Dodger

by Dan Gallagher

18

  IT'S TIME FOR ME TO go.

  I stand on my upstairs neighbor's porch and smoke, where I can really see the orange of the sky and the horizon line where it envelops the blue. Clouds float above absently as I exhale slowly. Chicago. I've lived here since the day I was born and never really wanted to leave - all I could ever want is here, my friends, my family, my life. Acting, writing, music, being, doing. All my love. It's the epicenter of my existence and there was never a reason to abandon it.

  Until now.

  Yes.

  It's time to go.

  What's left? My parents are dead. Ray's getting married. Kara's gone. Paiger will be.

  And here I am still, stuck in this mud.

  But not for long.

  Ten grand.

  Ten grand to start a new life, ten grand to be reborn.

  I'm doing it.

  It's done.

  Seattle.

  I tried to leave the clutches of Chicago only once, back in 2004, when my then best friend Jake and I decided to move to LA and be actors. Great decision. After a bon voyage party the night before charged by rye whiskey and cocaine, we jumped in his banged up green Explorer and hit the road. It was a dreary Sunday morning but it didn't matter because we were amped and pumped and ready to embark on an historic journey that would change both of our lives forever. We felt Godly. We were taking the bull by the horns, masters of our own destiny, kings of the road! We were going to take Los Angeles by storm and become famous instantly! Nothing could stop us from achieving the impossible dream! Then the coke wore off and we realized people drive across the country and move to LA all the time. It still felt epic, though.

  First stop: Minneapolis. Jake needed to wait for his last two paychecks from Chicago to be mailed, so we hung out in the Land Of A Thousand Lakes for a few weeks and trimmed weed for his drug dealer friend in exchange for room and board. It was awesome. We were high all day and ate nothing but steak and sushi, drank nothing but expensive red wine and imported beer. Being a drug czar has its advantages, and staying at one's place definitely offers amenities. The checks finally came though and we wanted to get moving west, so we scored a gigantic sack of kush and hit the road.

  Our trip across the states was brilliant. We smoked and smoked and listened to great music and talked about life and dreams and all that other important male bonding shit, stopped at some hilarious tourist traps, saw Mt. Rushmore and the Wall Drug Store, had his futon fly off the top of the truck and splatter its guts all over a section of I-90 in southern Minnesota, then had a small funeral for its remains. We saw sunsets and sunrises over mountains and big, blue skies, all the while looking forward to the sunny streets of LA, and the beach, and the babes, and singing for our supper as we tried to make it out there doing what we loved to do. Together.

  I blow a smoke ring into the morning. I miss that fucker.

  On fumes we cruised into Missoula, Montana, Jake's hometown, where we had scheduled a two week hiatus so he could catch up with his friends and family and we could make some more money doing demolition work. What a disaster. I didn't know a hammer from a screwdriver. Jake hadn't done any of that shit since high school. We were like bulls in a china shop, rudimentary ransackers, knocking down beams and hauling wood, dewiring light fixtures and destroying old dry wall. It wasn't easy but what needed to get done got done, and for at least a few hours a day, I was out of the house doing something.

  But the money wasn't there.

  I was running out and unlike him I had options, so I decided to bail on Missoula and hop a Greyhound to Seattle. Jake was more than surprised but he couldn't really argue, there was no money there for me, and we had worn out our welcome at his friend's house so in less than a week we'd be homeless. He planned to live out of the Explorer. Fuck that, I said, I'm going to Seattle, the nearest big city where I can get a job and save up more money for the rest of the trip. He couldn't help but understand.

  Our goodbye was lackluster, on his end because he felt like I was bailing on him, and on my end because I felt like he dragged me across the country on false pretenses. He said once we got to Montana everything would be fine, that money was waiting. But it wasn't. And without money we couldn't make it to LA. I understood that. He apparently didn't. Our bro hug was a two bumper, and even though he said he'd see me in Seattle in a couple of weeks, I knew I wouldn't. Jake was never on time for anything.

  I had arranged to stay with this young professional type couple in Ballard and do the housework and dogtending they couldn't do in exchange for room and board. It was a big house, I had my own room and bathroom, and upon our first meeting, they seemed like very nice people.

  But they were effing crazy.

  The woman had some kind of ADD and could only shower at the gym because she didn't believe in cleansing herself in the same shower as her lover. The guy was a straight up freak who massaged the dogs like they were his lovers and claimed to be into death metal but only listened to Train and Dishwalla. When I asked why they had no furniture they said it was because they were 'floor dwellers.' When I asked for paper towels to do some cleaning they said they only used cloth towels and rags for that sort of thing – you know, for the environment's sake.

  Pshaw.

  When I was done washing stuff or picking up dog shit I would hit the streets with my long board and skate around the city, it isn't that big but man is it beautiful, and smell the air of nearby Puget Sound and marvel at how much greener it feels, how much cleaner, how much more natural. It felt like it was making my lungs younger. I felt invincible. Money was still all right and I could shack up with these idiots until I found a restaurant job and got my own place. I could make it here, this city of hills and rain and sweet smelling air. I can make this home.

  Then alcohol swooped right on in and ruined everything.

  Inevitably.

  It was a very pretty night and I was skating around the University of Washington campus. Having no friends and no money and no purpose was really getting to me so for comfort I turned to the bottle. A liter of lemonade and a pint of vodka, dinner for a champ. Well, I bit it hardcore coming down a hill and practically separated my shoulder, gashed up my knees, scraped up my elbows, twinged the left ankle. Pure agony. I limped to the bus stop like a beaten mule, dripping DNA up and down campus, then up and down the street. Still swigging my lemonade, of course.

  Once on the bus a kindhearted hippie chick noticed my injuries. We struck up a conversation about wiping out on skateboards and the city and the school and blah, blah, blah, I was just being nice because I was drunk and bleeding and helpless. I guess she appreciated the effort because she gave me her pack of Reds, which contained not only five cigarettes but also some of the stinkiest, stickiest pot I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. It was the kindest gesture ever bestowed upon me and it helped immensely. She was my weed angel, and sleep came swiftly that night.

  But talk about a fuck you.

  I could hardly move my arm, which meant I couldn't keep the place tidy, and even worse, I couldn't go out looking for jobs. So that was that. I booked a flight home, left the weirdos a nice little note wishing them all the best, and landed at O'Hare on a soggy, rainy night in February. My escape had lasted a month and a half. Barely a blink.

  I miss Seattle.

  I miss waking up and sticking my head out the door and knowing exactly what to expect.

  I miss buildings that aren't tall enough to dwarf me yet tall enough to make me feel at home.

  I miss the hills. I miss the grass. I miss the green.

  I miss that weed.

  I flick the cigarette and walk down my neighbor's steps slowly, softly. A gust of wind cuts through the air and blows my Cubs hat clean off, and before I can even think about attempting pursuit a street sweeper runs it over. I watch, sighing.

  This wind.

  It's done blowing me away.

  Back inside I turn on the TV and lo and behold there she is, Paige Scott, the Paiger, now not just a reporter but the
lead anchor for Good Day America. When did that happen? I haven't watched the news in ages. Beside her Parker Hardicoff looks ten years older, gray scaling his sideburns, crow's feet cradling his eye sockets. Paiger, though, looks good as gold as always.

  “... as the Dow hopes to make a comeback in the following weeks. We'll take a little break now, but stay tuned for Parker's one on one interview with the Mississippi woman who claims... she can talk to giraffes. And then, later in the program... my first novel hits stores today! Dodger, by Paige Scott. So, we'll have a review and tell you where I'll be signing books this week and all that jazz. Ah! Exciting! Okay, okay. I'm Paige Scott, and this is Good Day America.”

  The cheesy music plays, she pretends to talk to Hardicoff about something important, he pretends to be interested, commercial.

  She handles herself on camera just about as well as I do.

  Idiot.

  I snooze, and dream. At first I'm at Lollapalooza with Kara, and in the midst of a sudden downpour I lose her in the crowd. All I want to do is make it to the Citi stage to see Silversun Pickups, but I can't leave my love behind, and I'm floating through a crowd of nameless faceless looking for her. A panic rises in me that I may never see her again, the crowd is endless, and the sky seems to be opening up more and more the more I walk. I finally find myself at the exit and realize that the festival never existed, I turn around and it's gone, and just like that I'm alone in a sea of white, endless white. Things fade out for a minute and then suddenly I'm lying on the ground of what feels like sand and there's something next to me, someone, I can feel soft breathing on my chest but I can't turn my head to see who it is. All I can feel is a sense of familiarity, like I know this person, like I've been here before. It's then I realize I'm dreaming and that this person could be anyone I want it to be. It's a revolving door of all the women I've loved, all the women I've hated, all the women who've fucked me, all the women I've fucked. Literally and over, over and out. A rotation of rose colored conquests. It's beautiful.

  I open my eyes, hoping, praying there's someone lying next to me. I move my arms and there's nothing but air on both sides.

  I sigh, and cry.

  And snooze again.

  I finally get my sorry ass up, pack what I need, throw the next three month's rent in an envelope for my landlord, and book an afternoon flight.

  Then call Paiger.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, there.”

  “Hey.”

  Awkward pause. I'm great at breaking them, though. “Look, I'm sorry about last night. That was totally fucked up. I know none of that was easy for you either and I shouldn't have been such a dick. Hopefully the hot sex was enough to make up for it.”

  She laughs. “Ha... yeah, not even close, Jim.”

  I laugh. “You're still the funniest person I know, you know that? Really. I mean that from the bottom of my heart. Stay like that, Paiger.”

  “Um... I will.”

  “When did you become the lead anchor? I haven't watched GDA in like months.”

  “About three weeks ago.”

  “What happened to Kathleen?”

  “The producers felt she was slipping, I guess. At least that's what I heard. Not interviewing well enough, forgetting minor yet important details... stupid stuff that happens when you get older.”

  “Maybe it's Alzheimer's.”

  “Shut up, Jim.”

  “Wish I could. Anyway, take care. I'm leaving.”

  “What?”

  “I'm leaving. Going to Seattle. The sunshine state.”

  “Seattle's not the sunshine state, Jim. It's not even a state.”

  “Irregardless. Look, take care, Paiger. And good luck with the book. Take care of our story. Lord knows I went through hell and back for it.”

  There's a pause. I shake my phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Yeah, I'm here.”

  “Well? Will you miss me? Say something, for fuck's sake.”

  “I wish it could've been more.”

  Now I pause. And sigh. And smile. “Well, that just... wasn't in the cards.”

  “I know.”

  “It's a bitch.”

  “I know that too.”

  “But we still have a deal.” I clear my throat. “From this day forth, I shall no longer be known as the Dodger. Anyone who calls me such will have their head lopped off. And anyone who thinks I'm him... well, I'm just a sim.”

  I can actually hear Paiger smile, then maybe shed a few tears. Who knows? It's possible.

  “See ya, Paige.” I hit End.

  And just like that... I'm gone.

  The sun is out in full force now as I ride the Blue Line to O'Hare. The cars rumble and the tracks squeal and I savor the sound, the vibration, the vigor. I'll miss riding these rails, flying through the middle of the expressway during rush hour, being woken up in Forest Park by the conductor at five AM after passing out hammered drunk on the way home from a toga party. Going to see Phish at the Rosemont Horizon and riding back while tripping my balls off and getting offered a blowjob by some crack whore because I look like her old Biology teacher.

  Oh yes, such fond memories.

  We reach the airport and I deboard the train with the rest of them, the businessmen who do this every day, the frightened children who haven't done this once. Chin up kids, I think, we're all in it together, relax. Like cattle we're whisked up the stairs, into the airport where we preview our flight information, and either proceed to well earned success or miserable failure. I've been here before so I know where I'm going.

  Security, pat down, metal detector. Yippee. I have ten minutes to kill so I saunter up to the bar of the Airport Chili's and order an eight dollar Stella. When in Rome.

  I'm not halfway into my first sip when I spot it.

  Dodger.

  The Airport Barnes and Noble is right next to the Chili's and a prominently displayed rack presents the latest Tom Clancy, the latest Tony Robbins, and Dodger, the first novel by exciting, promising new novelist Paige Scott. At least that's what the sign says.

  I approach slowly, take a copy, run my hand over the cover.

  My story.

  And no one will ever know.

  “Hey... I know you.”

  I turn to see a smoking hot blonde with massive bazongas holding a purchased copy of the literary marvel. I sip my beer and furrow my brow.

  “Oh yeah? Where do you know me from?”

  “From YouTube. And this book. This book is about you, right?”

  I put down my copy and take hers, flipping through the pages, feeling tiny shards of glass pinprick my heart every time I catch a fragment of sentence. Every word leads to a memory, every memory leads to a feeling, and every feeling leads to pain. That's how it feels, anyway.

  I hand the book back slowly.

  “Sorry Miss, you've got the wrong guy. I'm not the Dodger.”

  I smile, finish my beer, head toward Gate 3B and board a fantastic 747, where I have the fantastic luck of sitting next to a wiry, space saving, zit ridden teenager who already has his headphones on and his eyes closed. Thank God.

  It'll be quiet all the way to the Sound.

  I have the window seat so I doze to the sight of fluffy white clouds a hundred feet below us and the sound of our vessel humming thirty thousand feet above Earth. I love it, I could fly all day, I would stay in the air for the rest of my life if it were an option. Time off planet is healthy.

  I shift my head and through the corner of my eye see the teenager reading a book, and as he turns a page the cover comes into clear view. The speeding bullet and bleeding heart are unmistakeable.

  Dodger.

  Jesus.

  I sit up a little too quickly and bump his elbow, and he looks at me like I've spoiled the time of his life. After a moment, he goes back to the book.

  Then he looks at me again.

  I throw my headphones on, crank some Strokes, and go back to staring out the window. I pretend not to feel the kid's eyes o
n my back but I sure as hell do, and the goddamn stewardess can't get me that tiny bottle of gin fast enough.

  I squirm. Ray was right.

  I do hate the spotlight.