field.
So yeah, you had to give the guy his props, and maybe he was entitled to talk down to you a bit -- and let’s face it, here you were in his place and the man was being a decent host, so shut about about all that.
A TV went on with no sound, and then some separate music started up, a bossa nova type vibe but modernized with some hip hop elements, and there was a steady beat . . . not an incessant one, not driving per se . . . but it was there.
There was a liquor station in the living room, everything available and out in the open, no having to ask for anything, and you could smell some food heating, probably pizzas, Chris hadn’t been paying attention to the kitchen.
Meanwhile there were two interfacing sectional couches, nice classy glove leather, and Chris figured the guy had spent some money on those, and when it came down to it the whole place was pretty tastefully set up.
And -- as was Chris’s first impression -- it was definitely set up for human interaction too . . . and Amy and McBride were pairing off on one of the sectionals, soon to be joined by Reba and Dale on the other.
Chris stood by the TV and absorbed it. Slowly but surely an item of clothing here and there was shifted around, and then removed . . . and no one seemed the least bit self-conscious as the intensity level of both parties-of-two ratcheted itself up.
Scanning the rest of the place, you didn’t see Karolina and Waylon anymore, and Chris figured if he wandered back to the bedrooms and started opening doors and saying “Hey there, what’s up?” that it wouldn’t have been a big problem, someone may have looked up and then gone back to their business.
He did feel a bit conspicuous and wondered why exactly he was here, though he had an idea that there might be a warm up act, which was going on now, and then possibly a gravitation toward some sort of group effort . . . and he found the TV changer and tried to find a sporting event, but all he could come up with was the NCAA baseball tournament, and the first guy up struck out on the 3 pitches and Chris switched to a little European league basketball, and that had the funny key and slightly different rules and that didn’t work either . . . and he turned back to the activity and Amy and McBride were going at it -- no joke -- neither of them completely naked but so what, Man Alive -- McBride was inside of her . . . and it was only a matter of moments, you assumed, before Dale and Reba caught up with them . . . and now some kind of laughter from one of the back bedrooms, or Jeez, could it have been a moan . . . and Chris quietly let himself out the front door.
***
He ambled across the Rancho Villas grounds back toward his place.
Well . . . that had been some evening.
The pickleball was actually something you might continue . . . and the camaraderie wasn’t bad . . . Unexpected sure, but reasonably well-intentioned, you’d have to say.
Sticking around Waylon’s at that point though, whether he’d be . . . needed . . . or anything, eventually . . . he couldn’t get behind the concept tonight.
It was good the others were apparently enjoying themselves -- there could be worse applications of your time, Chris supposed.
It was a balmy evening down here, just right, 10 degrees warmer than Manhattan Beach this time of year, no marine layer in play, and the desert fragrances were pungent right now. The problem was, Chris couldn’t recognize any of them -- he’d have to educate himself -- but he assumed the general stuff he heard about down here was in the mix . . . and that would be the flowering cactuses, the cottonwoods, the velvet mesquite, the night blooming cereus . . . Even if those weren’t exactly what you were smelling tonight, good enough.
He’d admittedly gotten a little revved up there, back at Waylon’s . . . and as he closed in on his apartment he figured what the hay, may as well check out the pool-rec center area, see if anything is going on, pick up a loose Time Magazine . . . the night’s still young, though not really, it was after midnight, but whatever.
You could make out a few figures lounging around the main pool, only a couple yellowish lights on at this hour, and this had been the case another time he was up late, you had these clusters of older folks who couldn’t sleep.
Tonight, one of them was Lucy, one of the women from the pickleball, and she looked absorbed in a book, and Chris thought should I or shouldn’t I butt in . . . but, you could at least say hi, so he did.
“Well you’re a night owl,” Lucy said, closing the book, same perky smile as from the courts.
Chris took it as a signal to sit down for a minute and he said, “I used to live in LA. You could leave your windows open full-time, no bugs like you do get in most of California.”
“You can here, as well, usually,” she said.
“What I’m getting to -- the ocean air makes a difference. That’s what everyone says . . . But I didn’t sleep great out there either.”
“Well how old are you?” Lucy said. And Gee, was that factoring into it already, in people’s view? Chris reminded himself to stop complaining so much, this gal had 25 years on him, at least, and look at her going strong.
“43, but not important,” Chris said, “all’s I was getting at, it’s nice they give you an alternative around here, should you require it.”
“I frequently sit outside until the wee hours,” she said. “Have you utilized the library?”
Chris had been to the Eclipse one, it was new and nice, but she likely meant the the in-house deal, in the main complex behind the restaurant. “Once,” he said. “Too many James Pattersons.”
Lucy laughed. “I like more edge to my crime thrillers too. But the price is right, and you never what someone may donate.” This was true, it was the honor system, plus the dang room was open 24 hours, with real comfy club chairs and good lighting. Lots of perks in this place.
Chris said, “I’m going to bore you, but I’m kinda trying to write one of those myself.”
“Really,” she said, leaning forward a bit. “Please tell me about it.”
“I might. First, I always like to get a backstory off people . . . How’d you and your friend end up here?”
“I don’t want to mis-speak for Gertrude,” Lucy said, “but in my case, it was my kids. They essentially forced me.”
“Hmm.”
“I grew up in New Mexico and lived most my adult life in New Braunfels, Texas. Do you know it?”
“That the hill country? It’s supposed to
be beautiful, different than typical Texas.”
“Oh very much so, I loved it there. But Matt, my son, and Faye, my daughter, they didn’t trust me to be isolated out there any more. I didn’t feel I was, but they won out. Faye’s in New Jersey, but Matt lives in Phoenix.”
“Ah. In the ball park then. They’re right, better to be closer.”
“This was two years ago. It was an adjustment, I’m still not completely on board . . . but one must go with the flow.”
Chris said, “I was either telling someone, or thinking it to myself . . . but you have a spark. You know that?”
Lucy laughed. She said, “How did you enjoy you pickleball friends? You had some good rallies out there. They seem like an interesting crowd. Gertrude and I, we don’t get on court with them much, we stick to our comfort zone of about 4 other senior citizens.”
“Funny you ask,” Chris said. “They are. I mean I don’t know any of them real well, but yeah. Someone invited everyone back to their condo . . . except I had a strange feeling they were going to start to pair off . . . so, here I am, that’s sort of it.”
“Well,” she said, “I suppose we all remember a few of those. Back in high school . . . It is awkward being the odd-person out.”
“That was definitely part of it,” he said. “Unh-huh.” No need to go into more detail, that Holy Toledo, there was a full-fledged orgy developing back there among the ‘interesting pickleball friends’. Chris added, “Well you’re an attractive woman. I think you’re being modest, overstating the odd-person-out business.”
And this was true, Lucy was a sturdy lady with an appealing presence, no doubt had to fend off more than a few suitors in her day. At this point, it was clear she took care of herself but kept it natural, let the sun do its thing, unlikely to entertain plastic surgery-type intervention.
Speaking of which . . . man, he hadn’t fully processed the intent behind Karolina’s display back there, either. That was dang weird. Not that you complained, but still.
“Well,” Chris said, “fine, the novel. And you don’t understand what a generous assessment it is, calling it that. The whole thing, it’s part of a class. Or was.”
“What does was mean?” she said.
Chris wasn’t sure himself. His understanding was Finch suggested talking a week off, following the fireworks last time. Not sure if it fell apart after that. Chris hadn’t checked in, even though he probably could have kept up online. The truth was he felt out of the loop there as well.
He said, “It was contentious. We were coming from different directions I guess, contrary life experiences.”
“But it got you going? The course?”
“I’ll give it that. What mine was evolving into -- and hopefully still might . . . you sure you want to hear this? When I summarized it in that final class, people shifted around, cleared their throats, and essentially waited for the other person to say something.”
“Go ahead,” she said. “If it’s boring, I might fall asleep right here in this chaise lounge, which is fine too.” She gave him a playful wink.
Chris said, “Fine. I’ve got a guy, he gets a terminal disease.”
“How old is he?”
“Old. I mean, not ancient or anything . . . but a retired type guy, compared to someone like me.”
“You’re not retired? I sort of assumed most people here were.”
“Man, your firing off questions, staccato-like. And that’s good, don’t let me hamper that . . . I’m talking a typical retired guy, worked for the utility company or something, full career, straight through, got the gold watch at the banquet.”
“I see. Do you think he got the disease due to inactivity in retirement?”
“I don’t get you . . . but now I guess I do. Not the physical slowing down so much, you’re saying, but more the spirit being broken?”
“Yes, being bored. Nothing dynamic to get up for in the morning.”
“So you don’t. Good point. That may be my guy. Then again, he might have smoked two packs of Camels a day for 50 years.”
“That could be, as well,” Lucy said.
“Anyhow,” Chris said, “the guy’s kids, grown of course, are hounding him every day on the phone. Subtle stuff. Not coming at him direct, but prodding him.”
“As far as treatment options? Experimental therapies and so forth?”
“No I don’t think he’s going to get treated. His doctor might recommend it, since that’s what they do, they don’t want you doing nothing . . . but my guy is a straight shooter, he asks his doc for a couple example patients, who were in his shoes and got the treatment and are still around a few years later. The doc says he’ll check into it, and my guy says how about one? Just give me one.”
“You’re implying, the recommended treatments are ineffective. That the physician is unable to produce the one example patient.”
Chris said, “I feel like you know me pretty well. You’re on my same page . . . Could we have been married, or brother and sister perhaps, in a past life?”
“Don’t laugh,” Lucy said, “I may very well believe in those.”
“I never did,” Chris said, “but then on late night radio -- when you can’t sleep sometimes, like now -- various guests do get you thinking . . . One thing they agree on, if there is such a force, people, or their spirits or whoever, tend to travel in the same packs, in and out of lifetimes.”
“I’ve heard that theory too.”
“Meaning, if you were my wife, I was destined to run into you in this life at some juncture -- and in the next one I might be a woman and you could be my son. Or next door neighbor. Or barber . . . but I’m overdoing it.”
“Possibly. So your character does what? Regarding his grown children.”
“Yeah, so no -- they’ve given up hounding him on the treatment options. He’s a stubborn son of a bitch -- and a logical one too, since the doctor came up short -- and he’s made it clear he’s facing his future with no intervention. Not an option.”
“So they’re persuading him to visit them more? Perhaps move in, so his final care is established?”
“They haven’t got that far. They’re trying to get him to live to the fullest, before he starts deteriorating.”
“Do they use that word, in speaking with him?”
“They try not to but he puts it in their face, so they agree, that yes that’s their motivation, while he’s still in good shape, to have some adventures.”
“Well, the premise seems reasonable then.”
“You’d think. Did you ever remember the old show Run For Your Life with Ben Gazzarra?”
“Yes. I haven’t heard that one mentioned in years.”
“So you remember the set up. Each week he does something he probably wouldn’t otherwise do, takes a chance and goes for it. He’s trying to grab all the gusto he can in the time he has left.”
“It’s an admirable concept,” she said. “I enjoyed each episode being fresh, not tied to any previous week.”
“Right, standalones,” Chris said. “So they’re making suggestions -- my guy’s offspring -- like go experience New Zealand, go snorkeling in the Carribbean . . . let’s see what else . . . go on one of those tours they have of 9 major league ball parks . . . even go skydiving if he wants . . . anything at all, and they’ll take care of it.”
“They mean well. I could see my kids coming at me with a similar approach.”
“Sure, they do. But my character, Bobby, he doesn’t want to do any of that stuff.”
“I’m picturing him more of a Trent,” she said. “Or a Gregory.”
“Fine, I can change it. Anyways, he stops taking their calls. I mean he might start up again, but for now they can’t take no for an answer.”
Lucy nodded, “That could beat you down . . . So what does he want to do? Surely not simply sit around?”
“He’s got two things he’s dialed into. He wants to go to Area 51 and see a UFO. And then maybe stop in LA and kill a particular guy.”
“Golly.”
“Those are his words, not mine. So he starts calling ex-wives. And he has four of them. Number three, June, who he was least close to -- and not the mother of his kids, that was number two who politely tells him to get lost -- but June’s the most interested in helping him.”
“June still has feelings for him? Or is it out of compassion.”
“Good question, not sure he knows. But he’s in Reno when he calls her, and she says give her 24 hours to get organized -- she’s in Oregon -- and she warns that she’s gained back some of the weight she lost last time he saw her . . . but she’s a good trooper and she shows up like she says.”
“Then what?”
“Then I don’t know, dang, you need me to write the whole thing ahead of time?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”
“I’m kidding, Jeez . . . I think what’s going to happen, they go searching for the UFO, and meanwhile they re-connect. Not lovey-dovey, but they can talk shit out, and there’s a comfort in that . . . At some point he mentions his plan B.”
“Committing the crime.”
“Unh-huh. Mind you, in his view, he’s settling an old score. It’s not going to be, like, some random homicide.”
“What kind of old score?”
“Not sure. First I was thinking, some guy threw him out of a video store once, when he was questioning an extra charge on a movie he was returning. But that seemed a little week, even though the guy manhandled him, and sort of really did toss him out of there.”
“You’d need something better,” Lucy agreed.
“So I came up with, a guy beat him up in junior high. My character lets it go all those years, though it eats at him occasionally -- then maybe 10 years later he’s working the county fare, parking cars, and the other guy happens to be too . . . and my guy brings it up, and the other guy remembers and tells him he’d do it again too. Finally he sees the guy at a 50th high school reunion, and the guy remembers it again, and starts telling his wife about it, laughing.”