Dying for the Rose
Page 29
Bonnie, who couldn’t hear Ben, turned to him excitedly. “Oh my god. OH MY GOD! The lead singer just signaled me to go backstage. OH MY GOD!”
Without another word, Bonnie dashed away. Ben then looked up at the lead singer who was looking down at him. Ben gave him a look that said, ‘Dude, I was about to hit that.’
The 37-year-old Ben then left that memory and settled on another. This time, the 15-year-old Ben was sitting in the basement in a circle with a group of 15-year-old boys and girls. They were playing ‘Spin the Bottle.’
Jennifer, with the 18-year-old body and the can-do attitude, took hold of the bottle. “Ok, I’m gonna spend seven minutes in heaven with…”
All of the boys held their breath because they knew that anything that happened in that closet would allow their 15-year-old bodies credit. And that extra credit caused by Jennifer’s 15-to-18-year-old-body-to-physical-age-ratio would pay off in college when they would be able to skip all of the awkward fumbling and move right to the advanced classes.
Ben watched as the bottle slowed down and pointed towards him. His Clearasil caked face cracked a smile. The railway full of braces he showed said, ‘the train is in baby, and it’s time for you to get on board.’ At least that was what they were saying as he hit the ground.
From the floor Ben looked up at Michael. Michael was the boy that had bumped him out of the way so hard that Ben had to subtly untangle the love train out of the shag carpet. Apparently, Michael took his advanced classes very seriously.
“Michael,” Jennifer said with a smile and an eager exit toward the closet.
Free from his long-time nemesis, 80’s shag, Ben shot the excited Michael a look which said, “Dude! I was about to hit that.”
The 37-year-old Ben was then transported in thought to his preschool classroom. Ben handed the 4-year-old girl next to him a picture. The picture was a Picasso inspired rendition that he had drawn of the two of them.
The little girl looked at the picture and laughed. She was the vixen of Ben’s preschool class, and in full vixen mode she flipped her hair back and uttered the words that every 4-year-old boy yearned to hear.
“You’re a poopy head,” she said.
But before Ben got out what everyone around the sandbox said was the traditional mating response, he was thwarted.
“You’re a poopy head,” the boy on the other side of the girl announced, confirming her assessment.
The girl then turned to the boy and gave him the look that Ben had yearned to see. It was the look that either said, “You, big boy, are the one that I want to share my cookies with.” Or it said, “I need to be changed.” Whichever one it was, it rightfully belonged to Ben, and that preschool pamper-rider was a cuckold for stealing it.
But now, on the outside of this once glorious love triangle, Ben shot the boy a look. Then with the boy’s eyes locked with his, Ben pointed the boy’s gaze at the Barbie that Ben held in his other hand. And with his hand still tightly latched on Barbie’s hair, he then turned back to the boy and shot him a look. The look said, “Dude, I was about to hit that.”
“I can’t believe this. You cheated on me?” the 37-year-old Ben asked in a daze.
“No Ben. I would never do that,” Sherry replied defensively. “I like you too much for that. That’s why you have to go.”
“What? Right now?” Ben asked, stunned.
Sherry looked at her watch anxiously. “Yes Ben, right now.”
“Then, what was all this? The romantic lighting? All my favorite things?”
Sherry shrugged her shoulders and gave Ben a look that said, “What do you think it was?”
The realization hit Ben like a wet wick hitting water. “This was my last meal.”
“So dramatic you are. Ben, I could have done this in a restaurant, but then we would have to come home and it would be awkward. I respect you too much for that.
“So instead you break up with me in our home.”
Sherry sucked her teeth, reacting to Ben’s mistake. “Actually, it’s my home. I packed up your things and placed them in the closet.” Sherry put both of her hands over her mouth with the fortitude that would follow if he had suggested serving red wine with fish. In other words, she knew what she was doing was scandalous.
Ben slowly pulled himself away from the table. He couldn’t believe his ears. Moments earlier he was considering the possibility of one-day setting time aside to think about marrying this woman, and now he was walking toward a closet door that might hold all of his worldly possessions. He found the entire situation unfathomable. Yes, the situation was not to be fathomed.
He crossed the elegantly decorated apartment and opened the closet door. Sherry wasn’t kidding. She had placed everything that he owned into it.
In the front was Ben’s neon sign that read, “We have fresh Pi,” and in the back was the bean bag chair that he didn’t want to get rid of because it was the first thing he had bought as an adult. The chair was sacred to him because it represented his ability to let go of things. In this case, it represented his ability to let go of the things that he clung to in his youth.
“It helped that none of your stuff ever went with my apartment,” Sherry said in a dry tone.
“I don’t believe this,” Ben said, staring at everything he owned. But believe it or not, he wasn’t referring to the book of unbelievable things he got as a kid and wasn’t able to get rid of. No, it was the fact that his lady was trying to throw him out.
And before Ben could formulate his protest there was a knock on the door. Surprised, Ben looked back at Sherry who was anxiously looking down at her watch.
“Wait, is that him? You invited him here tonight?”
“Oh Ben, don’t make a scene,” Sherry begged, getting up from her place at the table.
“No, I’ve always just sat back and watched other guys take my girl,” Ben said, working himself into a fury. “That’s it. We are gonna talk this out and I’m telling this guy to go to hell.”
“No Ben, don’t,” Sherry protested in a half-hearted sort of way.
Ben noticed Sherry’s strange tone and shifted his head to judge her true feelings. Sherry simply stared back. Ben took a step toward the door and Sherry wrung her hands. Ben put his hand on the door knob and Sherry reached out her hand without saying another word.
‘She wants me to send him away,’ Ben thought. ‘She loves me and she wants me to fight for her.’
Ben swung open the door and was face to chest with the biggest, blackest man he ever did see. ‘Holy crap,’ Ben thought. ‘This man pooped bigger things than me.’
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. The person or people depicted on the cover are models and are in no way associated with the creation, content, or subject matter of this book.
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