Finding Parker

by Scott Hildreth

  I stepped out of the car and slammed the door. I turned to face the car, my key firm in my hand, and began to lock the door. As I started to turn the key in the lock, I laughed to myself and hesitated. Without locking the door, I pulled the key from the door lock, unzipped my clutch, and dropped my key inside then zipped it closed. Still smiling, I peered around the corner of the back of the building into the alley toward the street.

  Clear.

  I took a shallow breath and walked briskly toward the street. At least for now, I had no desire to have Parker find out what I drove or where I lived. Introducing him to my mother was not an option. Not that she’d have a problem with it. Hell, she’d love him. But I had a problem with it. Her condition was embarrassing. I truly believe she remains in pain of some sort, but not as much as she continues to claim. And certainly not at a level which requires the degree of sedation she remains in. For now, I’ll have just a few secrets.

  As I approached the restaurant entrance, I heard a shout from across the street. Parker, as always, stood outside his car waiting. He motioned for me to come to him, which I found a little odd. His being parked across the street and nowhere near an intersection would require me to jaywalk – or walk to the intersection and use the crosswalk. I looked toward the traffic light. Two hundred yards. I looked at Parker.

  And ran.

  “Stupid bitch!” a motorist screamed as he honked his horn and flew past me.

  He was close enough my dress blew against my legs. I stopped in the center of the street and allowed the cars to zip by me as I waited for another break in traffic. As soon as I saw an opening, I sprinted for the other side.

  And Parker.

  With his mouth open and his eyes widened, Parker caught me in his arms as soon as I hopped onto the curb beside his car.

  “That was exciting,” I gasped.

  “I can’t believe you did that. There’s a crosswalk right over there,” Parker said as he nodded his head toward the intersection a hundred yards away.

  “Yeah,” I took a deep breath and smiled, “but I wanted you to catch me.”

  He shook his head and scowled, “Had I known you were going to do that, I would have brought it to the restaurant.”

  “It?” I asked.

  “Well, I got you something. I wanted to give it to you. I’ve been standing here waiting, but I didn’t see you drive up. Where did you park?” he asked as he released me from his arms and stepped toward the car.

  Got me something?

  I tilted my head toward the restaurant, “Other side of the street, duh.”

  Got me something?

  He shook his head as he pulled an envelope from the car. Smiling, he stepped in front of me as he held an envelope close to his chest. Standing in front of me grinning, he looked like a little boy. A very handsome little boy. A very handsome little boy clutching an envelope.

  Got me something?

  I pointed toward the envelope, “Is that for me?”

  He nodded his head once sharply.

  “Let’s wait until we get into the restaurant,” he said.

  I turned and pointed toward the street full of cars, “So, why’d I run across the street?

  He grinned, “So I could catch you?”

  “Okay, now I’m dating a comedian. Hand it over, please,” I said as I help my hand out and smiled.

  He placed the envelope in my hand and smiled.

  Carefully, I unsealed the flap with my fingernail. As I pulled the card from the envelope, I couldn’t help but smile. I had hoped it was a card, but as Parker held it I couldn’t tell. As a little girl, probably until I was around seven or so, my mother always gave me birthday cards. After that, as she became more disoriented and sedated, she stopped getting me cards – and telling me happy birthday for that matter. No one else, at least that I can recall, has ever given me a card of any type.

  The outside of the card was simple. Three beautiful flowers as if they were painted with water colors. And what appeared to be hand written, but was part of the printed card, the words just wanted to let you know.

  Eagerly, I opened the card. Only hand written words were inside. I looked up from the envelope and smiled at Parker, and quickly looked back down to read the card.

  Victoria,

  I cherish the time we spend together. Sometimes I believe I have such deeply seated feelings I expect those around me understand how I feel. That, of course, is not always the case. For that simple reason alone, I want to take time to tell you…

  You mean the world to me.

  And I want to do whatever I must to keep you beside me.

  So please, and I am begging you…

  If I ever do anything wrong, and I hope I never do, please take time to tell me.

  Because losing you would surely be the death of me.

  Yours,

  Parker.

  I swallowed a lump in my throat. I reread the card entirely. I attempted unsuccessfully to swallow again. I reread the card. As I attempted to refrain from crying, I looked up.

  Parker’s hands were pressed deeply into the pockets of his slacks. His perfectly pressed white shirt had the first button unbuttoned and his Blazer fit his broad shoulders perfectly. How could I not love this man?

  “Did you like it?” he asked softly.

  I clutched the card in my right hand and raised both my arms above my head. Slowly, Parker’s face filled with wonder.

  I closed my eyes, “No. I loved it. Kiss me.”

  “Right here? Out in the open?” he asked.

  I nodded my head and waited.

  As I felt his body press against mine, I lowered my hands around his back, careful not to bend my card. His hands pressed into my lower back, pulling me into him softly. As his lips met mine, and we began to kiss, my entire body turned to goose bumps.

  And Parker Bale kissed me for the first time.

  VICTORIA. Contributing something meaningful into a conversation hasn’t always been easy for me. Generally speaking, what I offer isn’t received in the manner it was originally intended, so I tend to listen more than I speak. With Parker, I had never felt as if anything was misinterpreted. I generally understood what he had to say, and if not I was never afraid to ask for an explanation. As far as I could recall, he had never taken exception to anything I had said either. For the most part, we communicate well with each other.

  As I have never really had the opportunity or necessity to communicate with anyone but my mother, I didn’t have a tremendous amount of experience doing so. It’s highly likely my lack of communication skills made speaking with others, and doing so accurately, quite difficult. Considering how Parker and I seemed to naturally understand each other allowed me to look at this one aspect of our relationship as being very valuable.

  “How can you not believe in them? They’re for real,” Paulie hissed.

  “There’s no such fucking thing as aliens, dude. Jesus,” Vincent shook his head in disbelief.

  “The fuck,” halfway across the kitchen floor, Paulie stopped and stared at Vincent.

  “Dude. Seriously? You think there’s spaceships and shit flying around? Really?” Vincent rolled his eyes and continued to chop the celery.

  “I know there is. If you don’t think so, it just shows how fucking stupid you are,” Paulie said as he spit into the trash can.

  Paulie hadn’t done anything all morning. He always seemed to find a way to spend all of his time doing nothing, and actually worked harder to make sure he wasn’t doing what was expected of him. Typically, Vincent and I picked up the slack. As frustrating as it was, there wasn’t much I could do or say about it. As I listened to the two of them argue, I continued to cut up the chicken we were going to use in the wild rice soup listed on this evening’s menu.

  “Dude, you know if Tony sees that, he’s gonna be pissed. He said to stop that shit,” Vincent hesitated and waited for Paulie to respond.

  “Fuck Tony, he’s my pops brother. It’s not like he’s gonna actually do so
mething about me chewing tobacco,” Paulie snapped, “and just so you know, he believes in aliens.”

  Paulie paused as he walked toward the sink and turned to face Vincent.

  “All I’m saying is if you think that life just stops here on earth, you’re one shallow assed dude. If it can live here, it can live in other places. C’mon, Vinny,” Paulie whined.

  “Dude. There’s no oxygen or anything on other planets. And nothing to eat or anything. No food. And there ain’t any fucking gravity either,” Vincent shook his head and began chopping the celery again.

  “Victoria? What do you think?” Paulie turned to face me and waited for a response.

  I didn’t care for participating in discussions with Paulie and Vincent. There was never a simple conversation between them. It was always an argument, and generally it began with Paulie trying to force his belief down his friend Vincent’s throat. I continued cutting the chicken, and responded without looking up.

  “I don’t know that I truly believe one way or another, Paulie. I’m open-minded. I wouldn’t be surprised either way,” I said flatly.

  “See? Victoria believes in them,” Paulie shouted, pointing my direction.

  “That’s not what she said, dude. Give up. Tony’s gonna be…”

  Vincent didn’t finish his sentence when Tony stormed into the kitchen.

  “What the fuck are you dip-shits doing? I said the soup had to be done before lunch. How the fuck am I going to serve that shit this afternoon if it isn’t done before fucking lunch?” he stood in the threshold of the door with his hands on his hips.

  “Betsie what’s her fuck is coming in here tonight. I told you we had to have this shit ready. How the fuck is she going to review the restaurant if there’s no fuckin’ soup? I fucking told you,” Tony growled.

  Clearly, he had a conversation with Paulie earlier and Vincent and I weren’t part of it.

  “They were arguing about dumb shit, uncle Tony. I told them we were behind. I told ‘em that chic was coming to review the restaurant. They’ve been dicking off all morning,” Paulie complained.

  The hair on the back of my neck rose as Paulie stood in front of Tony and lied about having spoken to Vincent and I. Staring down at the knife I held, I continued to quietly work and wait for this to end. Eventually, Tony would walk out angry, and we’d continue to make progress against the dinner deadline.

  “So what’s so fucking important you’d rather be jacking your gob than working, Vicky?” Tony turned and asked.

  Desperately, I wanted to explain to Tony what a complete piece of shit his nephew was. I wanted to tell him he spit tobacco in the trash can again. I wanted to convey how Paulie believed in spaceships and thought aliens were going to abduct people on some predetermined day in the month of May next year. Truth be known, Tony probably believed it too. As my jaw tightened, I looked up from my work and glanced around the kitchen.

  “Nothing, Tony. Just trying to finish with the chicken,” I smiled.

  “Oh really? So, you callin’ Paulie a liar?” Tony asked.

  “No sir,” I breathed.

  “So you were dicking around all morning instead of working?” he walked through the doorway and into the kitchen as he spoke.

  “No sir,” I responded.

  “So Paulie’s lying?” he asked.

  I pursed my lips and clenched the knife in my hand. Slowly, I drew a breath through my nose and exhaled before I began to speak.

  “I…” as I attempted to speak, Tony interrupted me.

  “Are you angry, Vicky?” Tony began to mock me as he walked my direction.

  “Watch out uncle Tony, she got a knife,” Paulie laughed.

  I hate confrontation. I simply hate it. All I wanted to do was come to work, do what was asked of me, and eventually be promoted into a position I deserved. Having a superior who was capable of recognizing my strengths and weaknesses, and be willing to help me when I didn’t understand shouldn’t be too much to ask for. Instead, I had this kitchen full of simple-minded Italian testosterone.

  I looked down at the plastic bucket of chicken skin beside my feet and drew another short breath.

  “I asked you a fucking question, Vicky,” Tony said as he slapped his hands down onto the edge of my prep table.

  We don’t always plan what happens in our life. Sometimes, things just unravel. Later, I suppose we may look back on the event or happening and wonder if we should have done something different. Either way, once it’s done, it’s done. Undoing it is never an option.

  “Fuck you,” I shouted as I dropped the knife onto the prep table.

  “Fuck you and your worthless assed lazy fucking nephew. I wasn’t arguing,” I raised my right foot behind me as if I were going to kick a field goal for the San Diego Chargers football team.

  As Tony looked down at my foot, I swung my leg forward and kicked the bucket of chicken skin across the kitchen floor. As the bucket bounced off the wall behind Tony, bits and pieces of chicken exploded into the room. I reached behind my back and began untying my apron.

  “Go fuck yourself, Tony. You don’t appreciate shit. I worked hard for you, and you never appreciated it. Not once. And my name isn’t Vicky, asshole,” I shouted as I tossed my apron on the floor in front of him.

  “It’s Vic-tor-i-a.”

  And, just like that, my employment with Angelina’s ended. I never quite understood who Angelina was, but I imagine whoever she was, she wouldn’t appreciate Tony treating people the way he did.

  And I bet Tony never called her Angie, either.

  Fucking asshole.

  PARKER. Nervously, I had explained matters to Kenton regarding Victoria. I suspected he knew I was doing something, but he had been patient with my not presenting someone to him. His expectations of my measurable advancements were potentially far different than what I believed they were. Either way, he listened intently as I explained about Victoria and my feelings for her. Feeling somewhat guilty, I made clear our plans to go on a date, and my understanding of my obligation to introduce her to him.

  Although I had not taken the time to read the contract entirely, I had spent a little time skimming through it. Promptly, I found the portion Downes referred to regarding Kenton’s requirement to meet the women I chose to take on a date. After reading that particular section, I once again tossed the contract aside, feeling no real need to bore myself with the incidental remaining contract language.

  As the date to meet Kenton approached, I began to feel odd about introducing her to him. I struggled with the idea of her being someone I was contractually bound to see, and our time together not being by my choice. I finally settled with the idea of her being nothing more than what she was, and Kenton being nothing more than what he was. A woman of true interest to me, and a man who found value in witnessing me treat her in a gentlemanly manner.

  When I thought about it in this particular fashion, it didn’t seem awkward at all. So, with my view on matters somewhat askew, when the day arrived, we made our way to Kenton’s mansion. Now, sitting in the same room where Kenton and I had once shared our first sandwich, I listened as he talked to Victoria.

  “Just like that?” Kenton chuckled.

  “Just like that,” Victoria snapped her fingers.

  “Called him a motherfucker, just like the piccolo player,” Kenton began to laugh.

  “The what?” she laughed.

  “Oh, it’s an old joke, I’ll tell you in a minute,” Kenton sighed.

  “I called him an asshole, I think. I really don’t remember. But definitely not a motherfucker. At least I don’t think so,” she grinned.

  “Well, either way. Good for you. Having a boss that doesn’t appreciate you isn’t very rewarding. And Parker,” Kenton paused and turned to face me, “remind me to never call Victoria by anything other than her given name.”

  “I’ll remind you,” I grinned.

  “So,” Kenton stood from his position in the chair.

  “One Sunday morning, down sout
h at a southern Baptist church, the choir began to sing. Although the congregation didn’t realize it initially, they soon found out there was a new piccolo player playing along with the organ as the choir sang. He was nothing short of awful,” Kenton paused and smiled as he alternated glances at Victoria and I.

  “So, after a few torturous songs, someone in the crowd hollered, the piccolo player’s a motherfucker.”

  “The reverend of the church stood up, shocked that someone would say something so awful, especially during the service. Who called my piccolo player a motherfucker? He hollered out into the congregation.”

  “No one responded.”

  “Frustrated, the reverend pressed his hands into his hips. Alright, if no one has the courage to speak up, I want the man sitting next to the man who called my piccolo player a motherfucker to stand up, the reverend said.”

  “And, no one stood up.”

  “Alright, the reverend said, I want the man who’s sitting next to the man who sat next to the man who called my piccolo player a motherfucker to stand up.”

  “And again, no one stood up.”

  “Aggravated to no end, the reverend stepped to the front of the pews and looked over the congregation, I want the man who’s sitting next to the man who’s sitting next to the man who sat by the man who called my piccolo player a motherfucker to stand up. He stood, furious with anger and waited. The church sat silent.”

  “After a few long seconds of silence, a man seated in the rear of the pews quietly stood.

  “Reveren’, he said.”

  “I ain’t the man who was sittin’ next to the man who called the piccolo player a motherfucker. I ain’t that man, reveren’. And I ain’t the man sittin’ next to the man who sat next to the man who called the piccolo player a motherfucker. And I ain’t the man who called the piccolo player a motherfucker, either. Reveren’, I ain’t none a those things. But reveren’ what I got to know is this,” Kenton paused, raised his eyebrows, and inhaled.