by Rob Roberge
“I like it,” Sean says.
“I love it,” I say.
“Relieved?”
“Very much.”
She hugs me and rubs up against me a little.
“How you doing?’ she says.
“ Better before you started that,” I say.
She lets me go and we move on. There are a couple of other nice pieces. The lawnmower that Bone was working on the day he sprayed me with green paint is here. It’s upside down on the floor. Welded to its blade is a pipe that has a blender mounted about three feet above the lawnmower. Both the blender and the lawnmower blade have what looks like red cottage cheese all over them. The title is on a card on the wall. It reads: “Warning: Keep Hands And Feet Away From the Mechanism During Operation.” Mixed Medium. Artist: Bone.
I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Ben Thompson, how are you?” I turn and see Parcell.
“You came all the way down for this?”
He nods. “Joanna.”
“It’s Sean, really,” she says.
“I know,” he says. He looks at me. “So. What do you think of Bernard’s work?”
“Bernard?” I say. “Is that Bone?”
“I refuse to call my nephew that silly name and I don’t give a rat’s ass whether he had it changed or not.” He takes a puff of his cigar. A woman comes up and tells him there’s no smoking. He looks at her for a moment, then turns back to us. “He’s not bad, is he?”
“No. Pretty good,” I say. “Course I don’t know anything.”
Parcell winces. “Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
He points at me with his cigar. “Stop apologizing for your opinions. You’re smart, Ben Thompson. You have every right to judge things.”
The woman hasn’t left. “Sir. Please put that out or go outside. It’s the rules.”
He turns and looks at her. “Fuck off,” he says. She runs off like he’d threatened her. He winks at me. “They don’t know any more than you. Stop apologizing.”
“OK,” I say. “Bone’s work is good.”
“Better,” he says, and puts his hand around my shoulder. “I may buy some of his things.”
“Me too,” I say.
He laughs. “No, Ben Thompson. You can’t afford it.”
We’re looking at some painting—simple stick figures around a dinner table. Nice, in an odd child-like way. Furry Friend comes up behind the three of us, honking.
“What the fuck is that?” Parcell says.
“Hi, Furry Friend,” Sean says. It honks a couple of times and puts its hands out. “Do you want a hug?”
It nods and Sean hugs it. Furry Friend turns to me with its hands out. I look at Sean and, not knowing what else to do, I hug Furry Friend. It makes a couple of happy sounding honks and turns to Parcell with its hands out.
“Go away,” he says. He turns to us. “What the fuck is this?”
Sean tells him. Furry Friend nods and honks while Sean fills him in on the art.
“You’re stupid.” Parcell says to Furry Friend. It makes a sad honk. “Go away.”
Furry Friend holds its ground.
“I’m trying to appreciate people that work for a living,” Parcell says. Furry Friend shakes its head as if to say Parcell doesn’t get it. “You are a sad pathetic little person in a rat suit. Now go away.”
Furry Friend drops its head and shuffles slowly away. People next to us that saw the whole exchange walk up to hug the artist. They look at Parcell like he’s ruined the party. “You’re tools,” he says. He points at Furry Friend. “That is silly and a waste of space and you know it, but you’re all too polite to say a thing. If I had my way, she’d lose a finger.”
He looks back at me and smiles. “Never be afraid to offer an opinion, Ben Thompson. They may not like it, but people respect conviction.”
52
“Your boss is a sad man,” Sean says. She cuffs my hands behind the bedpost. “Afraid of what he doesn’t understand.”
“You understood Furry Friend?” I say.
“I did not,” she says. “I don’t even know if it was supposed to be understood. But I wasn’t afraid of it.” She unbuckles my pants and pulls them down. She looks at my crotch. I can feel the breeze—it’s cold where I used to have hair. “Very nice. Are you afraid of what you don’t understand?”
She ties my left leg down. “Probably,” I say.
She stands up. “Do you want to stop?”
“No.”
She ties my right leg down. “Try to move,” she says. I move a little, but not much. “Good,” she says and takes off her dress over her head. She’s naked except for her cowboy boots. She straddles my chest.
“Isn’t this fun?” she says.
“Yes.”
She smiles, gets off of me and walks to the table by the window. She takes a vibrator out of her purse and gets back on top of me.
“Did Bone do that?” I say.
“My clit piercing?” she says.
I nod.
“Say it,” she says.
“Did Bone do your clit piercing?”
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She leans down and kisses me. “You’re fun.”
“Did he?”
“No. He’s very professional—it’s not a comment on him. But I wanted a girl to do it. Someone who knew a little more about it.” She runs the vibrator over the silver barbell and it clanks against the metal. “Do you like it?” she says.
“I do. Very pretty.”
“It’s great with the vibrator,” she says and closes her eyes. “Just heavy enough to rattle against everything. Now be quiet and watch me.”
“I am watching you,” I say.
She puts a finger to my lips and masturbates on my chest. When she comes, her legs squeeze tightly against my ribs. She collapses on top of me and kisses me.
“I needed that,” she says. “Thank you.”
“No problem,” I say. “I didn’t do too much.”
“You did plenty,” she says. “Where are your keys?”
“In my pants. Why?”
Sean gets up and puts her dress back on. She grabs my keys.
“I’m going to get a drink,” she says. “I’ll be back.”
She leaves and I think it’s a joke until I hear her boots clumping down the stairs.
I’m there, on the bed, thinking she’s gone down to her car or something. After a couple of minutes, it hits me that I don’t know her that well, and she might not be coming back. We seem to have hit it off. but she could be nuts, or mean, and I could be here all night. I fight against the cuffs and they cut hard into my wrists. About ten minutes later, the phone rings.
“Ben Thompson is not in at the moment. Please state your business, time of call and phone number, and he’ll get back to you as soon as he can. If you’re calling about Sarasota Sun tickets, dial 1-800-SARASUN for the most exciting action on the coast.”
It beeps.
“You’re an odd man. Ben, to have someone else’s voice on your machine,” Sean says. When I hear her voice, I start to relax. This is still part of the game. “I’m down at Terry’s bar and I thought I’d see if you wanted to meet us.” She pauses. “But I guess you’re in for the night.” She must be calling from the bar phone, because I can make out voices that sound very close to her. I hear Bone’s laugh. Sean says, “It’s too bad you can’t make it, Ben. Everyone’s here.” The voices get a little farther away and quieter, so my guess is she’s moved a little away from them. “PleaSure. Ben Thompson,” she says, “is eternally deferred. See you soon.”
The phone machine whirls and clicks and the red light flashes every five seconds to let me know I’ve got a call.
My hands and feet start to go tingly numb. I’m tied pretty tight and I’ve got pains in muscles I didn’t know I had. My arms shake for a while and I fight it. I try to get into a comfortable position, but it’s no use. I give up, start to relax and go with the pain, instead of against it, and it starts to feel good.
It still hurts, but it’s got a nice burn to it.
For a few minutes, I picture Sean coming back and stripping naked. I play out her masturbating on my chest a few times. After a while, though, my mind drifts and I feel a little guilty. It seems like a violation—a minor cheating-—of this situation, in a way. Like I’m under some kind of obligation to think about sex. I hear footsteps on the stairs and think it’s her, but it’s not. It’s one of the players going to their room.
Then it hits me that I could get caught like this. I’ve been robbed twice in my life—what if someone walks in? What if there’s a fire? I watch the red light on my answering machine go on and off. Every once in a while, I have a muscle spasm in my arms or legs, and—after every one—it’s like someone gently stroked my cock. A weird sensation.
I hear the doorknob turn. She comes in, puts a finger to her lips, and gets on top of me. “Don’t say a word,” she says.
She goes down on me. It’s very slow and teasing. Every time I’m about to come, she stops. She moves up, sits high on my chest, her legs around my head.
“Lick me,” she says. “Make me come.”
And it’s fun and strange—she’s soft, wet, and warm, with these cold little metal balls clanking against my teeth, running hard as BB’s on my tongue. When she comes, she grabs my head and pulls me closer to her. She grinds against my face and lips and I hear the cartilage in my nose scrunch under the pressure.
She kisses me, slides down my body until she’s between my legs, and starts teasing me again.
This goes on for about an hour, and near the end, I’ve lost all control and it’s kind of scary—I see parts of me shaking and thrashing, but I couldn’t stop them if I wanted to. Finally, she lets me come. She unties me, and lies down next to me, smiling.
“You’re not mad?” she says.
“No,” I say. “Little sore.” The feeling starts to come back in my hands and feet. They tingle whenever I move. “Not mad.”
“I’ll let you get back at me next time,” she says. “You can tie me up and go away.”
“Next time?” I say.
“You’re fun.”
“So are you,” I say.
We stay together, kissing for a while, and I turn on the TV. We watch crap and make fun of it. The same infomercials as always are on.
“Can you find the hair-sucking one?” she says. “I love that.”
I click around. “I can try.”
She leans close, kisses me on the cheek. “Can I stay the night?”
“Of course.”
I can’t find the suck-hair machine one, so we settle for “American Gladiators.”
“Almost as good,” she says. “The boys are dull, though. They should just have the chick gladiators.”
“I’ve got a road trip starting tomorrow,” I say. “A week.”
“And?” she says.
“And I’ll miss you, is all. Can I call you?”
She kisses me. “You can and you should.” She writes down a number. She smiles. “Call me at home, though, OK?”
“Home. I’ve moved up in the world,” I say.
“You have,” she says.
53
Without Darnell, we’re just not that good a team. There’s no consistency to the games—if Money’s hitting, we can hang around and have a shot at the end; if he’s cold, we’re dead. Losing is miserable—you have control and you don’t. Still, we patch together two wins against four loses heading into Galveston—the last stop on the trip.
We took a bus out of Sarasota, and we’re supposed to fly back out of Galveston tonight after the game. I feel like I swallowed bowling balls—it’s impossible to eat right on the road. Greasy this and fried that, and everything’s cooked in lard. Most of the players eat meat—me and Hedda are the only vegetarians—so they don’t have too much trouble. Hedda and me, though, we go through the yellow pages in every ratshit town, calling restaurants.
“Are your beans fried in lard?” we say.
“Lard?” They say like it’s a foreign words. “I don’t know.”
There is a pause—every town this happens. “Could you check?”
And they do, and it’s always fried in lard. We eat eggs and salads in every town. I think it’s bad for the psyche, that same meal day after day. I call Sean and The Chicken Man from every stop. Sean tells me Bone sold two pieces from the show. He’s filling the pool with water and doing all kinds of work at The Palms. She says I’ll be amazed. I try to steer the conversation around to us, try to get a gauge on how she feels about me, but I can’t. She just gives me news—nothing personal and I know I’ll spend the rest of the trip wondering if I did something wrong.
I call Parcell from a rest stop and he tells me he has big news and that I have to come see him when we hit town.
“What is it?” I say.
“Not news for the phone, Ben Thompson. I need to see you.” Cars hiss by on route 10. “I can’t hear you, Ben Thompson. Where are you?
“Outside Lake Charles,” I say. “On the road.”
“Lake Charles? Beautiful town. Too bad you can’t stay a while. I own birds there.”
I smash the receiver to my ear, not sure if I’m hearing him right. “Birds? You mean chickens?”
“Birds, Ben Thompson. Chickens aren’t birds, they’re poultry. Birds, exotic birds. Colorful, talkative things. Importing business,” he says. “You want a bird?”
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“I can get you a fine bird,” he says. “To celebrate the news. You could work for me for five years and still not be able to afford one of these birds. Think about it.”
“I’m not a bird guy,” I say. “What’s the big news?”
“When you get here, Ben Thompson. Come see me.”
54
At Galveston, the crowd’s small again. We’re shooting warm-ups on our end of the floor. Darnell sits next to me on the bench. He’s out at least one more week.
Jammin’ Ranger, the Galveston mascot tries to work the meager crowd into a frenzy about a half hour before the game. He’s dressed in a sort of Village People meets The Dine Ranger costume—it’s an old Texas Ranger outfit, but his pants are neon blue, and his mask is sort of a glittery red, the color of Dorothy’s shoes in The Wizard of Oz. His hat is that blinding white that fluorescent lights make when you have a hangover—so bright you feel it sting and jackhammer at the back of your eyeballs. The P.A. announcer introduces him, and Jammin’ Ranger runs out on the court with his guns firing blanks. Bang, bang, bang. He grabs a ball and runs, hits this mini-trampoline out by the foul line, and slams a monster dunk down.
“Sign him up,” Darnell says. “Cowboy’s got some moves.”
“He’s no good without his trampoline,” I say. “Can’t use him.”
Jammin’ Ranger moves the trampoline back to the top of the key. It’s kind of pathetic—what little crowd there is couldn’t care less. It’s so quiet, I can hear bits of conversations behind us. He begins his run on our side of the court. Some of our team turn to watch. He runs up and hits the tramp at full speed. His jump looks wrong from the start—he’s flying off right a bit; his legs are out from under him—and he hits the backboard with the side of his body and crumples to the floor like he’s been shot. His hat goes flying in a white blur. When he hits the floor, it sounds like a big fish thwacked on a boat deck—a hard, wet, painful sound.
“Fuck,” Darnell says.
He and I get up and run over to the ranger. His arm’s broken, and splintered bone has ripped through the skin of his forearm. He rolls around for a second or two making these painful grunts. He looks at his arm and throws up—some of it hits my pants and shoes. His eyes dance and roll a little and he passes out.
“Doctor,” Darnell yells. “We need a fucking doctor here.”
The team comes down.
I bend down toward the ranger.
“Don’t move him, coach,” Hedda says.
Darnell must have gone into the locker room b
ecause Galveston’s coach, Billy Coleman, comes out.
“What happened?” he says.
I tell him.
He shakes his head. “What a night.”
We wait a few minutes. The paramedics come and take the ranger away. I go and pick up his hat and give it to one of them.
“What’s this?” she says.
“His hat,” I say.
She takes it from me, gives me this funny look that says my priorities are out of order, and leaves with the rest of them.
Billy Coleman puts his arm around my shoulder. “We have to talk.”
“What’s up?”
He takes me over to the side of the bleachers. “I was coming out to tell you before all this,” he says and points to the spot where the mascot went down. “We’re done, Ben. Team’s gone.”
“What?”
He looks tired. “We haven’t been paid in two weeks-—me or the team. I get a call from Tom Davis—majority owner—today. We’ve folded.”
“Shit,” I say.
“They closed up shop.”
“I don’t get it,” I say. “They can do that?”
He holds his hands out, tilts his head to one side. “They can do anything they want.” He shakes his head. “Idiots thought they’d make money.” He laughs a quiet, tired laugh. “In The Gulf Coast League.”
“I’m sorry, Billy.” I look at him, hear the bounce of the ball on the floor. “Where’s your team?”
“Gone.” he says. “They talked some shit about a class-action suit. But, they’re back at our hotel. Probably calling their agents.”
“What are you going to do?”
He shakes his head. “No fucking idea. Work for someone who pays me, I hope. Like to stay in the game. Maybe go back to scouting. Maybe try to coach in Europe.” He looks at the floor and back at me. “No idea.”
“This sucks,” I say.
“Breaks of the game, right?” He slaps me on the shoulder and walks away.
I go out to the court and tell the team the news. As I’m telling them, it comes over the P.A. that the game is canceled and The Galveston Rangers are no more. They announce that refunds are available at the ticket office. In a minute or two, it’s just us in the gym. Some of the players head toward the locker room.