Maternity Leave

by Trish Felice Cohen

  Replay. It was not a dream. The message played the second time exactly as it had the first. Time to panic.

  “What’s wrong?” Alyssa asked.

  “Nothing, just a message from that psychotic guy I dated that I told you about.”

  “Which one? There seems to be so many.”

  “Quinton slash Tony,” I answered.

  “What did he want?”

  “To come out and spend time with me. God, I hope he gets arrested again soon.”

  The cab, a white Oldsmobile, arrived. The driver was a lanky man with a ratty ponytail. From the backseat, I could tell that his ponytail was actually meticulously placed to cover his bald spot.

  “Where do you want to go?” he asked.

  “Eighth Avenue and Drew Street,” I replied.

  “What’s the place called?”

  I hesitated then said, “Papi Cock.”

  “You know,” the cabbie said with a new expression, one that I recognized from many horrible dates. “I’m not really a cab driver. I’m actually head switchboard operator for the cab company. Not only does it pay more, but it has a lot of perks. Cab drivers tip me to send them to good calls and the Russian mob pays me to send certain drivers to certain locations.”

  Clearly, he was thinking threesome. You couldn’t really blame him. It was probably not often that he picked up two attractive girls to go to a porn shop at 9:30 p.m. on a Tuesday. He must have thought we were a wild couple of kids. I cringed at the thought of the cabbie’s sexual fantasies, but remained polite. My mom raised me to be ridiculously friendly to people with crappy jobs so they don’t think I’m above them. So, I gave the guy a pass for trying to impress me with unimpressive lies and just said, “Can you put up the window? I’m cold.”

  “Don’t be silly, it’s delightful out, you can have my jacket.”

  Obviously the driver hadn’t noticed me opening the cab door with my foot, closing it with my elbow and covering my hands with my sleeves so as to not touch anything in the car. “That’s okay,” I said, as he threw a jacket at me. The jacket was black with a deteriorating white lining and smelled like bologna. I wiggled in my seat to get it off me without touching it. Alyssa laughed.

  “So, do you have any children?” the cabbie asked us.

  “No,” we replied in unison.

  “I do. Three in fact. They were just the most beautiful three kids ever made.”

  “That’s nice,” I said, trying to abort the conversation.

  “All three died at childbirth, so I never got to be a dad. I’ve always wanted to be a dad,” he said to me with a hopeful look.

  I hadn’t wanted to engage, but now I had to talk to the poor guy. “I’m sorry. How did they die?”

  “Something called SIDS. You ever heard of it?”

  “Yes I have. Three cases of SIDS is pretty suspicious. Did they do autopsies?”

  “Why would they, we already knew they died of SIDS.”

  “Right,” I said. Hard to argue with that logic. Alyssa and I avoided looking at each other so we wouldn’t laugh. We arrived and told the cabbie, “Wait right here, we’ll be right out.”

  I grabbed the first dildo I saw and walked over to the checkout. I thought of browsing with Alyssa, but we’d only shared one kiss and so I didn’t want to be presumptuous. Besides, the meter was still running. Alyssa was walking around and I peered out of the corner of my eye to make sure she wasn’t looking at whips. She was looking at restraints. Try as I may, when I see restraints I think of John, Julie and my mom. A year ago, my mom was in John and Julie’s bedroom trying to leash up their dogs but couldn’t figure out how to hook the dogs to the black leather leash attached to the bed posts. Awkwardness ensued.

  After the clerk rung me up, I walked over to Alyssa and said, “You ready?”

  “Sure.”

  I wasn’t sure if Alyssa thought this was a sexual mission and I didn’t want her to think I wasn’t down with that, so I said, “We can shop around some other time if you want. Sorry, meter’s running.”

  Alyssa either didn’t know what I was talking about, or pretended not to, because she did not respond or react to this comment in any way. I followed her out the door, feeling a little embarrassed for having said anything at all about the sex shop.

  As we got back in the cab, a strong cologne odor wafted toward us. Clearly the cabbie was going to start giving us his A game.

  “Where do you want to go now?” he asked.

  “Back to the house where you picked us up,” Alyssa replied.

  “I know a great bar with a live guitarist we could go to instead,” he offered opportunistically.

  I thought about hopping out of the car and running, but I didn’t want to tire myself out for tomorrow’s race. Plus it wouldn’t be very impressive to leave Alyssa in the car with this guy. “We’re good,” I said. “Let’s just go back to the house on Jasmine Street.”

  “Sure thing,” said the cabbie disappointedly. “I have to get up early anyway. I have a project I’m working on with the government. Have to be down in San Francisco tomorrow to meet with some federal agents. This cab job is just my cover.”

  “Is head switchboard operator part of your cover too?” I asked without a hint of sarcasm.

  The cabbie obviously didn’t recall his previous lie. “What are you talking about?”

  Before I could respond, he said “Hang on,” and he answered his cell phone. The conversation ate up a good minute and a half of drive time before he hung up and said, “My daughter. She only calls me for money.”

  “The one with SIDS?” I asked dryly.

  “She had it, but she got better,” the cabbie replied.

  “Good for her,” I said, hopping out of the car the second we pulled up in front of the house. The ride cost twenty-two dollars. I gave him a twenty and a ten and asked for three dollars back. “I don’t have any change,” he said. “But I’ll drive you up to the store to get it free of charge.”

  There was no way I was getting back in that cab, so I said, “Just keep it,” and we walked away, mission accomplished.

  The next day, the dildo brought brief comic relief to the team. Unfortunately, Sonny wasn’t interested in this dildo. Instead, he barked throughout the entire stage again. This wasn’t just annoying, it made my emergency dildo purchase look a bit ridiculous. I was sure my teammates now thought of me as a sick fuck for trying to force sex toys on my unwilling dog.

  I placed fourth in the stage and entered the first rest day in sixth place overall. Going into this race, I thought I was capable of placing in the top twenty. My new goal was a top ten, or even top five overall.

  I called Julie after the stage and begged her to search my backyard for her former dildo.

  “I think he buried it,” she said.

  “I’m not asking you to dig up the backyard, but if you could look around, I would appreciate it.”

  “Why don’t you just buy him a new one?”

  “Tried that. He’s pretty monogamous with the one you gave him.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she said.

  A rest day in cycling is a bit of a misnomer because it is merely a rest from racing. Taking a day off the bike is unheard of because it causes the legs to stiffen up. Riders generally spin for two to three hours on each of the two rest days. Team Sunshine Cycling met for coffee at ten in the morning then went for a thirty mile ride. After the ride, we sat around the Jensens’, our host family for two full evenings in a row, and ignored each other while we each typed on our laptops.

  I was sitting next to Alyssa and sent her an Evite card entitled “Girls Night Out.” I filled in, “a sit-down restaurant” for the place and “in two hours” for the time.

  She responded immediately, “YES, very funny. Where do you want to go?”

  I typed, “I don’t even know how to get out of this neighborhood.” then added, “We’ll find something.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I spent the hours in between the rid
e and my date stressing about Quinton. I couldn’t tell Sarah to take care of it because then Sarah would know I was racing instead of in the nut house. Ignoring Quinton wasn’t an option either because he was such a loose cannon that anything could happen, the least of which would be my office finding out about my fake pregnancy. I finally decided that I had to call him back and attempt to control him.

  “Hi, Quinton, it’s Jenna.”

  “Hey, Jenna. That’s awesome that you’re out there racing. I can’t wait to come and see you.”

  “About that. It would really make me nervous if you came out. Can I just see you when I get back to Tampa?”

  “I already got a week off work,” he whined, “and okayed the trip with my probation officer.”

  “Well, maybe you could go somewhere else,” I offered helpfully.

  “No way. I want to see you and help you in any way I can. Don’t worry, I won’t make you nervous. You won’t even know I’m there.”

  “I’m sure you’ll blend in fabulously, but I’m doing better than I ever imagined and I think it’s because I’m so focused. I really don’t want any distractions.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Hey, Quinton, what did your mom tell you about my absence?”

  “I forget. Something about visiting Betty Ford’s house. She said I should go there too, but I’m more of a Saab guy myself.”

  “I think its Gerald Ford’s wife, not Henry Ford.” The guy was hopeless.

  “Hey, I gotta go. I’m at Tiny Tap and there’s a competition about to start. Whoever can remove twist-off beer caps with the most body parts wins. I can do hand, butt, forearm, forehead, toes, underarm pit, neck, calf and probably other stuff. I gotta go win me a beer. Love you, babe.”

  I hung up without saying goodbye, trying to fathom how our relationship had elevated to the love and pet name stage after only two lousy dates.

  * * *

  Alyssa and I found a reasonably-priced Italian restaurant and decided to go there and carb-up. Instead of discussing cars and jobs, we gossiped and talked about cycling. She also told me that if I was gay, I had to have a root. It was the best date I’d ever been on.

  “What’s a root?” I asked.

  “From the movie But I’m a Cheerleader. You need a list of gay books and movies before you date anyone else. You should know what a root is.”

  I looked at her like she was crazy when she mentioned dating other people. I’d finally met “the one.”

  After dinner, we got back in the car, and instead of driving off, I kissed Alyssa. It wasn’t the ideal location, but we couldn’t exactly hook up on the Jensens’ couch in front of Team Sunshine Cycling. Over the past week, all I’d thought about was kissing and touching Alyssa. I felt like it was now or never so when she accepted my kiss, I stopped holding back. After kissing her, running my fingers through her hair and moving my hand up and down her breasts and stomach, I moved to the back of the car. I felt a little hypocritical since I had just made fun of Sarah for having teenage car sex a few months ago, but these were extenuating circumstances and I could not wait any longer. We only had a week and a half left until the end of the race. I’d go back to Florida and Alyssa would go back to Georgia.

  Alyssa followed me to the back of the car and we continued. I barely noticed the discomfort of the car, as I was busy enjoying the new experience and marveling that I liked the exact opposite of what I always thought I liked: Alyssa had white skin with freckles instead of a tan; a soft but flat stomach instead of a six-pack; her breasts were fuller than mine and felt different and lovely on top of me instead of a hard chest; her face was full and soft instead of having a prominent jaw-line. I couldn’t open her bra, even after I focused, because the clasp is reversed when it’s on a person you’re facing instead of on your own back. Eventually I just moved it up out of the way. This bit of awkwardness was topped only when Alyssa tried to reposition herself and fell off the car seat onto the floor of my car. My car had a large space where I removed one of my rear seats to make room for my cycling crap. Alyssa landed hard on the base of my bike pump, which caused it to flip upright and hit her in the face. But she laughed and the moment didn’t make us skip a beat.

  I felt like a teenager because I had no idea what I was doing. I told Alyssa I was better at blow jobs and she told me to shut up. I took her advice and didn’t say anything else the entire evening. At first it was an effort. I was so turned on and nervous, I had to stop myself from making stupid jokes. Fortunately, I became speechless as I became more and more aroused. Until Alyssa pulled my pants down, I feared I would come in my pants from the very little bit of pressure my jeans put on my clit. I avoided that, only to climax when I straddled Alyssa, her stomach touching me as she sucked my nipples was too much. I was embarrassed by how quickly I came, but Alyssa didn’t seem to mind. I began concentrating on getting Alyssa off and came again while going down on her. Thank God I wasn’t a guy. I’d have to work on my stamina.

  When we got back to the Jensens’, everyone was asleep. We tiptoed in and went our separate ways.

  The next day, I told Danny that I was officially gay.

  “So you’re cool with never seeing a cock again?” he said as only Danny can.

  “Yes siree,” I answered. “If I could whistle, I’d be whistling now.”

  “Really? You can’t whistle?” Danny asked, not engaging in the other discussion even though it was obvious from his face that it was where his focus was.

  “Yes. Don’t know how.” I said, perfectly content to end the discussion there.

  A few minutes passed, then Danny decided not to let it go and said, “You’ve been dating guys your whole life. You don’t think you’ll miss it?”

  “I was hoping to fuck Alyssa and think, phew, I’m straight. That didn’t happen.”

  “You don’t think you’re at least bi?” he asked as neutrally as he could, though it was obvious he had a vested interest in my response.

  “I may be too into Alyssa to make that decision objectively right now, but I’m pretty sure. I hope I’m gay.”

  “I thought you just said you would have been relieved if you hated sex with a girl.”

  “Yeah, it would be easier to be straight than gay and not have to tell everyone I’ve known since birth that, oopsy daisy, I like pussy. But, I’d rather be gay than bi. Bisexual has such an ‘I fuck-anything’ connotation.”

  Danny scoffed and said, “Your dating criteria is so strict you should open up the field to both sexes, and animals. You’d have more success.”

  “Well hopefully this works out. I’m sick of dating and I think I really like Alyssa. Plus this would be such a convenient relationship. We could drive to races together and hang out.”

  “She lives in Georgia,” Danny said.

  “Maybe I’ll move there.”

  “This would be a good time to tell you the oldest lesbian joke in the book,” Danny said.

  “What’s that?”

  “What does a lesbian bring to a second date?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “A U-Haul.”

  “Ha ha,” I said dryly, a little annoyed that Danny was being such a dick. “It’s good training up there, it wouldn’t just be for Alyssa.”

  “How do you feel about taking the Georgia bar?”

  My stomach heaved. “Fine, maybe I won’t move there, but I’ll still see her often enough. We both go to pro races nine months of the year.”

  “No you don’t. You race during your three week vacation time. Except when you have maternity leave.”

  “Well, I want to start racing full time. I’ll figure something out.”

  “I’m sure you will,” he said. Danny had always admired my ability to get whatever I wanted, but this time he sounded bitter.

  Chapter Sixteen

  On Stages 11, 12 and 13, we continued north on some of the steepest roads I’d ever encountered. By design, Route 101 along the coast never had an incline of more than eleven percent because th
e road had to be accessible to logging trucks. As you ride it, you can still see the forest being carted away on large trucks. Unlike Route 101, the mountains around wine country have grades of up to twenty-four percent, which is essentially a wall. Though I failed to win a stage, I placed in the top five consistently during these stages, as well as the stage that took us through Redwood National Park. Throughout it all, Sonny sat ten feet behind me in the car, howling incessantly. Erica had nixed the muzzle, deciding she preferred noise to bloodstains. While she was clearly annoyed with him, she listened to him without complaint because I was now in fourth place, inching nearer to the podium every day.

  During these stages, I hung out with Alyssa a lot. When I wasn’t with Alyssa, I was analyzing every homo and hetero thought I’d had since birth. What was my “root”? When I was a kid, kindergarten age, I begged my mom for a pixie haircut. She finally relented and when I went to camp shortly thereafter, everyone called me a boy and was mean to me. I didn’t tell my parents about it, or that I cried every night, but I started trying to act girly after that experience. I never had short hair again. Wow, that’s a sad story.

  I remembered telling my parents that boys were gross and I’d never like them. As I grew up, my parents’ friends would ask me in that tone of voice adults use to tease children and think it’s funny, “Do you have a boyfriend yet?” Right up until fifth grade I said, “No. Boys are gross.” That was around the time my parents seemed concerned instead of amused. I could sense they thought I was abnormal, so the next day I got myself my first boyfriend. A boyfriend didn’t actually mean anything in fifth grade except proving normalcy, as all we really did was hold hands. In middle school, I realized that everyone else was French kissing, so I had my first French kiss even though I wasn’t overwhelmed with desire to kiss my sixth grade boyfriend of the week. In high school, it was not a challenge for me to be a tease and stay a virgin. However, in college I felt odd being a virgin so I lost my virginity. I didn’t have a root that made me gay, I had a lot of anti-roots that kept me straight. Though I was the happiest I’d ever been, racing and hanging out with Alyssa, I spent a lot of my days focusing on how stupid I was that it took me twenty-eight years to figure out the reason I’d never had a successful relationship with a guy.