by L. Maleki
“My son’s game starts at seven. You can ride with me.” When I stood there dumbly, he ran a hand through his thin hair, squinting at me. “I need you to videotape the game for me. I can’t stay.”
“I know, Gina, I know. I’ll be there, I promise. I’m just going to be a little late. But how do I say no when he’s firing people?” I trapped the phone against my shoulder, setting my bag and the company’s video equipment on Kwan’s desk in the lobby as I waited for Frank’s car service. I’d run home to change and grab my camera, but now I plucked at my peacoat, hoping it was thick enough to block the March winds coming off the Hudson River. The Little League field was a few blocks from Ground Zero.
“Paris, we haven’t seen you in almost two weeks. Frank Coyle doesn’t own you. If you don’t start saying no, you’re setting yourself up to be treated this way forever.”
“I don’t want to be a pushover, but I don’t have another job lined up. I can’t just say no out of principle.”
“Alright. I understand. But you have to promise me you’re going to start sticking up for yourself. Besides, Lucia could really use some cheering up.”
“What’s wrong with Lucia?”
“She’s been sick a lot lately, she even missed a gig yesterday.”
“Give her a hug for me. And buy her some food. Remind her that cigarettes don’t provide nutrition.” She’d be thrilled to learn I’d finally given in and smoked.
Kwan, behind the desk, made eye contact with me and pointed at Frank, bouncing off the elevator. It was kind of nice to see him in such a good mood, on the way to his son’s game.
“Gina, I’m sorry,” I said. “I have to go.”
“Okay—”
I hung up on her as Frank approached, wearing his favorite lime green dress shirt with expensive APO jeans. The shirt was unbuttoned too low, and again he was wearing the scruffy Adidas. He thought it made him counter-culture, matching trashy with high-end, when it just made him look like a Saturday Night Live character.
“Come on! Let’s go!” He jiggled, waggling his eyebrows at me. It was disconcerting. And gross.
He went out to the car, leaving Kwan to help me carry my things. The heavyset guard reached the car first, breathing hard, and opened the door. I saw him glance in the back, pucker his lips, and then move to the front passenger door, loading the camera and video equipment onto the seat next to the driver. I looked at him curiously, but Kwan simply shrugged, a sad smile on his worn face. He waited for me to slide in so he could close the door.
Ducking my head into the back of the car, I saw what was happening. There was no room for the camera stuff.
In the back sat a small boy with brown mousy hair like Frank’s, dressed in a white baseball uniform. He should have been happy or nervous on his way to a game, but instead, his bottom lip stuck out, his arms were crossed, and he stared sullenly at his father, who was bookended by two girls, both wearing tube tops for dresses. Bleached platinum twins with doll-like features painted on, no older than eighteen. If that. They brought to mind JonBenét Ramsey, which made me gulp down a sour ball in my throat. Frank had been excited to get in the car, not to get to his son’s game.
“Paris, sit by Liam, he needs a pep talk. Almost time for the big game, right, slugger?” Frank fist-pumped the air. “I brought along a couple of friends to cheer him on, but he’s being a little shy.”
Liam rolled his eyes.
I slid in, trying not to touch anybody, but ended up crab-crawling over Girl Number One to reach the seat next to Liam. Wow, her legs are so smooth and firm, I thought. My brain was too stunned to come up with anything better.
“Hi, Liam, nice to meet you. I’m Paris, I work with your dad.” I offered my hand and he did shake, finally, once, softly. Then he looked out the window.
“Dad,” Liam asked in a neutral tone as we pulled away from the curb, “isn’t Mom meeting us at the game?” He looked pointedly at each girl.
Brave kid.
“Yes,” Frank said, blowing into Girl Number Two’s ear while handing Girl Number One what was clearly not her first martini of the day. That was the end of the conversation.
I’d love one of those martinis.
“So, Liam, how long have you been playing? I loved to play baseball when I was your age.” It was a lie. I’d spent the majority of my time in the library or in the computer lab, though I did love to swim in the Pacific and float on a surfboard in my bikini. Anything that brought me into close proximity to the surfers.
The boy warmed up to me as we drove, eventually nestling into my side, a baby bird seeking warmth, as he went on speed-talking jags about famous players, the benefits of stealing bases, and his home run stats from last year.
“… is just a preseason game, but the coach is tryin’ to decide ’tween me and Johnny for this season’s pitcher position. I’m way better than Johnny …”
I smiled and nodded, no idea what he was talking about most of the time. I hated kids, or at least I’d thought I hated kids. The nine-year-old, with his adorable freckles, purposefully kept his gaze directed at me, his face animated with the love of his sport. Neither of us wanted to look directly at the freak show happening across from us.
“Driver!” Frank leaned forward, breaking a three-way clinch.
I cringed, pushing the button for the intercom. The driver couldn’t hear him through the glass.
“Did you need something, sir?” The driver’s voice crackled out of the speaker, emotionless.
“We’re going to be making a stop on the corner here, at Smitty’s.”
Liam vibrated with angst. “Dad! We’re going to be late!”
Frank waved in front of his face. “Come on, champ, we have plenty of time. I’m just dropping these two off.”
Liam relaxed against me, both of us unable to hide the relief we felt at the departure of the twins. “Oh, okay.”
Frank squinted over his martini at his only child. “Yep.” He tossed back the rest of his drink, his hair flopping to the side. “Alright, out, out, out.” The interior filled with shrieks and giggles as he grabbed asses and boobs while they tried to squish through the narrow opening. Without a glance back, he followed them out the door and into the bar.
I turned to face Liam, sure he would be in tears.
“I hate him,” he said quietly, dry-eyed. I believed him. His features were laced with rage. “Coach wanted us there early to warm up. The game starts in a half hour.”
Better that the boy was furious rather than hurt, just so he could get through the next few hours. The driver and I exchanged a glance through the glass. Behind the boy’s back, the grandfatherly man roughly pushed back his driver’s cap and mouthed the words, What a motherfucker. I nodded. Liam might not have been crying but I was about to.
Ten minutes passed. I went in after Frank.
He was sitting at a table next to a stage with three guys in suits. “Paris! Let’s have a drink.” The girl working the pole had admirable skill. The blonde twins were nowhere in sight. The muscled bartender probably had asked for their IDs.
“Liam’s going to be late for his game.”
He put his elbows on the stage. “Go ahead, take him over. I’ll call another car, meet you guys there. Don’t forget to videotape. I want to see how he does.”
I pursed my lips. Father of the year. “Are you sure, Frank? He really wants you there.” I cringed. This wasn’t any of my business.
“His mom will be …” His voice drifted off when the dancer, covered only in a string of beads, moved in front of us. She turned and bent over, offering a spaced-out smile over her shoulder. Within a second, she was in an improbable pose, one which would have ripped ligaments and muscles if I’d tried it. She opened every orifice up for inspection.
I left, not bothering to wait for a reply. As soon as Liam’s game was over, I was picking up the wanted ads. If nothing else, apparently anus bleachers were in high demand. It can’t be worse than this.
Chapter 12
&
nbsp; “You guys are leaving?” I put my tote bag down on a stool at The Rooftop’s bar along with my camera and the video equipment, while Gina tugged on her coat. She shot me a baleful glance, reminding me once again of a French bulldog. Now was not the time to be amused, however. Lucia swayed beside her, more pale than usual, ignoring me.
I touched her sleeve. “Are you okay, Lucia?”
“I just need sleep.” The model shrugged, her blue eyes foggy, her voice raspy. She didn’t have a death stick in her mouth, but maybe her body was trying to tell her something.
Gina stepped under Lucia’s armpit, sliding the much taller woman’s arm around her shoulder. “I’ve got this, Paris. Don’t worry about us.” Lucia leaned on her gratefully.
“Don’t play the martyr, Gina. I got here as soon as I could. And I’m here now. Let me help.”
“It sounds like Frank needs you more.”
“It wasn’t Frank, it was his son, Liam. I couldn’t just leave him—”
“Yep, okay. You were doing something important. Got it. We’ll talk later.”
“You don’t understand …”
But they were out the door, two drinks half-finished on the bar. I slugged back one, avoiding lipstick imprints, hoping the alcohol killed whatever disease Lucia may have left behind. The next drink turned out to be club soda. Who the hell was drinking club soda?
I put my head in my hands. I was cold and tired and frazzled, having come directly from the game to meet them. I could really have used a friend. True, I had been late or unable to show up a number of times in the past three or four weeks, but Gina and Lucia both had jobs and had to put up with crap they couldn’t control, too. They should understand. Storming out seemed to be blowing things way out of proportion.
A martini magically appeared on the bar in front of me. The bartender, the one with a handlebar mustache, caught my eye and tossed his chin down the bar. There was Benji, sandy hair tousled as usual, in a pair of corduroys that clung to his quads. The photographer lifted his glass and offered a salute, then got up.
The stress ball in my stomach grew. I’d seen him a few days ago as he conducted a class. We hadn’t been able to talk personally, but I could swear he focused his smile on me more than anyone else. Sigh. I so badly wanted to hang out with him, but his girlfriend had to be on her way or already in the bar somewhere. It’s alright, this is purely innocent. He’s talking to me because I’m his student.
“Hey, you okay?” He reached out a hand toward me, and I wildly imagined him pulling me to him when instead he wiped at something on my coat. “You got a little something there.”
I glanced down. “Dang it.” I scratched at the yellow splotch. “It’s mustard. I had a hot dog at the game tonight.”
“You were at a game?” His brows rose.
“What, I don’t look like I appreciate sports?”
He shook his head, and I laughed.
“Yeah, well, you might be right, but I was at a Little League game. I videotaped my boss’s son.” I pointed to the camera equipment next to me and felt sadness roll back over me. “Tonight was his first night pitching in a game.”
“Why so glum? Did he crash and burn?”
“No, he actually did great. But neither of his parents were there. His dad ditched him to hang out with strippers.” I’d finished off my martini in five or six gulps. It was a slow night and the bartender had another one ready immediately. I should stop now, I thought, and tossed back my third drink in fifteen minutes. I normally stuck to a two-drink maximum, but the hounds were loose.
“And his mother never showed at all, though she was supposed to be there to take him home.” I slurped at an errant drop in the bottom of the glass.
Every time Liam had stepped up to bat or ran out to the pitcher’s mound to take his place, he would scan the crowd. I’d wave to him, as did the driver, but the boy’s shoulders would still drop. The driver could have waited in the car but the old guy felt obliged to support Liam, knowing how his own grandkids felt about their games. But he was cursing a blue streak at Frank under his breath the entire game. If cursing actually cursed people, Frank and Sonya had a hellfire barbecue to look forward to, and they would not enjoy it.
So, two strangers rooted on a nine-year-old, a sad little boy who threw his heart out. We stopped for ice cream on the way back, and I rode with him to his house to make sure he wasn’t going to be there alone.
His mother was inside, entertaining her friends.
I tipped the driver heavily when he dropped me off at The Rooftop, but I had every intention of getting reimbursed. My drinks bill was going to be added to the tab.
Benji listened quietly to my story, nodding and exclaiming in the right places. “That poor kid. No wonder rich kids grow up to be assholes.” He leaned into me and clinked my glass. My fourth martini. “I can see why you’re upset. It’s hard to stand back and watch someone do that to their own kid.”
I nodded slowly, tears in my eyes. The liquor was not helping to keep my emotions in check.
He took a drink and eyed me seriously, sitting close enough that our arms brushed against each other with each rise and fall of my chest.
“So what are you going to do?” he asked.
“Sit here and feel sorry for him. And myself.”
He took another slug of beer, put down his glass, wiped his mouth, and jumped up from his stool. “I know what’ll cheer you up.”
“What?”
“Let’s go develop your film from the game. I just restocked my darkroom.”
“I don’t know …”
“Come on, this will be a good student-to-teacher bonding moment. Let me guide you, my padawan.”
“So, I’m the Karate Kid to your Mr. Miyagi?”
“Seriously, you didn’t catch the Star Wars reference?”
“Uh, no. Nor am I ashamed of that.”
“Funny. I can easily picture you dressed as Ahsoka Tano. She’s a badass.”
He pictures me? Who the hell is Ahsoka Tano? Should I be offended he’s not picturing me in Leia’s metal bikini? I smiled. No way should I spend time in a darkroom with this guy.
“Are we going to walk to your studio?” I asked, ignoring my inner voice while trying to keep my outer voice from slurring. I was tired and a little tipsy. I eyed the number of empty glasses in front of me. It’s funny, I don’t feel drunk. And yet, here I go. I agreed only because his studio was so close to my apartment.
He slung my video equipment over his shoulder. “Is that okay?”
On so many levels, it was okay.
“What about your girlfriend?” But he didn’t answer, as he was five feet ahead of me, cutting a trail through the rowdy Rooftop crowd. To be fair, I’d whispered it. He’d said this was a teaching thing. Tired of being lonely and depressed, I shut my brain off.
As we walked through an electric New York City night, we held a pleasant quietness between us. I shot photos of the crowds and colored lights and street vendors shimmering in the chilly, early spring air. I was drawn again to doors, some open, some shut, some locked, some worn, some refurbished, some broken … The imagery and symbolism appealed to me, though I didn’t dare apply any of it to myself in this scenario. I just wanted to enjoy the moment.
We shed our coats once inside the red door of his gallery. “Hold on, I’m going to run up to my apartment and grab a bottle of wine. You can get started if you want. You know where everything is.” He grinned, running a hand through his dark blond thatch of hair. “I’ll bring some food, too. I don’t want you drunk, not when we’re using processing chemicals. I wouldn’t put that beautiful face in jeopardy.”
With that, he was gone, bounding up the stairs like he was on a parkour course. I hadn’t realized he lived above his gallery. Or that corduroy pants could stretch that way.
Despite what he thought, I wasn’t exactly drunk, though not sober, either. I felt awake and alert, energy tingling through me. But was I making the decisions of a drunk? He’d just called me beau
tiful and went to get more wine so we could spend time in a small, dark space together. I felt the tingle settle in my heart. And between my legs.
I wanted to be in that darkroom. I could keep my cool.
Besides, I was ready to show my “teacher” I really had been paying attention to what he’d been saying in class. Mixing the three different chemical baths kept my mind occupied, working out ratios and measurements while the hottest photographer in New York stomped around upstairs and then back down. By the time he’d set a laden tray on a counter in the corner, I was ready to turn out the lights.
Waiting for our eyes to adjust to the dim yellow glow of the special light, Benji gathered supplies and pried the lids off the film canisters, his fingers strong and graceful.
“It was my dad who taught me to do this,” he said, his freckled face serious as he slowly pulled the coil of film free.
“What?” I was startled by his comment, so absorbed was I in watching him move.
“My dad. He loved photography. I’m lucky. Not everybody has a parent who’ll share their passion and their time with them.” He bent over his workbench, bringing the scissor blades together on the film with a brisk clang. Angrily, he said, “I really feel for that kid, Liam.”
My heart ached all over again. “I know. How can a father do that?” I bit my tongue, hard, to keep from tearing up. “My dad would die for me. He did risk his life to bring me to America. Sometimes I can forget that, since I don’t remember anything from my childhood except things like my dad taking me and my friends to the boardwalk and buying us sugar cones and watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer with us, or him sitting through ballet recitals and math competitions.” I brought a stack of photo paper to Benji. “Is your father gone?”
“Yep.” He thwacked a canister to jar the lid loose. “Heart attack. Right after I graduated high school. But my mom kept it together. She made sure I got through college and she wouldn’t let me give up on my dream of being a professional photographer. She’s my biggest supporter.” He looked at me. “You’d like her. She’d like you, that’s for sure.”