by Frank Zafiro
I knew the puck was in the net before the whistle even blew. The shrill sound was like a death knell.
The skater arced around back of the net as I rose back to my feet. He coasted in my direction and I thought for a moment that he was going to taunt me. His words were thickly accented.
“I sorry for goal. I just want play hockey,” he said and skated away.
I fished the puck out of the net and sent it skittering to center ice. I tried to swallow around the lump in my throat as the assistant coach dropped the puck and play resumed. I blinked away tears as the forwards and defensemen continued to battle the last two minutes of the scrimmage for positions that might still be open. Dutifully, I kicked aside the three shots that came my way.
When the horn sounded, I cleared my throat and skated over to toward the bench for the ritual. I left my mask in place and looked down at the scarred up ice during the silence before the head coach appeared. He thanked us again for our hard work and then read the names.
When he had finished, he said, “The rest of you, thanks for coming out.”
I waited until the curses and murmurs of congratulations had ended before stepping off the ice and heading down the hallway to the Visitor’s locker room. I wasn’t inside the door yet, when a small cheer erupted from the four guys still on the ice.
I sat at the locker stall and stared at my empty equipment bag. Then I slowly shed my gear and filled the bag.
A month and a half later, the regular players caved in and came back to the NHL.
A month and a half later.
A month and a half of dreams.
Stories and Stories
by
Frank Scalise
If you want to be a writer, you have to watch people. That’s why I took the job at Knight’s Diner. Lots of people to watch. All kinds. Some come there to eat, some to drink coffee, other to talk. A few write in journals or on notepads.
I watch them all. They give me ideas to write about.
“Arnie! Coffee Walk!” Fred bellows at me from the kitchen. I mostly bus the tables, but when it gets busy and the place is full, the waitresses fall behind on the coffee. I grab a pot and walk down the long aisle, re-filling cups as I go.
Knight’s Diner is an old passenger train car, refurbished as a diner. There’s a short counter near the front and narrow booths down the length. It’d been a fixture in River City since before time, I figure.
Actually, I should find out how long it’s been here. Facts like that are important for a writer. It adds realism to his work.
I trawl down the aisle, asking in a cheery voice if the customer wants a refill. The tall man with a bulbous red nose holds his out for me and grins. His teeth are yellow. His squat wife ignores me and keeps chattering at her husband, but she holds her cup out, too. I fill them both.
The bearded man (I think he’s a professor) doesn’t bother to look up from his book, but nods in reply to my question. I slosh java into his cup and wonder what he teaches. The book title gives me no clues – The Agenda. Political Science, maybe? He could even be a radical.
The next two booths are full of dismissive head shakes from the forty-something, over-dressed rich women and the newly-weds. At least, I think they’re newly-weds. He listens to her and laughs at everything she says.
A woman with a warm smile looks right into my eyes at the next booth. She wears a blue knit shawl cast casually over her shoulders and her smile lights up her eyes. She asks me how my day is.
“Busy,” I say and smile back.
Her “thank you” is genuine instead of cursory and I give her a hearty “you’re welcome.”
The last booth contains a sullen couple. The tension between them crackles like a downed electrical line. The man takes a re-fill, but the woman covers her cup with her open hand and gives me a curt head shake.
Along the counter, it’s mostly regulars. I know their stories already. I’ve stored them up and will write them soon. Earl the mechanic who has a daughter in college. Tom and Kami, who own their own hardware store. Sam, the hockey coach for the local team. Got everyone’s story, but I fill their cups anyway.
By the time I finish with the coffee walk, the dishes are piled up again. I clear the tables. I clean off the dishes and put them through the dishwasher cycle. I pluck them out while they are still steaming and stack them up for Fred to slap more food on them.
The tables and the dishes and the occasional coffee walks blur the day. I make notes about everything in my head. I’ll write when I get home.
When the lunch rush eases, Ryan shows up to cover the afternoon shift. We sell about five plates of food after two in the afternoon, but whatever. He’s Fred’s nephew.
“Arnie!” Fred bellows. “Go home!”
I wash my hands and throw the apron in the laundry. On the way out, Loretta tucks a few dollars in my pocket. She smiles and I can smell her old woman perfume. “You did good today, Arnie,” she tells me.
I thank her and walk home. My feet ache so much they start to go numb. I feel the phantom heat of the dishwasher on my finger tips. I push those thoughts away. Instead, I try to remember the people I watched today for when I get home and write.
My small apartment is cold and empty. I make a sandwich and drink some water from the tap. I wonder which story I should write. My eyelids droop. I decide to take a small nap and crash on the bed. Maybe a dream will let me know which story is best.
When I wake up, though, it’s time to go back to work.
Round Trip
The plane ride home. I suppose it depends on your situation, but I’ve never found it to be a pleasant experience. When I was single, all it represented was the last gasp of pretense that I was part of the world before going home to my sterile, empty apartment. Since I’ve been married, it represents…well, I guess it represents the last gasp of pretense that I was part of the world before going home to my sterile, not-quite-empty apartment.
It’s actually worse now. Before, I could at least stop pretending when I hit the door. But now the façade has to continue through the hellos and the I-missed-yous before settling into the routine that we seem to have agreed upon years ago without actually speaking about it.
Perhaps that’s too harsh. Doreen was, is a beautiful woman. She cut her long, jet black hair a couple of years back and although it broke my heart, I have to admit she still looked good…in an Avon catalogue sort of way.
I settled into my window seat and looked out onto the tarmac. Sometimes, I just shouldn’t be left alone with my mind. I start thinking, then I kick things around, then I remember stuff, then I really start thinking and pretty soon, all is darkness and oblivion. Whatever topic I’m on, it doesn’t matter. Darkness pervades. I need to be more positive. Or so my “counselor” says. Fucking vampire, that guy. What a racket, huh? Sit and listen to people bitch for $90 an hour. Appear solemn and wise as you say, “Mmm-huh” and “How does that make you feel?”
My ruminations were interrupted as someone sat in the seat next to me. I intended to ignore him as much as possible, until I caught a whiff of perfume. It was light and clean and strangely enough, it made me think of fishing. I haven’t fished in twenty years.
Slowly I turned my gaze to the seat beside me. A woman of about twenty was sitting there and she had already buckled her seat belt. I usually waited until the stewardess made me do it. She took a deep breath, pushed her long blonde hair behind her ears, then grasped the armchairs and stared straight ahead.
A first-time flyer, I told myself.
I paused before saying anything. She was beautiful and that always created a problem. For starters, beautiful women are always getting hit on. Somewhere along the line it has to go from flattering to annoying. Even casual conversation can be misconstrued. I didn’t want her to think I was picking up on her.
Of course, I didn’t want to be rude, either…
“First time flying?” I asked her.
She looked over, and her glance made no assumptions. Sh
e gave a nod and spoke quickly, “I have to fly to River City for a scholarship interview. It’s a full scholarship. Over five thousand people put in for it and it is down to me and three others.”
“What school?”
“Parker University.”
I nodded. “Hell of a basketball program there.”
She nodded. “I’ve heard that. But I’m more interested in the Theology department.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I want to be a missionary, but not until I’ve got my degree.”
It was my turn to nod, mostly because I didn’t know what else to say. What do you say to a gorgeous woman in a nice sweater who wants to be a missionary? I mean, besides “sign me up?” Or some crack about the missionary position? I tried hard not to smile a wrong smile.
She saved me from my predicament. “I’m just really nervous about flying, though.”
“What’s your name?”
“Cathy.”
“Cathy, two things, okay?”
She looked at me, waiting, so I went on.
“One, worrying about flying is keeping you from worrying about your interview, which is a good thing.”
“True.”
“And two, flying is safer than driving.”
She smiled. “I’ve heard that, but I always think to myself, sixty miles an hour versus six hundred miles an hour…I’m not physics major, but one scares me more than the other.”
It was my turn to smile. “Relax. It’ll be fine. Here, since it’s your first flight, why don’t you take the window seat?”
“No, it’s all right.”
“Aw, come on. It’s your first plane ride. It’s a thrill to watch the take-off.”
“Well…it’s your seat, though.”
“I don’t mind. I fly all the time. Please, take it.”
“Okay.”
She quickly unbuckled her seat belt and stood up. She grinned at me as I stepped past her into the aisle and let her into the window seat. Excitement sparkled in her eyes as she moved her carry-on luggage underneath her new seat.
Oh, she was a pretty one, all right.
Married. Married. You’re married.
Every baseless accusation Doreen had ever thrown at me buzzed in my ears. To hear that woman tell it, I’d cheated on her a thousand time instead of the truth of the matter, which was never.
I took Cathy’s seat. It was still warm and I could smell her perfume. I settled back in the seat and watched her. She was looking out the window, taking in the scene. When the plane began to taxi, she grabbed onto the armrest, but continued to look out the window. As we picked up speed, she shot me a quick, excited glance and then we left terra firma and were airborne.
“Thank you,” she said with a smile. “That was cool. Scary, but cool.”
“You’re welcome.”
A silence ensued. Not necessarily an uncomfortable one, but not entirely comfortable, either. It was the silence that preceded our decision of whether to engage in conversation or slip into our own private world. I stole a glance at her smooth neck and realized that if I knew what was best for me, I’d choose the latter.
She made the choice easier for me when she removed a magazine from her carry-on and began reading. I thanked God, then cursed him, and lay my head back as I closed my eyes.
Throughout the eighty-minute flight, I dozed fitfully. Her perfume invaded my thoughts and much like Jimmy Carter, I sinned in my heart with this young, nubile first-time flyer. Several times. The announcement of our descent into River City jarred me from a very graphic scene that would have made the Theology major blush and Doreen scream in vindication.
I noticed she was a little tense as she put the magazine away and gripped the armrest again. She caught me looking at her and smiled nervously. “I heard that landing is the most dangerous part of flying,” she whispered. “Is that true?”
“No,” I lied. “The take-off is like, fifty percent more dangerous. Landing is a piece of cake.”
She didn’t seem convinced.
Thankfully, the landing was a piece of cake. As we pulled to our gate and started gathering our things, she said, “Thanks for talking with me. It helped calm me down.”
“You’re welcome. Good luck at Parker U.”
She crossed her fingers. “God willing.”
I smiled and filed off the plane.
I wanted to look back at her but didn’t. I wanted to mill around the waiting area and watch her walk away, but I didn’t.I grabbed my small suitcase, found my car, paid the attendant and drove home.
About halfway home, I started feeling guilty for fantasizing about this woman. Hell, almost a girl. I was married and should have been focusing my thoughts on my wife and our life together. Of course, this takes me right back to what I said earlier about the darkness.
I pulled into the drive and slowly walked inside. I could hear the television in the living room as I put my bag on the floor and strolled through the kitchen. I stopped for a glass of water, more to delay the inevitable than out of any thirst.
“That you?” came Doreen’s voice from the living room. I tried to imagine there was some excitement in those flat tones.
“Yeah. Just got in.” I wandered into the living room. She was watching a reality show of some sort.Her eyes stayed on the screen as I leaned down for a brief hug.
“How was your trip?” she asked without looking at me.
“Not bad.”
She glanced over at me for a second, then back at the TV. I opened my mouth to tell her about the deal I closed when her eyes snapped back onto me.
“What’s that?” She was staring at my shoulder.
“What’s what?” I followed her gaze. A single, long strand of hair sat on my shoulder. It’s blonde hue stood out against my dark blue shirt.
“That!” she said, standing up and snatching it off my shirt.
I watched her examine the hair, then shoot an accusing look at me. “It’s blonde, you son of a bitch. Not my color.”
I frowned, staring at the hair between her finger and thumb.
She leaned into me and sniffed the air. “Is that perfume?”
Perfume?
“Why the fuck do you smell like perfume?”
Uh-oh. She hardly ever curses, but when she does…
She shook the strand of hair. “And where the fuck did this come from?”
I thought for a moment, and then realized what had happened. “On the plane. I switched places with a woman.”
“Who is she?”
I shrugged. “Just some woman on the plane.”
She shook her head. “That is fucking lame. You fucking bastard.”
“Dor—”
“What, am I stupid? On the fucking plane? That’s just great, Tim. Am I going to find scratches on your ass, too?”
“No. I –”
“Get out. You’re just like all the rest. Cheating motherfucker!” She stormed down the hallway to the bedroom and slammed the door.
I stared after her for a long moment, frustration bubbling. The television was chattering and I wanted to smash the screen. I settled for kicking the side of the couch.
I could have stayed. I usually would. I’d stay and plead and cajole and eventually apologize for something, anything just to make it right. As I stared at the bedroom door, I imagined her sitting on the bed, waiting for me to begin the ritual again.
I walked out the door instead.
Roper’s used to be my favorite bar, when I had a favorite bar. I drove the familiar route and was glad to see the place was still in business. The odor of beer and French fries washed over me as I came through the door. The place was more than half full. I took a place at the bar and ordered a Kokanee. I didn’t recognize the bartender.
As I sipped my beer, I looked around. Instead of thinking about the problem waiting for me at home, I began to people-watch. Hell, I’ve spent the last six years watching life go by and I’ve gotten good at it.
A few minutes later, my gaze
landed on a woman of about thirty seated at a table by herself. I paused and took a long look at her since she was looking in the other direction. She was drinking a Kokanee, too and watching people.
I looked a little too long and she caught me watching her. But instead of looking away, I just smiled. She smiled back.
What the hell, I thought. Why not?
I walked over to her, Kokanee in hand. She watched me the whole way. There was no mistaking her smile, her eye contact, or the look in her eyes as her gaze swept down me and then back up to my face.
I sat down at her table and said hello.
She wasn’t a blonde, but she would do.
Party Dress
The door opened and the sounds of the highway outside carried into the bar. The blonde stepped inside and let the door swing closed behind her. She stood still and took in the scene. Her dress, a dusky blue, was snug only at the hips and breasts. I'd noticed her right away because of that dress. It had an elegance to it that was out of place.
"Uh-oh," Jack said, as he put my Rum and Coke in front of me.
"Uh-oh what?"
He glanced up at her in her dress and back at me. "Maggie's out for the night."
"What's that mean?" I picked up my drink without looking away from her. She surveyed the room, her eyes passing over me with just the slightest pause, and she took a seat at the end of the bar.
"Means she's got the Garrity girl babysitting her kids," Jack said, wiping absently at the bar with his towel. "And she ain't planning on going home tonight."
"No, huh?"
"No," Jack said.
Fifteen minutes later, I bought her a drink. Half an hour later, we were sitting hip to hip in a corner booth, laughing and sharing secrets like childhood sweethearts. That's when I found out about her two kids and how her husband died four years ago, cutting timber up near the Canadian border.
"At least he got out of town," she said with a shrug. Then she asked me, "What places have you been to?"
I told her about my sales route through Eastern Washington, Idaho and into Montana.