The Odd Ballerz

by Ruthie Robinson

  “Yes.”

  “He speaks well of you. He told me that you’re good—an agent on the rise.”

  “An agent on the rise. I like the sound of that. That’s nice of him. He’s good too. Top in the state for a long time.”

  “It’s me being careful. You can understand that, right, me checking you out? It’s something I’ve unfortunately had to learn the hard way to do, not to take everyone at face value. He’s a good friend of mine. We go way back, played ball together at Wisconsin. He’s also a partner in Turnkey Relocations.”

  “Oh, really,” she said, nodding her head. “I understand. I’d do the same. You had trouble last year. I heard.”

  “Yeah. What did you hear?” he asked. Voice neutral, she thought, not a hint of anything personal in it.

  “Ah… nothing. You broke up with someone who didn’t take it well,” she said, giving him the sanitized version of what all Alex had told her.

  “Alex told you this?”

  “Yes, but only the basics,” she said, smiling. “Sisters before bros, I guess, so it was only that you broke up. She respects you too much to gossip.”

  He laughed. “I know, but it’s nice to have it confirmed. I like your sister. She’s going to make a fine coach one day.”

  “You think so?”

  “I do,” he said.

  “I’ll need to make a supply run soon,” she said, changing the subject, deciding to slow down with her eating. She’d sort of inhaled her first half of her sandwich, and was about to start into the second half, while he was only half way through his first. “Containers to store the paperwork I don’t toss. There’s years’ worth of paper in that room. As far as I can tell, it’s mostly invoices. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to get rid of most of them.”

  “Sure, yes, I guess so. Do you need a credit card for your purchases?”

  “Or you can reimburse me.”

  “That works too,” he said.

  “So it’s art, right, what you do?” she asked.

  “It is, and isn’t. Yes, there is an art to glassblowing, but there’s also a production side too, but yes, to answer your question, it is also my art,” he said.

  “What kind of classes do you teach?” she asked, before tackling the second half of her sandwich.

  “Introduction to glass making, mostly.”

  “That was today’s class?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many students?”

  “Three today.”

  “Do you like teaching?”

  “I do.”

  “What do you like about it?”

  “What’s with all the questions, Jones?”

  “Occupational hazard. So what do you like about it?”

  “Like a bloodhound, huh? Sharing a skill that I enjoy is what I like about teaching and coaching,” he said, chuckling.

  “Every Saturday you teach?” she asked.

  “Not every one, no,” he said, chuckling. “But most. I knew you were a talker, Jones. I noticed it the first day you showed up to camp, but wow. Is that a requirement for selling insurance?”

  “It can’t hurt, but no, not really. I’m nosy more than anything, plus I find people interesting.”

  “I teach Introduction to Glassblowing most Saturday mornings. It’s the beginner’s class, if there is enough demand for one. Occasionally I also offer a longer intermediate level, an all-day class, and again it depends on the demand.”

  “So… Sloan Artisan Lighting, Sloan Glassworks, what’s the difference?” she asked. He laughed again but answered.

  “Sloan Artisan Lighting is custom lighting, and new a year ago. It’s commissioned work, custom work, higher end glass-blown art in the form of chandeliers, sconces, pennants, lamps, and ceiling lights only available for purchase through the website.”

  “How much would a high-end piece cost me?” she asked.

  “My smallest pieces start at about five thousand dollars.”

  “Five thousand dollars, wow!” she said, smiling.

  He smiled, too. “Yep.”

  “That’s got to be helpful coming in. What is Sloan Glassworks?” she asked.

  “Sloan Glassworks is more production work; smaller jobs, producing the same vase over and over again for a few of the Unity churches in town to use in their marriage ceremonies. I supply various types of glassware to some of the more upscale restaurants and bars in town, and I produce small retail items to sell during the holidays. They are what I consider my bread and butter business.”

  “I see. Something I could afford?” she said.

  “You could,” he said, and smiled.

  “So, dyslexia is trouble reading? If you don’t mind my asking,” she asked.

  “Yes, it is. I used to have trouble reading when I was younger, and I don’t mind you asking, as long as you don’t mind me not answering what I don’t want to answer.”

  “That’s fair, and no, I don’t mind. So you’ve conquered it then?”

  “Enough,” he said, chuckling.

  “Is it why you helped me and Luke? Why you knew how to talk to me?”

  “Sort of. I understand when things that come easy for some don’t come easy for others. I try to be patient in that way, because I’ve been in your shoes, so to speak.”

  “Is that the reason for the disarray in your office?” she asked, done with her lunch.

  “That’s a nice word for it.”

  “Is it the reason?”

  “Not really, or at least I don’t think it is.”

  “You know, it won’t take me all summer to organize your office. Two to maybe three Saturdays tops, and I’ll be finished. Most of what I’ve found needs throwing away. You’re a borderline pack rat,” she said.

  He laughed. “That’s the first time I’ve been called that.”

  “You are one, but anyway, after I’m done with the room, I’ll need a new way to pay you for my training, ’cause I’m pretty sure it’s going to take you longer than three weeks to get me into shape. Two more Saturdays like this one and I should be finished. Any ideas as to what I could do for you?”

  “You’ll be a better player for the team. That will be payment enough,” he said, standing. “Are you done?” he asked, pointing to her plate.

  “What, you can’t tell?” she said, chuckling and handing her empty plate to him. “I could help you in other ways, is all I’m saying here. I like to pull my weight. I’m used to pulling my weight. I’m not into handouts. I am much more comfortable reciprocating in some way. So use me; you have me for as long as it takes to train me or I will have to pay you, which I don’t mind doing either. Just let me know your rate. Either way works.”

  “Got it and I’ll give it some thought. We should probably wait and see how next week goes before you sign up for more. I might be unable to help you,” he said, carrying their plates over to the sink before he turned around to face her.

  “I’ve got work in the studio. I have my first major commission for Sloan Artisan: two major lighting features, and about ten small ones for this new restaurant in downtown Austin. So I might not see you when you leave,” he said.

  “I can stop by on my way out if you want me to,” she said.

  “It’s okay. I’ll see you Monday.”

  “Sure, no problem,” she said, and stood. Friends. Remember, Jones. “Thanks again for lunch,” she said, moving toward the door. She waved one final time, before she disappeared.

  He stood where she’d left him, leaning against the counter of his kitchen, running her words through his mind, her offer to do more, to help him. And no, he didn’t think she meant where his brain had taken off to. The many scenarios it had come up with; all varying versions of him using her body in some pleasurable way. It was no to her in the shower, or in the pool, and a big no to having her take up permanent residence in his bedroom, available whenever, for whatever. He was sure none of those options were what Jones had in mind; however it was all he could think about.

  He paused as h
e passed the door to his office headed back to his shop. Jones was back at work, earbuds again in her ears, on her knees on the floor, lovely ass pointed up in the air. A lot one could do with an ass like that, he mused. She looked up and smiled and waved. He gave her a nod and then he was gone.

  #

  Sunday

  Alex checked her rearview mirror again, checking for a white truck she’d seen, or thought she’d seen, off and on this morning. There was nothing behind her except a sky blue Hyundai Sonata and a red F150 behind it. And this fretting was nothing more than the daily paranoia she lived with. She checked her mirror again. Still nothing. And really, how many white trucks were on the road anyway? Too many to count, that’s how many.

  She pulled into her favorite juice place, parking outside of the front door, for the juice to start her day. Green Munster, a mix of kiwi, spinach, kale; all things green, as the name implied, with a scoop of whey powder.

  “Hi,” she said to the dude that was always here mornings and knew her order without her having to say a word. So cool, she thought of her new life, this living unafraid—sort of. She paid for her drink and had her card, that kept track of the number of drinks purchased, stamped. Two more and it would be time for her free one, and she liked free. She took a seat in an empty booth while she waited, thinking about the conversation she wanted to have with Z.

  M was interested in him, majorly so, and all the warnings she’d given to her sister last night hadn’t diminished that interest at all; hence the need for a Z talk. It wasn’t all M either. During camp she’d caught Z’s gaze turned in her sister’s direction one too many times for her comfort. He was interested too, which was more the problem, in her opinion. That’s what his whispering into her sister’s ear on the field was about and loads of potential trouble lay in that direction.

  Nothing hard hitting would be her talk with Z. He’d been affected by last year’s drama way more than he’d let on, maybe even scared away from committing to the long term permanently, just like with her. Ending relationships with crazy people left scars, she knew that fact first hand.

  She hadn’t shared that with M, nor had she shared her thoughts on the subject of Meredith ’cause she didn’t want her sister to be the new Meredith either. The new it’s-nothing-serious, just-sex-sometimes. So, yes, a discussion regarding his intentions was in order. It was up to her to keep her sister safe. Memphis had done too much for her not to do the same.

  The dude called her name and it was over to the counter to pick up her drink and then out the door and over to Z’s for flag football Sundays. Once a month, old friends of his—and she, the lone woman—gathered for football, followed by great food and hanging out with the fellas. It was a day spent playing and talking football, and shooting the shit with dudes who didn’t mind passing on their knowledge to a female who worshiped the game as much as they did, and who hadn’t flinched when she declared her desire to coach.

  Coach B was giving her a shot next year—a trainer/assistant coach at his high school. She would eventually need college, which meant a Memphis conversation was necessary regarding the financing of it. She was grateful beyond grateful that she had someone who had her back and wanted her to succeed. She meant not to disappoint Memphis again.

  She started her truck, looked through the side mirrors, then the rear, checking for clearance. Her heart stuttered, and whatever she saw had her backing out of the parking space to follow this particular white truck as it drove past. She was unable to back out as quickly as she wanted, had to wait for two cars to pass before she could. She blew out a breath, and slowed down when she caught up to it. No, the right side-view mirror was intact, not taped on and held in place as his had been, yet there had been something familiar about the man sitting behind the wheel.

  She knew the dangers that went along with confrontation, but she was tired of being afraid, and of running. The truck was turning into a parking spot in front of a tattoo place. She slipped her truck into an empty spot directly across the street from Tatted Up, which was the name of the place, and waited. Out stepped a dude, same height, same weight, but the wrong color. This dude was African American, different from Nick in that regard. She released the breath she’d been holding, and the relief she felt was palpable.

  Paranoid is what you are, she thought. He might have traded his truck for another truck in a different color and you’re here sweating white trucks all this time for nothing. It’s been almost two years, he’s moved on, is what she told herself when she needed to make herself feel less afraid.

  She chuckled, or tried to, putting a happier face on her fear. She hadn’t mentioned it to Memphis or Charlotte, didn’t like to talk about that part of her life—not yet anyway, and really hoped she’d never have to. She wanted to put the many things she’d done, or had done to her, smoothly behind her. Some days she was more successful at that than others.

  She checked the street again, then her mirrors, before she pulled forward and drove away. No more looking for ghosts, she said to herself. He’s moved on, just as she had, and no way was she doing men again, regardless of how nice and sincere they seemed, thinking of the nurse again. They all did at the beginning, and they all ended leaving her the same hurt in the end.

  Nope, career was the new love of her life. She was putting herself first. It worked for Memphis, who didn’t have a dude either and seemed to be doing just fine without one. It could work for her. Her fear somewhat appeased, she turned her mind to football, where she was always the happiest.

  #

  Sunday

  Z stood outside on his deck in front of his grill. He was starting the fire in the smoker part of his outside oven. Smoker, grill, oven for pizza, even; he had it all built to satisfy his cooking hobby. He loved it out here on his deck, made from large planks of old aged hardwood. It ran the length of his home, which was basically the kitchen and the living room. French doors opened to allow easy exit and entry. Two old-school picnic tables, custom made from oak to seat plenty, sat in the middle and toward the front end of the deck. The area around the grill was made from Texas Limestone, the only break in the otherwise expanse of wood that was his deck.

  He was alone. Meredith did her thing during the day, which was mostly hanging out with friends of hers, and was back here at night to help in the studio and, if they were on the same wave length, in other ways too.

  He stood near the oven, watching the fire come to life, memories of his childhood—of having done this too many times to count—filling his mind. Growing up in a commune of sorts had fostered his love of cooking, as it had for the land, and his need for large chunks of it.

  It was Sunday with the boys and Alex for flag football—their days of tackling were over—and food. He supplied the meat and the others supplied the side dishes. It was always held at his home; he was a bachelor so it was easier, and then there was that football field of his, so convenient that. Some dudes preferred poker, a night at the club, away from family. A man break was how his buddies described it. He lived one big man break, but yeah, he understood their need for one.

  Good food, hand-prepared by men who loved to cook and who were good at it. Cooking between them had always been this easy, ongoing competition. Sometimes they joined forces and competed as teams in cook-offs, with their share of bacon being brought home. Yancy was the leader in all their food competitions, as the person most serious about it, and that was saying something.

  Z heard the sounds of a vehicle approaching and checked the time. Fifteen until ten. It had to be Yancy, early to make sure no one had the jump on him. He stuck his head around the back of his home, and yes, it was his boy, parking. Z had hoped he would show up before the others arrived. He wanted to talk Jones and her request of additional work before the others appeared. He didn’t want or need the other men in his business. He checked his fire and went out to meet his friend.

  “I’m the first one here?” Yancy asked, when Z reached him. Tall, dark, and big was Yancy; six-four, three hundred po
unds of formidable lineman in his glory days. He was still formidable; ask his daughters’ boyfriends. One look at him, all shaved head and thick gray speckled beard, and it was no-trouble-at-all-here-sir. Tough on the outside, semi-marshmallowy on the inside, and one hell of a cook; probably would have gone to culinary school if he hadn’t been pushed into football. He was a family man now, playing chef to those he loved, five girls and one boy.

  “What’s this?” Z asked, lifting the lid from the silver serving dish that Yancy carried in his hand, the same one he was always yammering on and on about how effective it was at keeping food warm.

  “Rice pilaf,” he said, looking around like someone might overhear. “It’s an original recipe, part dirty rice, part risotto. I’ve been testing out several combinations of basmati rice mixed with risotto and I think I’ve found the right balance,” he said. Yancy had developed a bit of a reputation for his food pairings and he thought himself some kind of food creative.

  “Sounds interesting,” Z said, withholding comment until he could taste.

  He followed Yancy inside, watched as he set his dish on the center counter.

  “What’s D bringing? You can tell me,” Yancy asked, changing the subject back to squeezing Z for information about D, the only other man in their group Yancy considered his rival in the cooking department besides Z. Z shook his head and laughed.

  “I don’t know,” Z said.

  “Sure you don’t.”

  “I don’t really. You and he are the same secretive when it comes to your food,” he said, grinning.

  “Ha ha, very funny,” he said, giving Z his middle finger. “How’s training with your insurance lady?”

  “You’re my insurance lady and it hasn’t started yet. She worked here yesterday. She asked for more work. Doesn’t think it will take her long to finish organizing my office.”

  “So what are we thinking here? Using her for sex?”