Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride

by Sweany, Brian;

  This is all hearsay of course, as I was out of town on business. Because God is a fucking dick.

  The other coed in the room is average-looking at best, with the personality to match. She has dirt-brown hair, and her name is Susan. Vicky plays two tens on Beth’s two eights. Susan plays two jacks, and it’s to me. I pass. Beth jumps on the two jacks with two aces. No one can match. Beth puts that pile aside and starts a new deal. She leads with the three cards she has in her hand—three fives—and is out. President once more.

  “Shit!” I say.

  “Drink for being a sore loser, Asshole!” Beth says.

  I do as she commands. Smiling, I put my cup down. I show my cards: three sevens. Hello, Vice Presidency!

  I point to Vicky and Susan. “Drink, bitches!”

  Beth and I bowed out of the game gracefully, and by that I mean she tried to sit on my lap, slid her leg across my torso, and her right foot knocked a beer over, soaking the playing cards. The entire room, including someone I wrongly assumed was passed out on the bed behind us, screamed, “Party foul!”

  Two more beers and a Southern Comfort shot later, Beth and I decide to take a walk across Marian’s campus.

  “Where we going?” I ask.

  Beth points to the northeast corner of campus at the large Tudor-style home on the hill. “Allison Mansion.”

  “Built in nineteen-eleven by automobile magnate James A. Allison.”

  “So you know the guy?”

  “Dad used to talk about him. He co-founded the Indianapolis Motor Speedway and Allison Engine Company.”

  “I know,” Beth says.

  “You know?”

  “Got the five-cent tour from the nursing school director last week.” Beth hooks my arm in hers. “Allison Mansion has been on the National Register of Historic Places since 1970. It has a one-ton German silver chandelier, a staircase built of solid hand-carved walnut, a music room encased on carved mahogany paneling, an aviary lined with white Italian marble crowned by a Tiffany stained-glass ceiling, and a two-story foyer made from now-extinct Circassian walnut that was imported from Czarist Russia.”

  “Did you memorize all that useless trivia for my benefit?”

  “I sure as hell didn’t memorize it for mine.”

  “You really do love me, don’t you?” I close my eyes and smile, leaning in for a kiss.

  She pushes my mouth away. “It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it.”

  “Now, what exactly are we going to do once we get to the house?”

  “Go skinny-dipping,” Beth says.

  “What?”

  “Something else Allison Mansion can claim is the Midwest’s first-ever indoor pool. It’s in the basement.”

  “So you’re serious?”

  “You bet I am.”

  “How are we getting in? I assume a place that nice is locked up as tight as a drum.”

  “You would think so.”

  “Yes, I would.”

  Beth looks around. We’re standing at the bottom of the hill just south of Allison Mansion, still a good two-hundred yards away from the house. She crouches down, feeling around for something. Her arm disappears. “There it is.”

  “There what is?”

  “Our ticket inside.” Beth removes her arm from the black hole in the ground. She sits on the ground, scooting her butt toward the hole until her legs suddenly disappear.

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s the tunnel between Allison Mansion and the Alverna Hall student center.”

  “Why would they have a tunnel between Allison and the student center?”

  “The student center used to be the caretakers’ quarters for Allison before a group of Franciscan nuns established Marian’s campus here in the nineteen thirties. Nobody ever bothered to block the tunnel, so sometimes students sneak into Allison and Alverna after hours.”

  “Beth, this is trespassing.”

  “I’d be happy to compare arrest records.”

  “Funny.”

  “I thought so,” Beth says. She raises her hands in the air. “Now help me down.”

  “This can’t be safe. Plus, there have to be security cameras in the mansion.”

  “Oh, there are.”

  “Then what the hell are we doing?”

  “In exchange for a really nice bottle of Scotch, campus security gave me one hour.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “You might find this hard to believe, but you’re not the only charming person on the planet. Now, help me down.”

  “Almost there,” Beth says. She leads the way with a small pen light attached to her car keys. “There’s the entrance to Allison.”

  “Is it unlocked?”

  “Let’s hope so,” she says, turning the handle on the large oak door.

  The door opens to an ornate room dimly lit by security lights. There’s a sloping Gothic ceiling of what looks to be carved, pressed leather. The windows on the south side of the room are stained glass set in wrought iron. A large stone fireplace anchors the room.

  “What is this place?”

  “Looks almost like a basement den or something.”

  “A den?”

  “Yep.”

  “Sweet,” Beth says. “That means the pool is right around the corner.”

  The smell of chlorine lets us know we’ve arrived. Beth shines her pen light into the cavernous room and then down at the water. The large tiled pool is rectangular shaped and runs from east to west, with the deeper water in the east end.

  “Well, it’s full.” I reach down, sticking my hand in the water. “And it’s fucking cold.”

  “Oh, don’t be a wuss,” Beth says, already undressed. She jumps in.

  I’m a little more deliberate. I take off my shoes and socks, then my shirt, then my pants, then my underwear. I sit on the edge of the pool, my feet dangling in the water.

  “Today, Romeo.” Beth splashes me.

  Finally, I jump in. I swim underwater with my eyes open. The chlorine burns, but I can barely make out Beth’s shadowy form in front of me. My hands reach around and find her ass. I pull her toward me. As I start to come up for air, I blow a stream of bubbles between her legs, then up her belly and between her breasts until I finally break the surface.

  “Is that better, Juliet?”

  “Quiet,” Beth says.

  “Oh, now you’re being cautious?”

  “Someone’s here.”

  “I thought you said security gave you the run of the place for an hour.”

  “Not security.” Beth points her finger in the air, tilting her head. “You hear that?”

  “I don’t hear any—”

  “Shhh…” Beth holds her finger to her mouth. “That.”

  My hair stands on the back of my neck. I hear the sound of a little girl crying.

  “What the fuck, Beth?” I whisper.

  “It can’t be true,” she says.

  “What can’t be true?”

  “Legend has it this pool is haunted by a little girl who drowned here in the nineteen-twenties. I never believed it—until now.”

  “Holy shit,” I say, still whispering. The girl’s crying is getting louder. “I’ve tried to talk you into more spontaneous acts of nudity than I can possibly count, and the first time you go out on a limb, you pick a haunted pool?”

  “Maybe she’ll just go away.”

  “She’s been here for ninety years. I don’t think she’s going anywhere.”

  “What are we going to do, Hank?”

  “Don’t look at me,” I say. “This is your show.”

  “I guess it is, isn’t it?” Beth smiles. “You can come out now, Vicky.”

  Vicky walks around the corner, a Coleman lantern in her left hand and a handheld tape recorder in
her right. “That…was…awesome!”

  I splash Beth. “You suck.”

  “Hey, lovebirds, you want me to leave the lantern?”

  Beth smiles again. “It’s a big pool, Vick. Why don’t you come join us for a swim?”

  “You sure?” Vicky says.

  “Wouldn’t bother me. How about you, Hank?”

  As I try to string together a few coherent words, I notice Vicky already has her pants and underwear off. “I, uh, well, um, it, I guess, uh…”

  “I’m not sure, Vicky,” Beth says, “but I think that’s a ‘yes.’” Vicky jumps into the pool.

  Okay, God, maybe you’re not a dick after all.

  2009

  Chapter one hundred six

  Lila sits at the wet bar in my basement. I’ve just poured her a Beam and Coke. I drink mine on the rocks.

  “Cheers,” I say.

  “Cheers,” Lila says, raising her glass. She sips the bourbon, sets the glass down. “Thanks for letting me crash at your place this weekend.”

  “Don’t mention it. When’s the wedding?”

  “One thirty tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Down at the Mormon temple in Louisville?”

  “Yep.”

  “Who’s getting married again, a cousin?”

  “A friend.”

  “Same thing.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Sorry, the jokes kind of write themselves.”

  “Not the funny ones.”

  “Come on, Lila. Laugh a little.”

  “I’ll try laughing if you try being funny.”

  “Fair enough,” I say. “One thirty, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “Seems aggressive for a wedding, given that you’ll be kicking off the party around three. But I guess we are talking a Mormon wedding reception.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “At what?”

  “LDS receptions can get out of hand.”

  “And by ‘out of hand’ you mean aggressive square dancing, lemonade bongs, and innocently suggestive love anthems by David Archuleta?”

  “Hey now, David Archuleta rocks.”

  “No, he doesn’t. What the hell, Lila? Two years removed from being a lesbian band aid, and now you’re into Honduran-American LDS bubble gum pop?”

  “Honduran?”

  “On his mom’s side. I watch American Idol. I’m not a fucking communist.”

  “So you thought the best singer won?”

  “David Cook could belch a better song than David Archuleta could sing.”

  “That’s not nice, Hank.”

  “Whatever,” I say. “How much you want?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For your lame-ass LDS wedding reception. A bottle of bourbon? A hip flask?”

  Lila shakes her head. “I’ll take a hip flask.”

  “And?”

  “And the bottle.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Do you have anything besides Jim Beam?”

  “What’s wrong with Beam?”

  “Nothing, if you’re nineteen.”

  “I got something for you,” I say, turning to the glass shelves behind me. I grab a bottle, hand it to my stepsister. “Jameson 18 Year Reserve. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion, but you’ll have to do.”

  “I’m flattered you think so much of me.”

  “Do you want it or not?”

  Lila grabs the bottle. “So what’s up with you?”

  “Nothing really.”

  “Jack is good?”

  “He’s great. We don’t talk or see one another nearly as much as I’d like, but he loves it out East.”

  “You okay with that?”

  “Laura and Jack deserve all the time they need to figure things out.”

  “Wow.”

  “What?”

  “That’s such an adult thing to say, Hank.”

  “I’m thirty-seven years old. At some point I need to act the part.”

  “Is it acting?”

  “I hope so,” I say, grinning from ear to ear, Cheshire-like.

  Lila leans in and kisses me on the cheek. “There’s my Hank.”

  “He makes an occasional cameo.”

  “Where’s your beautiful wife?”

  “She and the kids are out shopping for the Christmas party.”

  “You hosting?”

  “Yes, unfortunately. Stan got us a killer deal on the caterers who did his office party.”

  “He’s back in town?”

  “More than he has been. He and Joan are actually talking about making another go of it.”

  “No way.”

  “Beth is deliriously happy about it.”

  “And you?”

  “I think Stan and Joan are two of the least compatible people on the planet.”

  “You tell Beth that?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Good boy,” Lila says. “And the job at Talk Hard is going well?”

  “Well enough.”

  “I wanted to talk to you about that.”

  “About audiobooks?”

  “About your career. How’s the writing going?”

  “It’s going.”

  “It is?”

  “Sure.”

  “So you’re writing?”

  “I’m dabbling,” I say.

  “Define ‘dabbling.’”

  “I got about seventy-five thousand words down of a memoir. Signed with an agent about a month ago just based on the first three chapters.”

  “That’s exciting. You got a title yet?”

  “Waiting for the Sun.”

  “Oh, I like that. Double entendre, great metaphor for the story of a boy figuring out how to be a man.”

  “All of the above.”

  “You could even open with that Doors song.”

  “I wish.”

  “Why not?”

  “The Morrison Estate is controlled by his dead girlfriend’s parents.”

  “The Meg Ryan character in the movie?”

  “Pamela Courson was her name. She died of a drug overdose three years after Jim Morrison, and all rights to Jim Morrison’s music passed to her parents. They hated Jim and blamed him for their daughter’s death. They consider any advances or royalties related to the Morrison Estate to be their daughter’s blood money and subsequently charge exorbitant licensing fees.”

  “You blame them?”

  “I applaud them.”

  “Thought you might,” Lila says.

  “Hawaii treating you well?”

  “I guess.”

  “Trouble in paradise?”

  “Chris has just been, uh, writing and texting and calling me lately.”

  “Oh God.”

  “I miss her, Hank.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s your Laura. She’s your fucking stupid.”

  “My what? Listen, you pompous ass, my life is not a reflection of yours.”

  “I didn’t say it was. Everybody has a Laura, that one person you have no business being with that you keep going back to until the meat is completely stripped from your bones.”

  “That’s pleasant.”

  “That’s Laura.”

  “So I should ignore Chris?”

  “Hell no.”

  “What?”

  “You gotta let it play out.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a fucking lunatic, Hank?”

  “Pretty much everybody I know. Look, Lila, you’re a big girl. My advice to you is to not do anything half speed, good or bad. Half speed equals regrets. Full speed equ
als results.”

  “Full speed equals disasters.”

  “Yeah, but they’re awesome disasters. And if you give up on Chris, if you two give up on each other, it’s not like you’re going to walk down the next block, turn a corner, and find a better brownstone.”

  “You’re doing that thing you do,” Lila says.

  “What thing?”

  “Where you start jumping from metaphor to metaphor, sounding all cool and evolved.”

  “Hey now, occasionally I’ll use a simile or two.”

  “Same difference.”

  “Lila, love is like walking the streets of New York City.”

  “And here we go.”

  “Sometimes it’s beautiful, sometimes it’s little more than controlled chaos. Sometimes, the chaos is where the real beauty lies. But no matter what, there will always be scaffolding. There will always be building, rebuilding, demolition, renovation—often on the ashes of those who’ve failed before you. Perfection is for fairy tales. All you can do is buy the ticket, take the ride.”

  “‘Buy the ticket, take the ride.’ I like that.” Lila drains her Beam and Coke, chews on an ice cube. She sets down her glass, arching her eyebrows at me for another round. “Hunter S. Thompson, right?”

  I nod. “I’m sure as hell nowhere near that fucking brilliant.” Doing my best Tom Cruise impersonation in Cocktail, I top her glass off with a quick two-handed pour from both the liter of Jim Beam and the Coke can. All that’s missing is Elizabeth Shue and “Kokomo” by the Beach Boys playing on the stereo. I wish I could remember the name of that actor who played Cruise’s bartending mentor. I think he was Australian. I can picture him shearing sheep and bedding Rachel Ward—more the long-haired, loss-of-innocence Rachel Ward from The Thornbirds than the steely-eyed Against All Odds Rachel Ward, although both examples are infinitely hot.

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Hank,” Lila says, raising her right hand to my face. She cups my face in her palm, rubbing my cheek with her thumb. “Never fear, we may let the scaffolds fall, confident that we have built our wall.”

  I hand Lila a hip flask full of Jameson. “Pink Floyd?”