Vodka Warrior

by Mickey J Corrigan

  When I opened the front door, Dooley slopped around on the stoop, head down, shoulders hunched. His lovely young mother grinned at me from their toothpaste-white Porsche SUV. “I’ll be back at five,” Mrs. Nudstein called in her breathy, I’m-off-to-shop voice. I tossed her a wave and stepped back so Dooley could lumber inside.

  Dooley was seventeen going on eight academically. But he had some street smarts. A short lifetime spent outfoxing bullies in the most exclusive, most cut-throat private schools for spoiled brats had taught the fat rich boy some of the rougher facts of life. Math did not come naturally to Dooley, but he had keen senses and could usually see through a mound of bullshit.

  “You reek of beer, Ms. T,” he said. “Can I have one?” When I laughed, he added, “My parents let me drink on the weekends. And during the week if they have a party.”

  His round face was serious, and his wide blue eyes were as empty as the sky. I doubted he was lying, but still. Not my purview.

  “For your information, I’ve just come in from my garden, where I was using a beer and soap concoction to get rid of an infestation of Japanese white flies. And no, Dooley, you certainly cannot have anything to drink.” I pointed toward the living room, where we had our lessons, and made a little get a move on motion with my hand. “Besides, I do not keep alcohol in the house. Even if I did, you would not be drinking any of it.”

  My student snorted. Then he dragged his bulk over to the couch and sank onto the fluffy cushions with a sigh. “Just thought we could party a little. I’m not in the mood for math today, Ms. T.” He sighed again. “I’m depressed.”

  I could see why. His life had been spent paddling upstream against a rushing torrent in an unending attempt to catch up to boatloads of cooler, smarter, more popular peers. He’d never overtake them or earn their respect. It was impossible and he knew it. If he’d been a genius, maybe the other kids would have left him alone. Nerds had been upgraded in the digital age, and they occupied a valued place in the social hierarchy. But a porky kid without a high IQ? Dooley was doomed.

  I knew all this because I’d seen it play out many times before. In the classroom, in my own home. As a kid, my daughter had struggled to fit in. Whenever the other kids picked on Jamie for wearing last year’s hand-me-downs from the local thrift store, I’d felt so guilty. Turned out it was my fault she wasn’t elected prom queen or homecoming chair or vice president of her class. Because once she moved on, away from me, she made a thousand friends and created the life she’d always wanted—without me in it.

  “Let’s focus on your work for today,” I told my student. “If you do well, that might cheer you up.”

  “A blunt might cheer me up, Ms. T. Long division? Not gonna help.” He bent forward to dislodge the canvas backpack holding his textbooks and pencils. “But whatever. My mom says if I flunk tenth again I have to transfer to a different school. Some military prison she’s got picked out. Way away in Montana.” He looked at me. “I don’t even know where Montana is. Next to California?”

  To save time, I nodded. This news was depressing me, too. I relied on the Nudsteins for a regular paycheck. Shipping off Dooley would leave a gaping hole in my tutoring schedule and a yawning crater in my income. I only had a handful of students, most of whom came only once a week. Dooley’s special needs had worked in my favor. Now this.

  I excused myself and snuck off to the kitchen for a few sips of too-warm beer. He’d already smelled it on me, so why not continue to indulge? If ever there had been a time for vodka, though, this was it. Just as I reached for my mug, that’s when the music started up—No Church in the Wild, pulsing, pulsing, pulsing at maximum volume.

  Dooley yelled from the living room, “Hey, Ms. T, what’s with the super-loud Jay Z?”

  Maybe if I hadn’t had those beers, I wouldn’t have reacted the same way. Maybe if Dooley hadn’t told me he was being deported due to an obvious failure to learn grade school math from me, I wouldn’t have freaked out. But everything stacked up against me when I realized my new neighbor was taunting me during the lesson I’d specifically warned him about.

  Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe fuck me. I stormed out the back door and rushed headlong across my yard, aiming straight for the hot tub. I could hear them sloshing about and laughing, oblivious to everything but their own hedonism.

  “Vario, could you please turn down the volume,” I yelled as I reached the deck.

  That’s when I noticed the couple, alone in the tub.

  “Vario’s not here,” said Candy or Taffy or whoever.

  I recognized her from the night before, the lankiest of the three and the youngest at maybe twenty. Her pink cupcake flotillas bobbed on the frothy surface of the water. The steam that arose around her exposed flesh had melted some of the mascara off her long lashes and onto her cute face. She looked good enough to eat.

  “He said he’ll be by later. This here’s Mr. Courtney, the manager of Golden Date Palms. He’s got a bad back so we’re working the kinks out.” She smiled sweetly at me.

  I wished I didn’t give half a fuck, but I did. This was outrageous. A hooker in the hot tub next door, cozying up with the development manager? What the fuck? My heart raced, beating a mad woman’s pyre dance in my head.

  Mr. Courtney had sunk down in the tub until only his rheumy eyes were showing above the water line. His shiny scalp had turned radish red from the heat or the sun or embarrassment. If I were to file a complaint about my new neighbor to the homeowners’ association, Mr. Courtney would be the person to handle the issue.

  A good fucking, Vario had said. And this was what I got?

  “Hey, looks like fun,” a voice behind me interrupted. A warbling, up-and-down-the-scales, very excited, teenage boy voice. I whipped around in time to see Dooley, stripped of his T-shirt, working to unzip his baggy shorts. His white-boy belly was doughy and round, like a baby’s. “Now this oughta get rid of my depression!”

  Fortunately, the girl in the tub was able to put a stop to his enthusiastic approach. “No kids allowed. We’re consuming alcoholic beverages in here. Don’t want to get anyone in trouble.” She held up a plastic glass of champagne as proof, and my student zipped up. Thank god.

  The day’s lesson was for shit, however. Understandably, Dooley lacked focus. The music continued to pound and carloads of partygoers squealed up out front and the drunken laughter got louder and louder. By the time Mrs. Nudstein arrived at five, there were so many vehicles she had to double-park out on the street.

  I walked my student to the door. His head was down, he seemed more dejected than when he’d arrived. I patted him on the shoulder and called out to his mom, “Sorry about the ruckus.” She shook her perfect blow-dry bob and pointed to her ear as if to say, Can’t hear a freaking thing.

  Two beers later, the phone rang. I wasn’t all that surprised to hear Mrs. Nudstein on the line. She ripped me a new one for about five minutes. “How could you allow Dooley to see a naked woman? How could you charge for a lesson when the noise was so loud the boy came home with a headache? And what’s this about you drinking beer?” Then she fired me.

  Really, I was expecting something of the sort, but I still felt I’d been victimized. When I tried to explain about the new neighbor and his twisted, vindictive ways, Dooley’s mother interrupted with a curt, “I’m not listening to your excuses, Theresa.”

  Right. I swallowed the last of my umpteenth beer. Looked like it was high time for a trip to the late-night liquor store.

  Mrs. Nudstein cleared her throat for a final volley. “Theresa, I’m sorry to say this, but your lessons have been wholly ineffective. Dooley’s more lost with his math studies than when I hired you four years ago. Now I understand why. You’re a troubled woman. My boy has been traumatized. He’ll need counseling. And you, you really shouldn’t be working with vulnerable children.”

  Even before she clicked off, I’d already grabbed my purse and was heading out to my car. It wasn’t easy maneuvering out of my driveway, and I might have clip
ped a sleek maroon sports car that was parked in the swale. I heard a faint grating sound as I backed past it. Oh, well. I had plenty of drunk driving dents already, a new one wouldn’t even show.

  Soon enough, I was home again with a brown bag of discount vodka and a trial-size package of a new mixer called “Pineapple Delight.” Hard stuff had not been my choice of poison for quite some time. But it sure looked like I was returning to some old bad habits.

  And yes, the pineapple stuff was delightful. So delightful I mixed up a blenderful of pineapple vodka, which I carried out to the patio. Along with the frosted mug I usually reserve for beer.

  The party was in full swing. People spilled out of the tub and across the crowded deck. Couples with and without bathing suits lurched and gyrated under the rinky-dink roof lights. Dark shapes meandered around the small yard, drinking from bottles and cups. The techno-beat throbbed in the humid night. I could smell the ocean, the brine drifting in with a gusty west-moving wind. Stars overhead were like pinpricks of light shining through a thick sheath of navy blue sailcloth. There was something primal in the air. Primal and dangerous.

  Dolores streaked past, followed by the skinny Ruff. They chased one another around my patio, then disappeared.

  Just another night in paradise. I should’ve relaxed, enjoyed the perfect evening and sloshed off to bed. But I was boozed up, angry, and aching with something I couldn’t identify. My therapist said it was an existential angst. I think it was more of a suicidal loneliness. Whatever you wanna call it, the urge overtook me to crash Vario Fumesti’s party.

  And yes, three generous glasses of pineapple vodka was all it took. I stood up on rubbery legs and said out loud, “Vario, my man, watch and learn.” Then I blasted out of my yard like a pebble from a slingshot.

  Chapter Four

  Recovery Mode

  My memory of events right after that are hazy, but Oscar was there, watching from his bedroom window. So was Mr. Courtney, only he had a front row seat. I guess I kind of broke the manager’s nose when I cannonballed into the party throng in the tub. One of the strippers lost a tooth. So, yeah, a few folks did get knocked around.

  Vario claimed I ripped the tendon in his left knee when I landed on him. Because I landed right in his lap. Boy, was his expression priceless. I do recall that pretty clearly. That and his larger than life dick. I had my hand on it before I even knew what I was grabbing onto. Shows you what the unconscious mind can do.

  The knee injury, though, that seemed like a bunch of bullshit to me. At the time, I figured it for an old work-out injury and he’d gone and filed a claim just to fuck with me.

  Vario’s knee wasn’t my most pressing problem, anyway.

  There was a helluva lot of fallout from that wild splash into the tub full of naked partiers. For example, future tutoring was out, because I now had an arrest record. One that precluded working with children anywhere in the county. I also received a citation from the homeowners’ association that basically invited me to sell my house in Golden Date Palms and move my sorry ass elsewhere. Plus, the medical bill for my shoulder injury—visit to the ER, X-rays, scans and doctor’s exams—ran fourteen pages and added up to thousands of dollars I didn’t have.

  For a long moment, bankruptcy seemed inevitable. But I was able to hold the line. Somehow. I had to eat some big crow. Mandated penance included AA, which can be such a bore, and anger management classes, which were for shit. Addiction counseling turned out to be kind of interesting. Wow, me, a narcissist? I never would’ve guessed it, but it sure looked like I had me some issues.

  The way I saw it, my old life had been torpedoed. Wham-o, gone. This freaked me out. It was like control over my own life had been blasted away, ripped from my hands. Still, I complied with the rulings in my case to placate my neighbors and because my daughter promised to come see me once I was sober for six months. I missed Jamie. I wanted her back in my life.

  My addiction counselor called my running dive into the crowded hot tub a cry for help. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe fuck me. Whatever. Right after the accident—my counselor said it wasn’t an accident, but of course he’d say that—I complained about how the whole mess was caused by Vario Fumesti. If he hadn’t moved in next door, my days would have gone on being dull but unmessy. Well, to be honest, my life had been a bit of a mess. But without his hunky torso on full display, taunting me to do things I never would’ve done before, my existence could have remained a lot less messy. No matter what my counselor claimed, I knew for a fact the goddam body god was the cause of all the upheaval in my life.

  For weeks after the accident, I didn’t lay eyes on Vario. He was holed up at Oscar’s, recovering from his—I thought—fake leg injury while I lounged around my place, worrying about my future. I had good reason to fret. My options were like fading taillights in a fog, growing ever dimmer. No work, no income, no nothing but new threats to my financial well-being arriving daily via certified mail. After the city’s nuisance case against me got dropped when I agreed to the classes and addiction counseling, the chaos settled down a bit. Dooley stopped by once or twice to chat with me. He felt bad about squealing on me to his mother.

  One afternoon, my ex-student brought over a tight little joint and we smoked it out on the back patio. I still wouldn’t give him a beer, even though he whined about it. In my mind, a few cold ones in the privacy of my own home did not erase my long month of sobriety, but sharing Bud Lights with a minor would’ve been suicidal.

  As for the dope, I knew it was wrong to partake with a teenager, but I felt so defeated, so beaten down, I just couldn’t say no to the harmless but enticing weed. Dooley was almost eighteen, right? Plus, my shoulder hurt. Medicinal marijuana could play an essential role in my new life.

  After he passed the hand-rolled to me and I took a hit, my former student said, “Aiite, Ms. T! Peace out.”

  Peace out my ass. I closed my eyes and slumped as low in the aluminum deck chair as I could. There was a tiny nip in the air, the kind of cool tease you get a few times each winter down here in the tropics. I shivered, released the sweet smoke, and tried to settle my frayed nerves.

  Life wasn’t over. Sure, I was dead broke, painfully injured, and living next door to a monster, but I had friends. Well, one friend. As soon as I opened my eyes, my best pal gave me an approving nod, his hand outstretched. I accepted the rapidly diminishing spliff for one more solid hit.

  “Ms. T? Can I ask you something?” Green smoke curled out of his wide nostrils like a wiry mustache. “I can’t talk to anybody else.”

  Shit. I clenched my abdominals. A confidence was coming. I didn’t want to hear whatever it was he was about to launch into, I really didn’t. But I was smoking his bud, we were alone, there was no way out. Kicking and screaming inside my head, I was about to be admitted into the private club of a young man’s inner world. Ugh.

  I smiled at my former student. Patiently, like a teacher should. Was Dooley gay? Suicidal? A wannabe serial killer, a fetishist, in love with me?

  I tried not to laugh, but I must have started to smirk because he said, “This is serious, Ms. T. Dead serious.”

  He frowned at me. His pale face loomed over me like a bulbous moon. Was it the herb, or did his head resemble one of Saturn’s moons? Rhea, specifically, with its vast white cratering.

  I must have been gawking at him like a true stoner, because little tears of frustration edged over the rims of his eyes, fluttering down the slopes of his chipmunk cheeks. “I’m fat, Ms. T. I’m fat and I’m fucked. I’m never gonna get a girlfriend, or a good job, or have a good life. Not unless I get into shape.”

  He searched my face. I’d wiped it of sarcasm and replaced it with real understanding. I thought about what he said. The kid was right. His brains weren’t going to save him, so his body would have to. My own body had transformed into an air ball and my limbs felt light and strong, like I could run ten miles in my bare feet.

  I pointed to what was left of the joint. “Good shit. Where’d you get it
?”

  “My folks give it to me. For my ADHD.”

  Figures. The parents fed him a diet of fattening foods, chronic, and party booze, yet I was off the menu? Hardly seemed fair.

  The palm fronds rustled their hula skirts, making a grassy sound, and one of Oscar’s cats let out a creepy yowl. Dooley shifted in his seat, anxious for some wisdom from Teach.

  Sighing, I said, “You may be right, Dool. It’s hard enough to hook up with somebody anyway, never mind if you’re an outsider.” And boy, was Dooley an outsider. He was so far outside, he was floating in pocket airspace. He wasn’t even on board the ship.

  Maybe I was peaking on my high because, in the middle of watching images on my inner movie screen of greasy pizza slices doused in hot sauce, I had this wild and crazy thought.

  Vario Fumesti.

  Turning to scan his teenage body, I said, “You aren’t that fat, Dooley.”

  Really, it wasn’t so awful. His T-shirt bagged over a jelly tummy, the jeans sagged off rounded hips in droopy drawers, but he was nowhere near obese. He just needed to trim the gut, run off the baby blubber, and tone up the muscles. He had the height, and he was still growing. He might end up over six feet. So if he carried himself right, he could make his bulk work for him.

  My mind started to rev.

  “Think your mom would pay to get you whipped into shape? Cuz I could do that. I mean, I know somebody who might help. Guy next door works at a gym. Maybe you could train with him. But private lessons would be expensive.” Not that he cared. His parents rocked dough. “He’s a total body god, Dool. Ripped and cut like some MMA champ. Um hmm.”