The Basketball Expatriate

by C. Bradford Eastland

  So, when I was sure she was asleep, I snuck out of bed and wrote her a note---some

  excuse about having to be somewhere the next morning or something like that, I don't

  remember---tip-toed out to my car, and beat a hasty retreat back down to Sussex, smooth as silk.

  In the dark it took me over an hour and a half to make it down to Duncton, and another

  half hour or so to find the right road to Frieda's B&B, so I didn't pull into the driveway until about 3 a.m.

  Now here's a funny story. It occurred to me that at this hour the front door would be locked, naturally, so I found myself standing in the driveway wondering how the hell I was going to get into my own room. Remember, my room was on the second floor, so it wasn't as simple as just jimmying a window. I looked up at my balcony. Wasn't that high. Hell, I know guys in the NBA (I don't need to tell you what color) who can jump so goddam high that they easily could've reached the lowest iron railing and just pulled themselves up on that friggin' balcony with no trouble at all. For instance, there was this one jig on Denver who could really sky; he used to make bets at bars---twenty, fifty bucks sometimes---with anyone who didn't think he could jump straight up in the air, from a standing start, and land on his feet on a barstool and not fall off. Seriously. He used to clean up. But for lighter-skinned mortals such as I, this, of course, is not possible. Instead, I was forced to steel myself against the idea of climbing up the side of the house like a lowly burglar. Me, a real-life "second-story man".

  Here's the funny part.

  There was plenty of lattice work running up and down the front wall, and thick wooden snakes of twisting vines crawling up that lattice, just like a balcony scene in a movie, so there were plenty of footholds and handholds and everything, and so I figured that for a highly-skilled professional athlete such as myself this thing would be a snap. Right? Well, about halfway up the wall my foot slipped, airborne I went, backwards, and I wound up squashing some stupid bush flat with my aching ass.

  No problem. I'm not the kind of guy who gives up too easy, and so I picked myself up,

  dusted myself off, and up again I went. I made it a little higher this time, but I must be

  slipping because I lost my grip again; and this time the fall was no small matter. Since I was higher up the wall it was more of a freefall, and when I hit the ground it hit back.

  I knew I must've looked pretty silly lying there in the dirt, but I didn't get up right away either. Actually, it was worth a laugh. My back was already starting to hurt like hell, but even I had to admit it was funny. I mean think, one minute I'm lying in a nice warm bed with a nice warm girl, and two hours later I'm wallowing in a dirt flower bed in the middle of the night, trying to break into some nice old lady's house so I could get some sleep (I hope your opinion of me hasn't suffered too much; I know this all smacks of poor decision-making.). When I could finally stop my own giggling I picked myself up, made it bravely up the wall, and pulled myself over the balcony railing on my third try.

  (I found out later at breakfast that Frieda had left the front door unlocked for me. The

  whole damn night.)

  Anyway. Tired and sore as I was, my intention was simply to take a well-deserved piss, curl up into my midget bed, immediately, never even turn the light on, and just nod right friggin' off. But I could tell from the moment I stepped through the balcony door that something was wrong; or should I say different. It was the smell....pine needles! That was it. The whole room smelled like a Christmas tree. That Frieda. She'd obviously treated the room or the drapes or something with some kind of pine-scented chemical aerosol spray while I was out. And there was something else....some other neat smell....and that's when I noticed the basket of fresh fruit on the writing desk. There was an only-one-day-old issue of USA TODAY next to it. That Frieda....But the best part I didn't even notice till I turned the light on. Next to the bed, on the end table, she had laid out the prettiest little tea service you ever saw. There were half a dozen tea bags, two different kinds of instant coffee, a tiny pitcher of cream sitting in a dish of ice to keep it fresh, a whole plateful of thin slices of cheese she'd taken the time to arrange into the shape of a rose, and the cups themselves (there were two) were the real thing, right off the breakfast table; the delicate, white china cups and saucers with paint-embroidered country estates etched by hand in beautiful reds and blues. All for me. She could just as easily've used the regular old ceramic drinking mugs you can buy in a store for a couple of bucks, but I guess she just wasn't that type of old gal.

  The whole thing was really something. My body started to get warm all over, and I honestly couldn't tell if it was more from the impending bedtime feast or the onslaught of blood rushing to my many bruises. With tea and coffee to be drunk I made sure to limp over to the sink, got my piss out of the way, sloshed in some of the floral-scented soap and filled up the electric teapot at the same time, plugged the teapot in, shed my dirty clothes, and crawled half-under the security of my giant goose-down pillow case and poured myself a cup. It was a cold night, but with so many fresh bruises wouldn't'cha know I friggin' totally forgot about my bum knee! I just sat there, leaning back against the wall, radiating, sampling the cheese, sipping slowly and contentedly. I remember thinking a little bit about Jane. It was so easy. Eight thousand miles away and it was still easy. But it wasn't like I didn't like her for her. I did like her, I told you that. She was A-okay. And even at the time I knew I would be seeing her again. I was feeling pretty good....already had a decent babe on the string and was being catered to, on a daily basis, by the cutest, plumpest, most meticulous little old curly-red-haired B&B hostess in the world. My luck was holding out.

  The only thing she forgot was the sugar, and I hate coffee or tea without sugar, but

  considering everything else she'd done it didn't really bother me. Much.

  Four

  I awoke the next morning to the annoying, the unusually shrill, to the strange and rather

  amazingly high-pitched wail of Fraulein Frieda Mannheim, landlady deluxe, screaming like a madwoman right through my bedroom door.

  "Yoo-hoo! Rifles! Oh, yooooo-hoo, Riiiii-fles!" (she never did get it right)

  "what...."

  "Wake up, luv---it's ringin'!"

  "what....who...."

  ( note to reader : If I am not allowed to rise gradually to greet the a.m., as many a fine

  young woman could tell you, I tend to begin the day both sluggish and irritable. Not to

  mention fogheaded. To wit, my recollection of the dialogue in this scene is vague and

  certainly should not be regarded as an exact reproduction. Call it an approximation for

  "theatrical" purposes only. Get me?)

  "It's ringin', I'm no' kiddin'!"

  "Huh? What's goin'....ringing?...what's ringing, what!"

  "It's y'car, luv, y'bloody car! It's ringin'!"

  Like I say I'm just not a morning person, and it took me a couple seconds to sort everything out---where I was, who was this female voice bent on irritating me, why was I more tired than usual, etc.---but at the moment I realized that somebody was actually calling me on my new carphone, calling me, well, let's just say that the feeling shot through my arms and chest like when I was a kid and would stick my wet finger in a light socket. I exploded out of the bed like a naked human missile, yanked on my jeans, grabbed my keys, threw open the door and almost ran Frieda over to get to the stairs, and must've made it to my MG within fifteen seconds (who says white boys can't move?). Even in the excitement I remember being uncharacteristically alert, focusing on every detail. Halfway down the stairs I'd figured out that it had to be Jane, she's the only one I'd given the number to, and my initial reaction to realizing all've this was a warm, tingly surge of satisfaction to my entire groin area. You know. But by the time I'd reached the car, the tingle had turned to a queasy heavy guilty feeling and had moved up to between my chest and stomach. After all, I did skip out on her. Being a woman, naturally I
figured she'd be totally pissed off at me---the way you ladies get when you feel like we've committed some goddam felony crime against your very womanhood---and that she had just woken up and was eager to punish me for my sins. And I probably deserved it. As I picked up the receiver, though, I remember thinking that the best thing to do if she got too emotional or obnoxious or friggin' psychodick would be to just hang up on her.

  "Hello?"

  "Hi. It's me."

  "Oh....yeah....howya doin'?"

  "I'm doing fine, poppet. This fine morning, that is, I'm doing bloody-fine!"

  Y'know, I don't think I'll ever forget how goddam happy that girl sounded over that

  phone that day; that second, that moment.

  "Really? Uh, great, that's great. That's great, babe. Glad ta hear yer doin' so fine." (I

  was really stammering, man! I didn't know what was going on.) "Uh, so anyway, how ya

  doin'."

  "I am calling to thank you for a very nice time last night."

  "You did? You are?---"

  "And, my brand new love, to invite you out to Goodwood for the day. If you've not

  made other plans, that is. You can meet me-father!"

  "Well, uh, I dunno. I hadn't really---"

  "You alright, poppet? Ev'thing okay?"

  "Okay? Sure," I finally said. "It's just that in the morning I'm kinda sluggish and

  irritable, sorry. So what the hell is this G---"

  "You weren't a bit sluggish last night, you smooth-talkin' Yank!"

  She cut me off with a laugh. Sometimes she was pretty witty.

  "Thanks."

  "And you left your shorts'n undershirt behind, my tall one. A touching personal

  memento, perhaps?"

  "I did? Oh wow....hey, it was dark. I couldn't---hell, I'm sorry Jane."

  "Honestly, men apologize for the silliest things!"

  "Okay, I'm not sorry then." It was a very confusing conversation. "So tell me, what the

  hell is this Goodwood thing that everybody around is so on the rag over?"

  "Goodwood? Why it's only the races, silly! You do have racing in the states, don't

  you?"

  "Horses?"

  "We call it the flats over here. Unless it's over the jumps, and then we call it the jumps!" We both just laughed for a breath or two at that one, and then chatted a little bit about the local Sussex racecourse the locals call Goodwood. Tell you the truth, I've never gone in much for the track. I've always figured racetracks to be not much more than asylums for the terminally compulsive. Or at the very least, "glamorous-yet-pathetic" halfway houses for losers, derelicts and suckers. I avoid people like that like the clap.

  "You mean today?"

  "If you can. I promise you'll have a right jolly good time. It's really quite exciting!"

  "And your father?"

  "Daddy?"

  "You said he works there?"

  "Work? Oh dear, no! Well, not rilly....just a bit of a regular patron, you might say."

  "Well then he can probably show me who to bet on, right?"

  "Daddy....well he has been known to pass on some keen advice regarding such matters,"

  she said a little more quietly.

  "Sure," I finally gave in. I figured I could make an exception for a foreign country. "I'd

  love to go."

  "Fantastic!"

  How I love women with enthusiasm.

  We arranged to meet at THE BADGER & THE HONEYJAR around one-thirty. She said she'd actually been there before, that it was a regular pre and post Goodwood drinking spot. I figured that one-thirty would give me plenty of time to run some errands up in Petworth, as well as take a nice long hot shower to try and bake out some of the bruises on my backside I was just now remembering I had. I almost left it right there, but my stupid male curiosity got the better of me:

  "Jane, you aren't mad that I took off last night, uh, this morning, are you? I was gonna

  tell ya...."

  "Mad? Good god, Yank! If anything, I was glad you let me sleep. So I thank you."

  "Thank you? Jesus, Jane, most women tend ta take it kinda personally if some guy

  they've just got through---"

  "Nonsense. I understand....how a bloke sometimes needs his....how he needs his

  bloody elbow room! I rilly do understand," she said warmly. I mean she was really amazing.

  "Well I---"

  "And don't worry. Your shorts'n shirt are all washed'n ironed."

  "You washed and ironed my underwear?"

  "Oh, I suppose I was supposed to wait for you to do it! Men...." She washed my

  friggin' underwear. Women....

  "Well I'll see you at The Badger at one-thirty, then. Love ya."

  "Sorry?"

  "Huh?"

  "What was that you just said?" she said.

  "Oh. Excuse me for being a tourist." I'd forgotten about the slang. "Half-one. I'll see

  you at The Badger at half-one. And be on time!"

  "Half-one," she replied (sort've quietly) and hung up.

  I hope from this exchange you can get an idea of what kind've babe this Jane was. I knew right away she was too good to be true. I hung up, smiling I'm sure, and just looked at the receiver. I couldn't help thinking how I wished I could take the face and body of that girl on the plane, and just go and slap them on the girl on the other end of that phone. First thing I thought of. Call it shallow if you want, I call it simple, undiluted honesty. What am I supposed to do, pretend that looks aren't important? Yeah right. Nobody thinks like that. Looks is the main thing that attracts people to other people. It's the most important thing. Not the only thing, obviously, but the most important. To all you less-than-attractive folks out there, I'm sorry. I know this isn't what anybody wants to hear. But I shouldn't be criticized just because I happen to be the one who is saying it. I figure the only way to get this thing right is to tell the truth. If it's an unpopular truth, don't blame me.

  But the point is, what I really started to say, and this is mainly for every two-bit, good-looking, heartless American chick who ever treated me like dirt, was that Jane was just plain terrific.

  When I went back inside the house I was understandably feeling a little full of myself, and I guess it must've showed on my face. Because when I took my regular seat at the breakfast table Frieda was standing at the kitchen door, she was just grinning at me, grinning like a seventh-grader peeking in her first boys' locker room, and I could tell she knew something was up (or should I say had been).

  "I reckon yore in a frisky mood thi' 'smornin', ay ducks?"

  "Frisky? Whaddaya mean, Frieda. I'm tired as hell."

  "I mean I waited up a bit, but when a bloke drags 'imself in that late!---"

  (Waited up for me? The friggin' landlady? Talk about your English hospitality....)

  I picked up my USA TODAY and flicked her a knowing wink: "Just toast and coffee this

  morning, my good fraulein."

  The cheeks smiled back: "Ver' good, sir!" she said with a slight bow (her stomach wouldn't allow for much of one), and the cone of her blue denim skirt disappeared rather gracefully, I remember, through the open kitchen door.

  After breakfast I took my morning piss, sloshed some of the floral-scented liquid soap

  around in the basin, got dressed, and beat it down to THE BADGER double-time so I'd have time to could get good and hammered. Just in case this Goodwood thing turned out to be a drag.

  * * *

  Actually I didn't go directly to THE BADGER. I stopped in Petworth first, just to cash some traveller's cheques and visit the post office. I sent off three pieces of mail, two dispatches to my lord and editor and a letter to my crappy roundball agent, telling him to get his ass moving on finding me a team in need of a shooter to come off the bench. I reminded him I didn't particularly care which side of the Atlantic that team was on, as long as I was playing ball. I even told him that I would consider a job in the CBA (Continental Basketball Assn.), which
is little more than minor league compared to the NBA. That's how desperate I was. I used Frieda's B&B as the return address. It was already after twelve by the time I made it to the pub, which was serving lunch....

  And damned crowded. I hadn't been inside the door two seconds when I was

  surrounded by the same gang of louts that had given me, and Frieda for that matter, such a

  hard time the day before. In typical Brit fashion, they turned out to be just about the

  friendliest guys in the world.

  "Well 'ello, mate---back f'more? Delby! One lager f'er me'foreign-lookin' mate 'ere!"

  "Good seein' ya, Rifle-boy!---'ope no 'ard feelings 'bout our lit'l bit o' sport th'other