Disconnected

by J. Cafesin

  Again, we established a fast, even rhythm, but this time it seemed charged. Lee's focus was intense, like with racquetball. I could feel him collecting and directing his attention to the game, competing with the fire for the oxygen in the room. No words passed between us as we played. Most games lasted only minutes, and our rate of play accelerated with each.

  I finally yielded from exhaustion. "As much as I'm enjoying this, I'm done for the night." Other than Chris, my roommate in Athen's, I hadn't played anyone of Lee's caliber since the locals at the cafes in Kolonaki Square.

  "What a rush playing fast like that!" Lee straightened his legs and sank back into the couch cushion almost breathless. "That was great, a total kick, even though you just won the last fifteen games in a row." He picked up the roach in the ashtray, lit it and sucked. "A cynic, an idealist, and now a ringer. You're like a modern-day Sally Bowles, ever the mystery, Ray." His eyes twinkled with mischief as he extended the joint to me. I declined, to avoid burning my fingers on the last bit of the J, uncertain if I should be flattered or insulted by his reference to the neurotic American played by Liza Minnelli in Cabaret. "Do you have any idea how much you could make in Vegas with this game?" He stared at me. His dark, wavy hair hung in his eyes. He looked like the lead in a punk band.

  "The old Greek barfly who taught me how to play like this told me never gamble on Tavli." I felt a need to temper his exuberance. "So, of course I did, took a local for a lot of drachmas. Never got a penny of it, and lost a good opponent. I didn't see him at the cafe after that. The old man was right. Playing Tavli is about passing the time of day, relaxing with a friend, or should be."

  "Bet that old barfly was broke, which is why he spent his days in a cafe instead of at his villa on some island." Lee said. "It'd practically be a sure win putting money on you in a Tavli tournament." He flashed a cocky grin that chilled me. “Seriously, I'll back ya with some cash if you wanta give it a go.”

  I stared at him. He wore a poker face, and I got he wasn't joking. "I think gambling is devoid of creativity and fundamentally corrosive." I wasn't trying to be contentious, but didn't really care that I was, irked he'd ignored the moral of my barfly parable. "Win or lose, you still lose. When you win, you're winning from some poor schmuck who can't afford to lose. When you lose, you are the poor schmuck. Across the board, it's lose lose."

  "I agree. That's why I don't gamble anymore,” he said, then looked away, as if he'd been caught in a lie. He took a quick hit before dropping the roach in the ashtray. "I quit years ago, but I took it pretty far out there before giving it up." He focused on stacking the game pieces in their narrow holders on the side of the board and didn't look up while he spoke. "Started my junior year of high school. My friends and I would go to Vegas on the weekends. I quit college my first semester and worked for my dad's shipping company, which is where I learned the trade, to support my gambling habit. By your age, I was in major debt, quite a bit of which I owed to my father for covering what I took from his company." Lee glanced at me.

  "You mean stole?"

  His brow tightened, and I felt a visceral change, like a wall was suddenly between us. "Yeah. I told you I took it pretty far out there. My dad was very cool about it though, got his partner not to prosecute so long as the money was repaid, which I did, in full. Still owe the government close to half a mill in back taxes though. And I blew the shit out of my credit, which is why I always pay with cash. My dad had to co-sign for just about everything I own, from the Mercedes to my condo." Lee shrugged. "It was all a long time ago."

  Not to me. His confession was new, and deeply disturbing information. I flashed on my mother delivering her parable of warning when I was very young, telling me and my sister of her first husband, addicted to gambling and alcohol, abandoning her at 21, leaving her broke and virtually homeless with an infant son. I thought I heard my inner voice scream run! I heard Lee's words but they didn't really register, like he must be telling a story of someone else. "You owe half a million dollars in back taxes?"

  "Well, a bit over $400 g's now. I've been paying it off for the last four years, and it'll be a non-issue in five more. Then I close the book on my gambling days." He huffed. "Not exactly where I wanted to be at this late date, but once the taxman is off my back I'll be set to start socking it away." Lee shook his head as if disgusted. "Never again," he vowed, more to himself than me, I think.

  All our intimate talks and he'd never mentioned his gambling problem. He'd led me to believe he'd completed college and was flush with money— financially secure. I glared at him, but was mad at me. Lee's admission confirmed what he'd clearly demonstrated— with weed, with food, with racquetball, and with Tavli tonight— all empirical evidence of his obsessive nature. His gambling days may be in the past, but every part of me knew it an indicator of his future. Some people turned practically anything into an addiction, and I could not dismiss my intuition's insistence that, like me, Lee was among them. He too was looking to fill a void inside. I sighed. "It's late, and I've got to work in the morning."

  Lee picked up the dice and held them up between his thumb and forefinger. "Any time you're ready for another game..." He gave me a gentle, teasing smile.

  I believe we're already engaged in one, but I didn't say it. I put my hand under one side of the board and waited for Lee to release the dice. He hesitated a moment then tossed them in. I closed the box, picked it up as I stood and went to the bookcase to put the game away and some distance between us. "Thank you for your help tonight."

  "My pleasure." Lee ran his hand through his thick hair.

  "Mine too. It was fun." I tried to think of something to say to get him to leave without chasing him away. "I'll see ya Friday on the courts?"

  "Look forward to it." He stood, inhaled deeply. "God, it smells great in here."

  It did too, smoky; sweet; citrus and cinnamon wafting from the kitchen for the fire to consume. He lifted his jacket from the end of the couch and watched me as he put it on. His glassy eyes flickered, reflected the firelight.

  I moved to the door then rested my hand on the brass knob. "Thanks again for coming, and helping, and everything." I opened the door and cold crept in.

  He stood close, less than a foot between us, facing me. "Call me tomorrow after dinner if you want to hang out, put a buzz on, play Tavli or something." He gave Face the pat she'd been standing next to us waiting for, then looked back at me. "Tell me, where's the good in goodnight?" He stared at me as if awaiting my reply to his rhetorical question.

  I shrugged, smiled. "Goodnight, Lee. Drive safe. See ya Friday."

  He kept his eyes fixed on mine a moment, then said “Goodnight, Ray,” gave a slight bow and turned away. He waved without looking back as he walked the narrow path, and with only a quick glance at me in the doorway, got in his car and left.

  I shut the door and dead-bolted it. The house shuddered, the floor creaked. I was chilled straight through. Suzanne was back to practically living at Tony's, until, of course, she'd catch him making it with some groupie again. It was wild what so many women put up with to have someone to be with. Face shadowed me to the bathroom, lay by the doorjamb and waited, then followed me back down the dark hallway. The dog curled in her beanbag as I shut my bedroom door, closing us in before climbing into bed.

  It was creepy quiet, except for the constant hum of traffic on the 101. And I felt scared and alone. Again. Still. A part of me regretted sending Lee away, but my intuition knew he was the freight train coming at me— I'd found my like kind, and mind in Lee. It was why I felt so connected to him. Like me, the siren of obsession was intertwined in his nature, with him every time he smoked a joint, hit a racquetball, rolled the dice. Ate. I could feel it. See it. My intuition screamed it, which is why we'd be poison for each other. Wasn't it Carl Jung that said, "You always fall in love with yourself?" Except I wanted a partner who was better than me.

  -

  Chapter 7

  Lee woke me from a dreamless sleep at 8:30 Thursday mo
rning. "Happy Thanksgiving!" His casual demeanor lightened the descending darkness over being with my family later.

  I smiled. "Happy Thanksgiving." I lay in bed staring out the window at the fog shrouded morning and stroked Face, who stood almost frozen, pressed up against the side of the bed. The dog was totally satisfied, at peace. I envied her.

  "Want to go see Love Letters Saturday night. It's at the Canon Theater in Beverly Hills, and it's closing the end of month, so it's this weekend or we miss it. Charlton Heston plays the lead, and even though he's a right-wing NRA nutcase, the reviews say he's pretty good. My pick, my treat."

  It did sound like a treat. Local theater was usually excellent in L.A., with famous actors often playing the major roles, but way too expensive on my meager budget. "I haven't been to a play in ages," I mused aloud.

  "Is that a yes, then?"

  Almost every part of my wanted to say yes, but I didn't. Among his other indiscretions, Lee was clearly a lavish spendthrift, even though he was in massive debt with a half a mill tax bill, which made him at least frivolous, but more likely dangerous with money. And I felt weird about him taking me to something so extravagant. We weren't dating. The smarter part of me knew I should avoid adding to my mounting debt since I had no way of repaying Lee's generosity at the moment. Think, my intuition warned— With everything given, something is owed.

  Lee sighed. "Look Ray, I get you want to keep it just friends right now, and I'm fine with that. Come see the play with me Saturday night. We can enjoy some theater, share a good meal, some stimulating dialog and pretend to be witty." His voice was lilted with humor. I could practically see his adorable grin through the phone.

  I laughed. “Okay.” I needed something to look forward to, a light at the end of another Thanksgiving of my mother's pinched expression of concern reserved for me alone, or my sister's sublime superiority she'd married into financial security and had graced my mom with three gorgeous grandkids. "I'd love to go see Love Letters with you Saturday night."

  "Great! I'll reserve two tickets then." He paused. "One request."

  "Go on."

  "Would you wear a dress?"

  So much for just friends. Clearly his interest was more than friendship. Reality mocked me that, of course, it had been his agenda since we'd met.

  "Any dress. It doesn't have to be fancy or anything, just proper attire for the evening. And besides, you'd look stunning in a dress." He said it matter-of-factly, but I was sure I felt sexual innuendo traveling the line with his words.

  “To date, only my mother has ever instructed me on what to wear,” I said as evenly as possible. “Which invariably led to discord between us, and likely the beginning of our rather contentious relationship.”

  "Don't get riled. It's just a suggestion. The Canon Theater is pretty posh and people don't come in jeans. It's Beverly Hill on a Saturday night and everyone will be dressed to the nines."

  Face rested her head on the bed and stared up at me with her big, brown eyes in hopes of getting more strokes, but I was done. “Thanks for the fashion tip on appropriate theater attire,” I teased as I picked up my phone and took it with me as I got up, went to my work area and sat cross legged on the drafting chair.

  “OK, OK I get it,” Lee said with humor. “You have my solemn oath never to suggest attire again.”

  “Smart man.” I set the cradle in my lap and the receiver between my ear and shoulder. “And he can be taught,” I added jokingly, as I began inputting the copy I'd handwritten into PageMaker on the Mac that sat on the small table I'd built to match the height of my drafting table. We confirmed racquetball for tomorrow and disconnected.

  I held the phone in my lap and stared out the side window at my neighbor's front yard. Morning dew on the pines, bushes, and enormous green lawn glittered with pinpoints of white light as the sun broke through the fog. Did Lee really see me as potentially stunning? I swept my hair away from my face, letting the soft strands run through my fingers, and for a second I touched beautiful. I could dress to impress, and in my head I played the scene, walking up to Lee in slow motion in the mid-length, maroon lace my sister gave me, imagining his drop-jaw expression. I couldn't help smiling then. Even though part of me suspected it a lie, being seen as beautiful made me feel beautiful.

  ---

  The sweet, cloying scent of illness was veiled by the sharpness of cleanser in the antiseptic lobby of the Home. Chrome handrails lined the light pink walls. A hunched elderly man clutched onto the railing as he shuffled along in slow motion. Each step looked pained. Pasty white skin, his eyelids drooped over his small black eyes which seemed vacant, as if not only his body but his mind had abandoned him.

  I took in the scene and was chilled to my core. Old scared me, sometimes worse than not getting there.

  Grandma sat perched on the edge of the maroon love seat, her ill-fitting floral print polyester dress hung to her calves and gathered tightly around her short, crossed legs. She clutched the strap of her white vinyl purse between her bony hands resting in her lap.

  "Well, it's about time," She sniped, as if I were late. It was 4:00 p.m., exactly when I was told to be there.

  "You look lovely, Grandma." I leaned down and kissed my grandmother's soft white cheek. The old woman gave me a vain smile. At 84, she had flawless skin, virtually wrinkle-free, and her steel gray eyes were still rather piercing.

  "And you look like you got your clothes at the Salvation Army. Why don't you dress properly?" She spoke in a clipped English accent though she'd lived in the States for over seventy years.

  I wore my hole-free black jeans, and oversized beige cotton shirt, which I actually tucked in. I even put on a bra for the occasion. The woman was delusional expecting more than that. "You ready to go, Gram?"

  She stood and straightened her dress, then squared her petite shoulders and rose her chin up. "I've been ready to get out of here since the day your mother stuck me in this place."

  We walked to my Civic parked in the lot behind the building. I was annoyed by her bitterness, my mother's effort to her care more than sufficient in my view. It had been the right decision to have her committed. Gram almost killed herself overdosing on medication she'd mistakenly taken twice within minutes on more than a few occasions. She was losing her memory, and her once sharp mind could no longer manage life on her own.

  It was getting dark, but bits of electric blue sky peeked through the thickening clouds. The air was crystal clean, sharp with moisture. A storm was coming. It was easy to feel in L.A., maybe because they're so rare. I settled Gram in the passenger seat then took a deep breath, sucked in the sweet wetness and released it slowly to shake off my growing anxiety.

  "Try that lane, it's moving. Don't just sit here. Go around them. You should get off the freeway, the side streets are faster..." Grandma had a lot of suggestions though she'd never driven a day in her life. Between driving tips she talked incessantly about the ‘crazy' people she now lived with. She swore her roommate stole her ruby necklace, one she claimed she got on Safari in Africa, though she'd never owned one and had never been anywhere but England until her teens, then the States the rest of her life. She was sure her neighbor across the hall was coming into her room at night to watch her sleep, though had no explanation why. Then she was sure she'd forgotten something back at the Home but couldn't remember what, then couldn't remember where we were going. She remembered after prompting, but then didn't want to go to her evil daughter's who had stolen everything she owned and had her ‘put away.'

  I pulled into my parents' driveway, alongside the row of rosebushes my mom and I had planted years back, a long narrow island of long-stem yellow and red roses that separated the neighbor's driveway from theirs. I stopped behind my sister's minivan, turned off the car, and looked at grandma who stared straight ahead, seemingly unaware we had arrived.

  "You ready to go inside?"

  "I told you, I'm not going in there. Why are we here?"

  "For Thanksgiving, Gram, remember?"r />
  "Well, I have nothing to be thankful for. Take me home."

  "I'm sorry you feel that way." It was cliché and a lie and I felt stupid for saying it, parroting my mother's Pollyanna tripe. I considered telling grandma I know what hopeless feels like, and I too lived with a pervasive sadness and fear of the future, afraid of what's to be, or not to be. But there was no point really. Gram didn't acknowledge feelings, and she never showed fear. "Are you coming into the house with me or not?"

  Grandma refused to get out of the car and I wasn't about to make her. She'd always been contentious, but she'd had a quick wit and delivered it with sharp humor, both of which left her years ago, as did the radiant beauty she once possessed. She was on the fringe of life now, on her way out and almost invisible. Surely she felt it too. Maybe so many old people lose their mind because the reality of their marginal existence is just too degrading. And terror consumed me right then, bearing witness to my future.

  I got out of my car and took a deep breath of crisp, wet air, then released it slowly as I went to the back of my Civic and lifted the hatchback, gathered the pie, and the green bean casserole I'd made this morning, then slammed the hatch shut and walked to my parents' Valley-ranch, single-story home.

  Roasting turkey and smoky firewood wafted from inside as I stepped up onto the landing and then came through the iron screen door into the house I was raised, yet never really felt at home in. I passed the bookshelves neatly packed with encyclopedias and novels into the spacious, modern living room. A large open space wrapped around the centralized fireplace to the open dining area.

  Dad tended the fire, poked an iron rod at the burning logs. Sparks flared and sucked up into the chimney. My brother-in-law, Larry, looked short and narrow standing next to my 6'3", 220 pound father, though both men looked remarkably alike, even with twenty five years between them. Each had speckled gray hair and short cropped beards and wire rim glasses. Dad wore navy Dockers and a long sleeve flannel shirt. As always, Larry looked like he'd just walked off the set of The Big Chill—Levi's, maroon Izod sweater, and those over-complicated sneakers.