Dodger

by Dan Gallagher

19

  I SIT ON THE BALCONY and sip my coffee in peace. The new day arrives with a smile, and even though there's no sun the clean fresh air and mild morning mist make it beautiful in it's own right. These Seattle sunrises take some getting used to but now that I'm accustomed I love it.

  My one bedroom apartment in Fremont is the tits. I pay just as much as I did in Chicago and it's practically the same size. I invested half of the ten grand and most of my first run loot in some up and coming stock and it took off. Money hasn't been less of an issue since I was an infant and my broker says it's just the tip of the iceberg, that my stock will rise and rise again. He's perpetually on cocaine like a good stockbroker should be, so I trust his stocky judgment verily.

  I go for daily jogs in the nearby park with my Labrador retriever, Monty. I quit smoking, again. When I'm not writing music reviews and current event articles for the burgeoning online magazine Sharp, I bartend part time at a semi-high class bar that incidentally, makes its own beer. Oddly enough, it doesn't remind me of Kara in the least.

  That's all behind me now.

  I love this place. Nothing reminds me of anyone. My days are spent writing and my nights are spent slinging booze to the upper echelon of Seattle, who are pretty much chill folk for so called upper echelon. The local music scene is off the charts and since I write reviews I'm at shows four nights a week, sometimes two in one night. And when festival season cranks up, look out. Sharp has already committed to sending me to Coachella and Bonnaroo, and if those go well, I might even get Pitchfork and Lolla.

  Back home.

  I never thought I'd refer to Chicago as back home.

  But I guess that's what it is now.

  I still keep in touch with Ray. He and Angie have settled on a date for the wedding, July third, my birthday, and it's right around Pitchfork so I should be in town for it. They're also expecting, a minor detail they left out when we had dinner at Lowry's. I'm slightly shocked but not really. One of the top reasons people get married is unplanned pregnancy, right behind needing a green card and actually wanting to. They do love each other though, and probably would've tied the knot eventually. A rugrat on the way just sped up the process.

  Since he doesn't have any brothers I'm slated to be the best man, and on top of that, potential Godfather. Shudder to think. I still forget to take Monty for walks some days, but at least he can pee on the floor as a reminder. A baby could get diaper rash and die if I dropped the ball like that with them. The possibility of me being responsible for another person's well being is daunting as hell, especially a baby. Hopefully he bestows that honor upon his brother in law and I won't have to worry about it.

  It'll be cool to be an uncle, though.

  He's in good spirits. He's happy I finally bit the bullet and left. He always felt I was too good for Kara but knew I was so madly in love with her that it didn't matter what he thought, and that the only course of action a best friend can take in that situation is to just let it play out as it will. And it did, as it should have.

  Now we're both happy.

  I never talk to Kara. I haven't even tried to get in touch with her since I left. She hasn't called, either.

  The funniest part is, I don't care.

  She deleted me from her Facebook friends, again, and according to Ray, started banging some other dude like a week after everything between us went to shit. Again.

  Surprise, surprise.

  We had a lot of drunk talks but one I remember quite clearly was when we were discussing the beginnings of relationships, how it's all so new and exciting, and how it's very easy to confuse that initial excitement with true love. People do it all the time. We'll be so into someone at the start and then all of a sudden wake up one day and it's like, what the hell am I doing? This person isn't right for me at all. Or you start to let your eye wander because you think the grass is always greener, that you can do better instead of being happy with what you've already got.

  I think she called it in love with being in love.

  An infatuation junkie.

  Weak.

  I guess she did warn me.

  In a lot of ways it makes sense that she keeps cheating. She was right, it's a pattern.

  Silly me. I thought I was the one, the one to change it.

  I thought she was, too.

  Dodger is a smash success. In just under three months it's become the top selling novel in America, and Paiger has been on a book tour since day one. She's done morning shows, daytime shows, late night shows, a spaghetti sauce commercial, and a cameo on The Simpsons as herself. I have to admit, that one hurt.

  We text now and then but rarely talk. She's on an extended hiatus from Good Day America, but with the ravishing success of the novel it's only a matter of time before she starts another and quits TV for good. It's for the best because deep down she's always hated being in front of the camera and would much rather write, create stories instead of just reporting them, have opinions instead of just translating them. No more interviews, no more Dow Jones, no more acting. She's on the fast track to freedom.

  We're much more alike than I ever realized.

  With the initial success of the book my fame predictably spiked, and the old YouTube videos of my first interview with Paiger and the debacle on Good Day America were receiving more views than Lady Gaga's supposed upskirt footage. I was honored, and when people started asking me about it, if I was him, if it was me, I was this close to reneging on the deal and embracing my Dodgerness again, once and for all.

  But I didn't.

  Fuck the spotlight. Fuck being some fleeting icon, a person cherished one day and forgotten the next, a patsy for pain, a glint in the eye of society. What's worse, tasting fame and then losing it or not tasting it at all? I didn't want to experience the former so I dove head first into the latter. Even if Paiger hadn't bribed me, even if Kara hadn't broken me, I still would've gone into exile.

  Just like any other true blue, true blood writer.

  We seek isolation, straight up crave it, it's in our nature, it's what keeps us sane. Too much social contact is poison.

  It's truly a lonely endeavor.

  All I have to do today is write about a show I saw last night. Easy peesy. The weed in Seattle is mighty fine and my stockbroker gets it at a premium. I blaze a monster joint as I cycle through some of my captured footage and take notes, Monty at my side. He loves the ganj, too. Like owner like pet.

  Drinking has become an afterthought. I'll still have a beer or two when I'm at a show or after work, but other than that, I rarely indulge. I really just don't feel like it anymore. There's so much to do in this city and it's all new to me. Every corner I turn there's a house I've never seen, every restaurant I go to there's a dish I haven't tried, and every place I go there's people I've never met. I want to remember it all, make good decisions, make good impressions. I'm through with being a lush.

  And it's luscious.

  I sometimes think I should've left Chicago a long time ago, that maybe improvement was really that simple, that challenging myself to start a new life in a new town was the key to happiness all along. The last ten years flew by so quick, I went to bed twenty and woke up thirty, perpetually hungover, in and out of disaster, breaking hearts and getting my own heart broken time and time again. Nothing ever changed. I was going in circles.

  The definition of insanity is repeating the same action over and over again expecting a different result. A circle. I don't remember who said that, but it was probably someone really smart.

  I guess I was insane.

  I was the Dodger.

  But now... I'm just me.

  I made it.

  My work for the day complete, I kick back on the La-Z-Boy and recline. Sigh with content. The three PM breeze blows in and I start to slink into a midday nap, the only thing on my agenda before I chop up a shitload of veggies for a killer stir fry.

  Then the phone rings.

  I fish it out of my pocket and squint through stonedness at the name.
My eyes widen.

  Paiger.

  I answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Jim.”

  “Hey... Paige. What's up?”

  “Um, quite a bit, actually. Do you have time to talk?”

  “Uh... I guess.”

  “Good. Well, I've got some good news.”

  I suddenly crave a cigarette. “Well, I'm all ears.”

  “Dodger's been optioned.”

  I suddenly crave Jack Daniels. “What?”

  “The book's been purchased by Centennial Pictures. They're making it a movie.”

  It takes a minute, but my stomach catches up with my heartbeat. Then I vomit.

  Monty licks it up.

  “A movie? Are you fucking kidding me?!”

  “Calm down, Jim.”

  “Paige, you fucked me again!”

  “No! No. You'll get your just dues on this, trust me.”

  “The last time I trusted you you published my life story and destroyed the only successful relationship I've ever had.”

  “Yeah, but that's all in the past. I owe you, Jim, I really do. So...”

  “So what? I get to write the screenplay?”

  “No, I've already started doing that.”

  “Oh, of course. So what, ten thousand more dollars?”

  “Jim, I want you to audition for the lead.”

  I sit back, taken aback. “You... want me to act?”

  “Yeah. I mean, there's no guarantee you'll get it, but I wanted to at least offer you the opportunity. I told the producers I knew someone just right for the part. Seriously, who better to play you than you?”

  The irony of the words sink in. Me, play the Dodger. Me, on camera again. Me, not only stepping into the spotlight, but leaping into it with a vengeance. It's a recipe for either success or disaster. Or both.

  I know I shouldn't, that I'll regret it, and even if I don't get the part it'll awaken something inside me I haven't felt for months, and this convenient little contract I have with repression will be breached and I'll have to feel those feelings all over again. Even just talking to Paiger, even just thinking about it, stirs up the old jump off a bridge mentality I've tried so hard to abandon. Well, repress anyway.

  But fuck it.

  It's still my story.

  “So?” she asks. “Can I fly you to LA tomorrow or what?”