PALINDROME

by Lawrence Kelter

  Delfina responded with a smile as she walked out the door to welcome Bolan’s visitor. She was outside his office and beyond his gaze when she took a brief pause—she would not greet Emilio’s guest with a melancholy expression. Her admiration for Bolan was more than professional. God I’m so jealous, she thought. I hope he didn’t notice. She took a deep breath, put on a smile, and went out to the reception area to greet Bolan’s visitor and make her feel welcome.

  Seventeen: Dinner Date

  I don’t know what made me do it, but I became Allie once again so that I could pursue a relationship I should have let die. I don’t know why I couldn’t let it go.

  Oh hell, I knew why. Bolan was absolutely gorgeous, and chivalrous, and everything I had ever wanted in a man. Perhaps it was the yellow roses that had pushed me over the edge, doing what I knew not to do, doing what I knew would infuriate Ax. Perhaps it was the somber day I had spent with Gabi, or the syringe in the head, or the off-putting hazel eye, or the 50K in the bank, or perhaps it was none of the above. Perhaps it was just me being me, Lexa the flake, doing what no one else would do, assuming another girl’s identity and living my life as Allie instead of living life as myself.

  Bolan’s office was in Manhattan and was located in an impressive building on 63rd off Lexington, where you had to be photographed and registered before you were allowed past the lobby attendant to the elevators. He was a partner in a large law firm. The firm name, Bolan and Mendes, was stenciled on the glass entranceway doors. His secretary told me that Bolan only saw clients by appointment, but I knew he would see me. I felt that we had made a connection in Gelfman’s office, the connecting of Allie’s hazel eyes and his extraordinary eyes of turquoise. They say the eyes are the mirrors of the soul, and if this is so, Emilio Bolan possessed the most beautiful soul of anyone on earth. I saw a lot in his eyes and was mesmerized by their unique beauty.

  The meeting in his office was brief, but not so brief that he did not ask me to dinner, and so there we were, scant hours later.

  The Blue Water Grill was located in Union Square. It was charming and cosmopolitan all at the same time, but more than this, it was alive with the richness and the culture of New York City. The patrons seemed to be bright and interesting people. It made me feel special to be with them and to be with Emilio.

  Emilio made reservations on the lower level where a jazz trio played while we dined. It was so much more than I had ever known before. Mine had been a life that had taken me from home to home and town to town over the course of my young years. It was a life in which I had portrayed many people, but too rarely had I enjoyed life as myself. As I listened to the music, I wondered if this could be me. Could I be Allie for the rest of my life? As I stared into Emilio’s dazzling eyes I thought, yes, maybe I could be Allie if being Allie meant that I could be with him.

  “You seem to enjoy jazz,” Emilio said. “So bringing you here was a good choice?”

  He looked at me with such warmth. It was as if he derived pleasure from my happiness. “I don’t know much about jazz, but I’m enjoying the music.”

  “So I did well?”

  “Yes, Emilio, you did very well.”

  “This is Benny Goodman’s music from the Big Band Era. This piece is called ‘Topsy,’ and this trio is doing a beautiful job of reducing it to its purest and most essential components. I love it!” Emilio smiled and drank a small sip of his wine, savoring the pinot noir’s rich flavor.

  “I’m glad you invited me to dinner.”

  “I’m glad you accepted.” He put his hand on mine, just for a second, and then he withdrew it. “I think you knew when you received my flowers that the ball was in your court.”

  “I’m not accustomed to dating such a gentleman. Younger men are—”

  “No need to explain, Allie. I was once a young man too.” Emilio put down his wine. This time he took my hand and held it. “My client, whose name we no longer need to mention, his acts were so . . . I was offended. As his legal representative, I was bound to proceed in his best interest, but when I met you and saw how lovely you were . . . It made me feel dirty. I have been an attorney for many years, but to be truthful, I never represented anyone on a matter of sexual assault.” Emilio shrugged. He patted my hand and then withdrew again. “I have to thank you again for giving me this opportunity to apologize.”

  “You’re not like any attorney I’ve ever met.”

  “Really, how many attorneys do you know?”

  “Just you and Mr. Gelfman.”

  “And you still view attorneys in a bad light?”

  “You know what people say about lawyers. You and Mr. Gelfman have been very nice to me.”

  I heard a commotion at a nearby table—some guy was arguing with his date. He stood up and threw his napkin down on the table. “Bitch!” he said before dropping some bills down on the table. As he turned to leave, I saw that he was well known, a rapper who called himself Grand Master Whammy.

  “Such an idiot,” Emilio said.

  “He’s famous.”

  “He is? Who is he?”

  “A rapper named Grand Master Whammy.”

  “These entertainers have such big egos. They think they are invincible.”

  “Sure, but it doesn’t hurt to temper all that invincibility with a little humility.”

  “These people don’t understand humility, Allie. When I was growing up in Madrid, my father had tremendous influence over me. He taught me respect and honor. You cannot blame people who grew up parentless when they act out. They buy cars and homes and jewelry to excess as a statement of their accomplishments. They boast to overcome their lack of self-esteem. But I agree, the high and mighty attitude is unappealing.”

  The band finished the song it was playing and went on break. As they walked off, our appetizers arrived. “This looks delicious,” Emilio said.

  The wine was in my head. It was delicious and intoxicating, as was the company. It was one of the most enjoyable experiences I had ever had.

  Emilio smiled. “I talk too much. Enjoy your food.”

  I had ordered sushi to start with, not your garden-variety California roll but a spicy tuna concoction called a monster roll. It was savory and spicy all at the same time. The tuna was so fresh that it melted in my mouth. Emilio ate his grilled octopus and looked up at me between bites, smiling his charming smile. I wasn’t sure if he was just being a good host or if he felt what I felt. I licked the salty soy sauce off my lips and ached to feel the warmth of his lips on mine.

  In all the episodes I had lived out, portraying others, I had never gone this far. It had always been a hit and run; use someone’s identity for a quick rush or as means to an end. It was usually done to extricate one of us from a sticky situation. Believe me, though, I’ve fantasized about it. I mean it’s the stuff a young woman’s dreams are made of. Who hasn’t thought of being someone else and having that lusty romance you’ve only read about in a tawdry novel? I usually had more self control, but now I wanted him, and I didn’t know how long I could keep the charade going.

  How long would it be before he discovered that I was not who I was pretending to be? Monster roll: was that what I was eating or who I was, a combination of physical characteristics that resulted in something that was not supposed to be? I was not Allie. I only looked like her. The Allie he knew was not real. The facts of her life had been manufactured to suit my needs. My performance was only convincing enough to bully my way through a legal proceeding and collect a large monetary reward. I should have been smart enough to finish dinner, thank Emilio for his kindness, and make Allie disappear forever, but as I sat at the table with this handsome and charming man, eating delectable food and making social conversation, I knew I was about to throw caution to the wind and dive in head first.

  “How is your food?” he asked, gallant to a fault. “I see that sushi is very popular, even in continental restaurants, but I haven’t acquired the taste.”

  “Amazing,” I replied. I wiped my mouth an
d stood up.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything is perfect,” I replied. I put my hand on his shoulder and looked into his magnificent, turquoise eyes. There was no turning back. I hesitated for a moment, and then I kissed him.

  Eighteen: I Need More

  Shawn Riley was still in pain. His back was still in spasm. His supply of heroin was exhausted. It left him no choice but to crush the oxy and snort it to mask the craving he had for heroin. Within a day he was dissolving it and injecting it into his veins. He stuffed a syringe with cotton to make sure the large particles of OxyContin would be filtered out of the solution. He had known a junkie that injected oxy “rush-rush” and had died as a result of a collapsed blood vessel. Riley may have been an addict, but he was not in a hurry to die. He was kidding himself, of course, as almost all junkies do, that his addiction was only temporary and that he would get off the stuff as soon as his willpower was a little stronger. One day the stars would align in the proper order and he would get clean, but for now, the rush he got from a syringe of heroin was like the contraction from an orgasm and filled his brain with endorphins in exactly the same way.

  Dr. Samuel Rosen’s waiting room was filled with an incredible assortment of the infirm: patients of all ages, with their crutches, walkers, and wheelchairs. They were all there for the same reason, not to get better but to get well, not to get healthy but to be healed. Pain management was the name of the game.

  Riley looked around the waiting room at the eclectic assortment of suffering patients and wondered who was really sick and who, like he, just needed a prescription for pain meds. There was a familiar face in the corner of the room, someone he knew from his days of college soccer. Heroin clouds the mind and eats the memory. Riley was pulling at straws trying to remember his ex-teammate’s name. Whoever it was, he had his earbuds in and was listing to music. Riley was still pondering the connection when someone called his name.

  “Shawn?”

  Riley looked up. The face that hovered above him transcended the heroin veil. The name was on his tongue immediately. He remembered his ex-teammate’s name at the same time. “Coach Schroeder?” He stood up, doing his best to hide the fact that he was in extreme pain.

  “Shawn, it’s been ages. How have you been, son?”

  “Coach, how are you?” He turned to the other side of the waiting room and pointed. “Is that Matt? I thought he looked familiar. What are you doing here?”

  Schroeder looked unhappy. “Someone landed on Matt’s calf during a scrimmage; the kid can barely walk.”

  “Oh, sorry, what do they do about that?”

  “Muscle relaxers and physical therapy. It’s a pain-in-the-ass injury. It takes weeks to go away. What happened to your back? You look like you’re tied up in knots.”

  “Yeah, I hurt myself at work.”

  “What are you doing these days?”

  “Construction. I hurt myself digging.”

  “Digging? Don’t they have machines for that?”

  “Can’t use machines for everything.” Riley shrugged. “How’s the team look?”

  “The team looks really good. I’ve got them out practicing during the off-season. I’m looking for a division championship this year.” Schroeder scratched his head. “Are you playing any soccer?”

  Riley looked down at the carpet and shook his head. “No . . . no soccer. I don’t have the energy after I finish with work.”

  Schroeder looked around to see if any of the other patients were interested in his conversation with Riley. “I’m sorry we had to cut you from the team, son.”

  “Ah, it’s all right.”

  “So things are okay with you? I’m glad. They kicked a lot of kids off the team for steroid abuse that year. I think it was one of those statewide things. You’re off that stuff, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, I’m off that junk. My boss told me I should get an X-ray. They say I could’ve blown out a disc.”

  “Christ, I hope not.”

  A door creaked behind them. The physician’s assistant called out, “Shawn Riley?”

  “That’s me,” Riley said. “Good seeing you again, Coach. Say hello to Matt for me.”

  “Absolutely, take care of yourself, son. Don’t give up on soccer; it’s a great sport.”

  “Will do, Coach. Thanks.”

  Riley turned and hobbled slowly toward the doctor’s office. He caught Matt’s eye as he walked past and gave him a thumbs-up before he disappeared through the doorway.

  “Remember him?” Schroeder said to his son Matt. “He used to be on the squad.”

  Matt pulled out his earbuds. “Shawn Riley. Yeah sure, I remember him.”

  “Messed up his back at work. Poor kid’s doing physical labor. I guess things haven’t been great for him since he got kicked off the team. Lost his scholarship; what a mess.”

  “Physical labor, is that what he told you?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “He’s full of bull. He’s a junkie. He doesn’t work at anything except scoring dope.”

  “Jesus, you’re kidding. Do his parents know?”

  Matt gave his father an expression of disbelief. “Did you ever meet his parents?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither. Never once heard him talk about his family. I think he’s on his own.”

  Schroeder shook his head woefully. “Man, that’s really sad.”

  ~~~

  Dr. Rosen’s assistant weighed Shawn, gave him a paper dressing gown, and left him to change in the examination room. She said that the doctor would only be a few minutes. Riley looked around the room, which was painted a drab color. He checked the counter to see if there were any choice supplies he could pocket. There was an assortment of items, cotton swabs and alcohol swipes. He made a mental note to check the cabinet after the examination to see if he could score a handful of syringes. He looked at the wall clock. He had been waiting less than ten minutes when Dr. Rosen walked in. Rosen was a tall man with curly hair and a short, bobbed nose. He was dressed in a white physician’s coat, topsiders, and chinos. He had a reflex mallet in his pocket and a patient’s chart in his hand.

  “Hi, Shawn,” he said reading his name off the chart. “I’m Dr. Rosen.”

  “Hi, Doc.”

  “So what’s bothering you, Shawn?” Rosen pulled up a stool and sat down. He continued to glance at the chart as he spoke. “Oh, I see you were referred by Keith Cooper,” he said. Mock revelation was unmistakable in the tone of his voice. “Chronic back pain?”

  “Yeah, my back’s a mess.”

  He pulled out a prescription pad. “Fill your prescription at the pharmacy in the basement and nowhere else, understand?”

  “Okay, but my back really hurts.”

  “Of course it does,” Rosen said facetiously. “I’ll take an X-ray. I can only give you one refill at a time. Oxycodone is a controlled substance.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m here for the prescription, but I really need you to take a look at my back. I blew it out.”

  Rosen looked surprised. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.”

  “Okay,” Rosen said, “let’s have a look.”

  Nineteen: Sore Feet

  It was our second night together, not together-together, not together as in together in physical union, just together as in spending time with each other. I had taken a room at the Royalton New York on 44th Street. It was five hundred a night, but I didn’t care. I still had forty-nine thousand and change in the bank to back it up, and the BMW I’ve been dreaming about was still waiting unsold on the dealer’s parking lot. I had never spent that much on a room before. Ax and I were accustomed to staying at Motel 6 and had become proficient at duping the clerks. While on the road, we made it a practice to check in as a single to save money. I mean you couldn’t tell us apart anyway, and the bump up on room rate for double occupancy never made sense.

  The Royalton was a fashionable hotel. The room wasn’t large, but it was nicely appoin
ted. The hotel guests were cool, trendy people and were dressed in the newest styles. They were all manicured to perfection or grunged to the max to make a personal statement. Their appearance spoke to their individuality, and I liked to watch them as they rushed about. I watched them as they took their appointments, and made their rendezvous with destiny. Movers and shakers, pretenders and fakers, it was hard to tell them apart, but they entertained me nonetheless. It was a far cry from Suffolk County, Long Island. The only people driving pickup trucks in Manhattan were making deliveries or repairs. No one in Manhattan drove a flatbed because it was considered cool. I hadn’t spotted a sleeveless denim shirt all day.

  I was having coffee at the lobby bar, which I thought was kind of fun, when Emilio entered. He cancelled his afternoon appointments to be with me, and we had made plans to visit Chelsea and walk the mile-long High Line.

  He gave me a peck on the cheek. “Hello.” He took my hands as a cue for me to stand. “Let me look at you.” He was smiling as he gave me a politically correct once over. It made me tingle all over. I was wearing skinny jeans and boots with high heels. They weren’t Lexa, oh they definitely weren’t Lexa; they were most definitely Allie. They looked great, but they were making my feet hurt already. I was more concerned with my appearance than with creature comfort. “You look lovely,” he said, “but you’ll be in agony before we get halfway. Go upstairs and change out of your boots.”

  “No, I’m fine. These are really comfortable,” I said, lying through my teeth.

  “Are you sure? They look fabulous, but we have a lot of walking to do.”

  “Absolutely. I’m good to go.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  I dropped a few bills on the bar to pay the tab. “Ready.”

  “Walk ahead of me.”

  “What?”

  “Walk ahead of me. You’ve gone to all this trouble to look good for me; I might as well enjoy it.” He didn’t blush, but I did. He was so smooth, so confident and sexy. I did just as he asked. I walked to the lobby door swaying as dramatically as I could without looking completely absurd. I looked back over my shoulder and gave him a wicked smile. He applauded silently and then hurried to catch up as I walked through the door. “You’re a tease,” he said as if passing a compliment.