A Minor Fall

by Price Ainsworth

  We chitchatted, and in a moment the waiter brought us each a heaping platter of ribs. We all dug in, and after I had finished a couple, asked why we had diverted from Kentucky to Memphis. Tim told us that he had spent the morning in Paintsville and that something worrisome was afoot.

  It seems that the judge on our case was considering the appointment of something called a “special master commissioner” under the Kentucky Rules of Civil Procedure. The commissioner would serve as a private judge, compensated by the parties, to make recommendations to the court on discovery and procedural matters. Naïvely, I told Tim that the appointment could be good for the case if it took the decision on the admissibility of the expert witnesses’ testimony out of the hands of the judge. Tim said that he thought it was a bad omen. He thought the judge, who had to stand for reelection, was trying to provide himself a buffer for ruling against us.

  “The old sonofabitch is trying to camouflage his involvement in the case,” Tim said. “From what I can find out,” he continued between swigs of beer and dabbing the corners of his mouth with a greasy napkin, “this judge would be inconspicuous in a commode.”

  If the court threw out our expert on the recommendation of the special master commissioner, the judge could save face in the community. Of course, if we refused to agree to the appointment of a commissioner, the judge would probably punish us for our obstreperous behavior. I thought that for the first time, Sullivan saw the case was going down the tubes.

  “Davy, my boy, have I ever told you the First Rule of Grease?” he asked.

  I looked at him quizzically, assuming that this rule had something to do with barbecue in general or ribs in particular.

  “The First Rule of Grease is . . . Last and Most Wins,” Sullivan said. “I’m afraid we may be witnessing a practical application of the First Rule of Grease as it’s applied to the appointment of a special master commissioner under the Kentucky Rules of Civil Procedure. I’m not sure we want to get into a bidding war with Boyd Oil. Still, there might be some way to salvage our investment,” he said, and winked.

  Surprisingly, Sullivan seemed to be in a good mood, and we washed down the ribs with a couple of pitchers of beer. He didn’t mention the Kentucky case again, or the appointment of a special master commissioner.

  “Have you two ever thought that we ought to break away from the firm of Peters & Sullivan and start our own shop?” Sullivan asked. He didn’t wait for Riza or me to respond. “The rest of those guys just don’t know anything about having any fun. They’re all worried about losing money on cases and not focused on how to turn cases into money. Let me tell you something, Davy. You show me a situation where someone has suffered a wrong, and I’ll show you some way to turn it into money. And it doesn’t matter where the poor soul that’s wronged stands on the social ladder. It’s like I always say, ‘Money hath no odor.’”

  14

  RIZA PASSED OUT ROOM keys in the hotel lobby, and we took the elevator up to our respective floors. My room was on a different floor from each of their rooms. I got off on my floor, and after the elevator door closed, I pressed the down button and took the next elevator back to the lobby. The notion that Sullivan might leave the firm and take me with him was intriguing, even if he didn’t know at the time he made the suggestion that it was probably only a matter of days until he let me go.

  I felt the sudden urge to run away from all of the complications that seemed to be piling up around me. I thought about seeing if there was a flight home that night so that I could be at my house when Michelle woke up. I would tell her the whole sordid story like I had started to do earlier that evening, and then beg for forgiveness. I thought about calling my parents, but it was already too late to call. They would be in bed, and the sound of the telephone ringing would alarm them.

  So I decided to violate Sullivan’s First Rule of Holes. According to Sullivan, the First Rule of Holes provides that, “When you find yourself in a hole, quit digging.”

  Instead of a drink in the lobby bar, I walked past the “duckless” fountain, out the front doors of the hotel, and headed to Beale Street. For some reason, as I walked across the lobby, I thought I saw Beth out of the corner of my eye. At least I sensed that she was there, somewhere in the lobby. Before I went out the door, I even turned around to look at the lobby again, but I didn’t see her, and there was no reason that I should have expected to see her there. Still, the thought occurred to me that all the birds had come home to roost.

  Even though it was only a weeknight, Beale Street was teeming. Music and people spilled out of the bars and onto the street in a parade that reminded me of 6th Street in Austin. In fact, I wandered into one bar for the sole reason that I could hear a band inside playing a Stevie Ray Vaughan tune. I ordered a beer, and made my way through the cigarette smoke to a table about the same time that the band decided to take a break.

  As my eyes adjusted to the dimness of the bar lights, I could see that there were small round tables set up around a dance floor in front of the band. At the tables, groups of men and groups of women were drinking pitchers of beer and smoking and laughing.

  The thought crossed my mind that if something happened to me in there, it would be a complete mystery to Michelle as to why I was found alone by the authorities in a blues bar in Memphis, Tennessee. Once again, she had no idea where I was or what I was doing, and I had waited too late to call because I dreaded telling her that I had so little control over my life.

  A waitress in blue jeans and a bowling shirt came by and I ordered another beer.

  She brought it as the band resumed playing. The band consisted of men twenty years older than me. The guitar player and piano player alternated singing duties. Directly across the dance floor from me, a table of coeds sat waiting, to no avail, for someone to ask them to dance. Each of them was pretty in her own way—a fresh-faced blonde, a brunette with long hair and a short top, and a girl with short, coalblack hair and freckles. The black-haired girl seemed to be staring across the dance floor at me; she also squinted her eyes from time to time in a sleepy, drunken way as she swayed with the music that made me think she probably didn’t see me at all.

  The blonde and brunette got tired of waiting for somebody to ask them to dance, so they joined the crowd gathering on the floor and began dancing with each other. The way they held each other and swayed their hips in unison suggested that they might have danced together before, and it wasn’t very long before two guys swooped in from the crowd and began dancing with them. I smiled, thinking that the two guys had found the blonde and brunette’s dancing as erotic as I had. When I focused again on the black-haired girl with freckles, she was smiling at the fact that I was smiling, watching her friends. She picked up her mug and the pitcher of beer from her table, and walked in front of the band over to mine. She set the pitcher on my table and took a seat beside me.

  “Enjoying the show?” she asked raising her eyebrows and leaning in to me so that she could be heard over the music. Before I could answer, she said, “We don’t get many guys in coats and ties out at this hour. Where are you from?”

  “Houston,” I said, almost shouting.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked and turned her attention back to the band.

  “Ribs,” I said.

  She smiled. She wasn’t drunk after all. Maybe she was a little high, I don’t know. She just had a cool way of blinking her eyes in a slow, sensuously sleepy way that was probably necessary due to the weight of her beautiful eyelashes. From across the room, she was pretty. Up close, when she leaned in to talk to me over the sound of the band, she was incredible. She had on a simple black T-shirt, tucked into a pair of tight blue jeans, and a pair of flat-heeled, black shoes. She spoke with a southern drawl, modified by her years at Notre Dame. She reminded me of a young Ali MacGraw, with freckles. She also reminded me of Beth. Eventually, we started dancing.

  Although I’ve never been much of a dancer, the floor was crowded enough that the whole group seemed to move to
gether, forcing me closer and closer to the black-haired girl. When the band took another break, she asked me if I was ready to leave. I told her I was staying at the Peabody, and she said she would give me a lift, even though it was only a couple of blocks away.

  Outside the club, a valet attendant brought around her red Jeep; and, at the hotel, she gave the keys to the doorman.

  The black-haired girl hooked her arm in mine as we went through the doors of the Peabody and walked across the lobby. “Should we get a drink down here?” I asked.

  “Sure,” she said, “and let’s take it to your room. It’s too bright in here.” She looked up at the ornate, stained-glass ceiling of acanthus-shaped scrolls, floral pinwheels, and Arabic designs of green, burgundy, gold, and purple. She was right. The lobby, with its chairs and tables around the marble fountain, was too open and bright. It was a place to be seen, rather than a place to enjoy an intimate drink. I doubted that Sullivan or Riza would be in the lobby at this hour, but going to my room seemed like the prudent thing to do at the time. I paid cash for a scotch and a beer at the bar, and we took the elevator up to my room.

  I realized as I opened the door to the room that I had not been in it before. The room was decorated in yellow and cream English chintz fabrics, with a king size bed and dark wood furniture that included a writing desk and a comfortable seating area with a small couch and two chairs. My unopened hanging bag was leaning against the wall in the corner.

  The black-haired girl sat down on the couch and put her beer on the coffee table in front of her. “Been in town long?” she asked, looking at the folded hanging bag. I sat down in the chair across from her and sipped my scotch. I told her that I had met some friends for dinner and then left on my own to go find Beale Street. “So, what did you think of our little effort at nightlife?” she asked.

  “It’s fun,” I said, trying to keep the conversation going. “It’s like 6th Street in Austin. Smaller than the French Quarter in New Orleans. How often do you and your friends hit Beale Street?”

  She smiled. “You mean, how often do I find myself at the Peabody with a married man with one change of clothes?”

  I shrugged. She appeared to have a fairly well-developed cross examination style of her own.

  “Not often,” she said and took a long swig from her beer. “I’m a law student at the University of Memphis. The Cecil C. Humphreys School of Law,” she said with a flourish. “It’s just up the street in the old customs house on the riverfront. Most of my time is spent studying in the law library.”

  I laughed. “I’m a lawyer,” I said. “I’m familiar with the routine. You hang out at the library until it closes, trying to read for the next day. Then, somebody says, ‘Let’s go have a beer,’ and the next thing you know, it’s two in the morning and you’re wondering if you’re okay to drive home. What year are you?”

  “Third,” she said. “I figured you were a lawyer. Brooks Brothers’ blazer. Repp-striped tie. It’s the same uniform my older brother wears every day. He practices in Charleston. I think he took a job there just so that he could be closer to that store that sells those striped ties and blazer buttons.”

  “Ben Silver,” I said. “I get their catalogue. I’ve always wanted to go there.” I stood up, and took off my coat, then hung it in the closet. I stripped off my tie and looped it around the coat collar. I walked back over to the coffee table, picked up my scotch, and sat next to her on the couch. “What about the married man part?” I asked.

  “I thought you looked harmless enough. I thought you might be interesting to talk to. I didn’t think I had ever seen you before. I doubt if I will ever see you again. We haven’t done anything wrong, yet, have we?” She leaned over and kissed me gently on the lips. I closed my eyes as she leaned into me. When I opened them, her face was close to mine and she was smiling. Her kiss and her full lips reminded me of Beth. I cupped one breast and kissed her again for a long time. When I pulled back, she pursed her lips and sighed. Then she asked me as she looked around the room, “Do you think we need all these lights on?”

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” I said.

  “Oh, I think you can,” she said, and rested her hand on my lap while looking directly into my eyes.

  I stood up. “Believe me; I know I can do this. It’s been months since I’ve had sex. If you touch me again, I may have an orgasm,” I said.

  “Why haven’t you had sex in months?” she asked. “Problems at home?”

  “We’re pregnant.”

  “I thought that made women more interested in sex.”

  “Apparently, we went right past that part after the morning sickness. Now, we’re in the ‘I’m too uncomfortable to move’ stage.” I said.

  “Well, then, why are you standing up and walking away from me? I promise I’ll be gentle,” she said teasing me and extending her arms toward me.

  I laughed, and she smiled. “Come here,” she said and motioned with her hands toward her on the couch.

  “I can’t,” I said. “There’s something else.”

  She reached over and picked up her beer, and pulled her legs up under her on the couch. She took another big swig of the beer and idly played with her hair with one hand. “My first class isn’t until eleven o’clock,” she said. “We may need to call room service to come restock the minibar.” I went over to the little refrigerator and opened another beer for her. I handed it to her, and she took my hand and pulled me to her again. We kissed, with her sitting on the couch and me standing over her. I held her hand as I pulled back and stood up straight after we stopped kissing.

  If there is such a thing as love at first sight, there must also be a more primordial first sight connection between people that are attracted to each other. Who knows why a connection like this occurs? Maybe you knew her in a past life. Maybe, there is a recognition between individuals of physical characteristics or mannerisms that suggests qualities we recognize in other people we have loved or found attractive. Maybe there is a subtle recognition of need between the two individuals. Maybe it’s pheromones.

  There is a point in time when you know you are about to have sex with a person. Maybe it’s after you’ve kissed her. Maybe, before. A thousand things can happen to derail the train that is rolling down the tracks. But sometimes it just rolls along.

  I had not been in this situation since I learned that I had herpes. I wanted to avoid telling the dark-haired girl with freckles about the herpes, although it wasn’t anything like having to tell Michelle. She could just leave after I told her, and I would never see her again. She couldn’t think any less of me, because she didn’t know anything about me. I assumed that telling her about the herpes would surely derail the sex train. But I knew I had to tell her.

  The idea that I could tell anybody, other than Beth, about the herpes seemed like a positive step to me. If I told her about it, and she stormed out of the hotel without ever speaking to me again, it would still be an experience worth having. I would have told somebody, at least, even if it was somebody I didn’t even know.

  If she left, I would just rent a SpectraVision adult movie and masturbate my way to sleep. At home, I wouldn’t even let myself masturbate because of some admittedly less than scientifically based idea that viral-loaded cells might be shed during masturbation and would lie in wait around the house, in our bed, on our couch, in our shower, seeking to infect my wife and possibly our unborn child.

  Of course it crossed my mind that something like this situation had gotten me into this predicament in the first place. How could a onenight stand be the prescription for the guilt complex I suffered as a result of having had an affair from which I contracted a venereal disease? At first blush, it appeared that this behavior would be another violation of Sullivan’s First Rule of Holes. I assumed that when the affair and the herpes came to light, my marriage would be over. I didn’t think my having sex with the freckled-face girl would ultimately affect my marriage, one way or the other. Like the over 6 feet, single, white mal
e that caught Beth’s attention with the ad he had placed in the Free Press Houston, I was damaged goods, and I had reconciled myself to the fact that I would be consigned to a diseased subculture, an amorphous leper colony, that shared each other’s guilt, as well as their sexual urges.

  “I have herpes,” I said and let out a long breath while looking at the ceiling.

  She started laughing, and then stopped, still smiling.

  “I’m sorry to laugh,” she said. “Lots of people have herpes. My sister does. She says it’s a nuisance. She got it from her no-account husband. Do you have it right now?” she asked, still holding my hand.

  “Apparently, you always have it once you get it. It lives in your spine. Sometimes, you have breakouts. I guess that makes me a no-account husband.”

  “It lives in your spine?” she asked. “Does your wife have it?”

  “I don’t know. I’m worried that she does. I haven’t told her I have it.”

  “Why did you tell me?” She asked, her voice trailing off as she asked the question as if she were connecting thoughts in her head.

  “Because I had to,” I said.

  “You have to tell her too, don’t you?”

  “I know. I’ve been trying to; I just haven’t been able to, yet. I’m afraid she’ll leave me.”

  “Oh, so this isn’t your first trip to the Peabody, metaphorically speaking?” she asked. Before I could answer, she said, “Are you really just worried that your wife will want a divorce, or are you afraid that she’ll see that you are not perfect despite your navy blazer and red-andblue striped tie?”

  “What is it with you and that blazer?” I asked.

  “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re as worried about your image with your wife as you are about actually passing along the virus or having to talk about a divorce.”

  “I guess you are right,” I said, and she shook her head.

  “You’ve got to tell her,” she said. “When is the baby due?”