Without knowing it, still lost in the past, Cassandra touched her lips. “The most amazing…” In a trance, she stepped away from them, heading into a different room.
“Hey, sis,” Alex said.
Marisa whirled around at the sound of his voice, only to find Batman standing behind her with a grin. Although she was touched that Alex followed his heart, rather than following Cassandra into her bedroom, Marisa wondered why he needed to enter Cassandra’s home (or kiss her lips) to remember that he was in love with another woman.
Puzzled by that dilemma, Marisa put her hands to her temples. “Excuse me,” she said, “I need a few minutes alone…to get some perspective.”
*
Alex watched her walk away. “What was that about?” he asked, spinning towards Kelsey.
“Anyone named Cassandra ring a bell? Because Marisa just met her.”
“Damn. What does she know?”
“Two things: that you’re in Cassandra’s Hall of Fame for kissing, and that you left her because you were in love with another woman.”
“Damn.”
“You could say that again.”
“I thought I just did.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Let her cool down. Wait, hall of fame?”
“That’s how Cassandra tells it.”
“Huh.” A smile formed.
Kelsey punched his shoulder. “Cocky doesn’t look good on you.” She walked away.
He dropped the grin. A minute later, he caught sight of Freddy Krueger drinking a bottle of beer by himself. The outfit looked incredibly realistic. Alex strolled over to him. “Awesome costume.”
“I know, right?” Freddy Krueger held out a hand for a fist bump.
Alex knocked fists with him.
“Old-school Batman. Nice. Leave the codpiece for a second-rate Gotham crime-fighter, am I right?”
“You know it.” Seeing another person with an elaborate costume, Alex thought about his ride over here: only after getting into his car and pulling into traffic did he realize how bizarre he looked. At stop lights, boys and girls spotted him and hopped up and down on their car seats, hollering and pointing at him (“It’s Batman!”). Their parents, after shouting at them to quiet down, saw Alex and smirked, only to take out their cell phones and snap a picture.
“You drive over in that?” Alex asked.
“Sure did. The best part? I’m sitting at a stop light: you get little kids who’ve never seen Freddy, so I raise my claws, and growl like I’m gonna claw their faces off.” He giggled with maniacal glee. “You should have seen them. Hysterical with fright. Such a riot. Wish I could wear this every day of the week.”
“What’s stopping you?” He disliked the man’s juvenile behavior, and he found the right tactic to get payback.
Freddy acknowledged the point by raising his bottle. “You’re on to something, buddy.” He extended a hand. “The name’s Brad.”
Since Alex hadn’t heard Brad’s voice often, considering that they rarely talked, he hadn’t recognized that the head-banger stood before him until now. Besides, Marisa said Brad planned to dress up as Mark Antony, so how could he have known that he’d willingly stopped over to chat with him?
“I’m Alex.” Brad hadn’t retracted his hand, either preoccupied or too absent-minded to combine the name with his tone. Rather than point out the obvious, Alex decided to have some fun and see how long it took Brad to figure things out, figuring that a conversation about the stock market might drive the point home.
“You notice the price of gas on the way over here?” Alex asked. “It went up another twenty cents a gallon since this afternoon. That’s insane.”
“That’s capitalism. The price per barrel goes up on the market, it goes up at the pump.”
“But it didn’t cost gas stations an extra twenty cents per gallon to purchase that gas. They already had it. So why are they charging drivers more than they paid for it? It’s price gouging.”
“Gas stations charge based on what it costs them to purchase gasoline in the future. Not the past.”
“No kidding,” Alex said, although he’d been aware of that fact for some time.
“Most people don’t know that. I’m a stock broker. Well, actually, I oversee a few mutual funds at my company, so I get the inside scoop.”
Alex almost laughed. Anyone with Internet access and interest in the topic could have found out just as much in five minutes from a simple Google search.
“What I’m worried about,” said Brad, “is that since countries in the Middle East produce almost all of the world’s oil, by importing their oil, we’ll be supporting dictators who’ll become terrorists and attack us for religious reasons.”
He couldn’t believe Brad’s negligent overestimation. Alex had discovered from the CIA World Factbook that in 2014, the top producing oil nations ranked by estimated number of barrels produced per day were: Saudi Arabia, the United States, Russia, China, Canada, and Iran.
Therefore, he could understand why Americans misconstrued the facts. But hearing Brad pass off his statements as truth disturbed him. What other miscalculations had he made with his investors’ portfolios? Alex couldn’t let the issue die, so he presented the case to Brad.
“That may be, but we’re still held hostage by middle-eastern countries if they decide not to meet demand.”
“The same can be said of natural disasters. Look at Hurricane Katrina. The same thing happened with the tsunami that trashed Japan.”
“Hey, check it out, everybody,” somebody yelled. “It’s a debate between Freddy Krueger and Batman about oil and terrorism.”
A Katy Perry song blasting on the radio lowered a few notches.
“My money’s on Batman,” said a woman dressed as a hula dancer as she moved in closer. “He fights for justice. How could he be wrong?”
“Yeah, but Freddy’s seen destruction,” said a man wearing a jail guard uniform. He glanced at Zorro to his left and turned to Ghost Face from the Scream movies. “He knows what happens when shit hits the fan.”
A man wearing a black suit and a white dress shirt stepped forward. “Did someone say terrorism?” He raised his wallet to eye-level. “Fox Mulder, FBI. Can someone tell me—”
“Listen, Fox and the Hound or whoever you are,” said Brad, “we’re just having a friendly conversation.”
Alex had been so focused that he hadn’t noticed the thirty or so people gather around them in a circle to listen in. He felt fine uncovering Brad’s ignorance in private, but he didn’t feel right exposing it to the public. So he tried to trivialize the conversation and end it quickly. “But we’re both in agreement that oil is way overpriced.”
“No, it’s not,” Brad said, annoyed. “I already told you, Batman. The price of the market determines the price of oil, so it can’t be overpriced.”
Alex had given him an easy way out; too bad he refused to take it. “I never said any different. I’m only saying that, taken as a constant indicator, middle-eastern countries aren’t affecting the cost of gas as much as emerging markets like China and India are.”
“They’re not emerging. Those two countries combined have eight times as many people as the U.S.”
Although statistically correct, Brad couldn’t have been more wrong about considering China and India as developed countries. “But on the whole, at least right now, their economies aren’t considered First World countries like America, Germany, or Japan.”
“So what! Who cares?”
It seemed that Brad had forgotten the argument in question. Alex imagined Brad getting his dream shot on CNBC, discussing the market with their professionals who used highfalutin technical terms, speaking with the rapidity of an auctioneer. Brad would get cut off by an anchor or correspondent, if he didn’t get outright stomped on by market analysts who cut through his ignorance with simple statements that might prove difficult for him to comprehend.
Alex said, “Hundreds of thousands of citizens in Chin
a and India are moving into the middle class each month. That means they’re buying cars, which means they’re buying goods and services, which rely on further gasoline consumption.”
“What’s your point? I’m saying that middle-eastern countries have plenty of dictators who control their oil production. And those same dictators hate the U.S., which means they hate freedom; otherwise, they wouldn’t be dictators. Look at Iraq. We had to go in there to get rid of Saddam Hussein. He was trying to get nuclear weapons so he could destroy us. Look at Afghanistan. They were led by al-Qaeda, and Osama Bin Laden was trying to kill every American.”
Incredulous, Alex looked at the crowd around them. Not one dissenter countered any of Brad’s inaccuracies. Their ignorance, or their willingness to believe someone who spoke with conviction, helped explain why the United States got mired in Iraq. At first, Alex found Brad’s fallacious remarks humorous, but seeing Marisa standing on the outskirts of the assemblage, listening to their discussion, the idea that she might spend her life with Brad set a fire inside him.
“First off, the U.S. found no evidence that Saddam was accumulating nuclear materials. Second, al-Qaeda is a terrorist group that believes that any Muslim country that doesn’t follow Islamic law should be overthrown. They weren’t in control of Afghanistan. The Taliban are a militant political group that enforced Islamic law in Afghanistan to create a united Islamic state. They were hiding Osama Bin Laden.
“That’s why the U.S. went into that country: to get rid of Bin Laden and support the rebels who fought against the Taliban. Thousands of American citizens died at the hands of Bin Laden. And thousands of American soldiers died by fighting the Taliban.” Alex shook his head in disgust. “To honor their memory, the next time you open your mouth, you better know what you’re talking about.”
The entire crowd lay silent by the levity of the discussion, and someone had turned off the stereo.
Alex had single-handedly turned a Halloween bash into a morgue. Then he heard Kelsey shout out, “U-S-A.” Within seconds, the party-goers joined in and also began chanting, “U-S-A. U-S-A.”
Under ordinary circumstances, he disliked hearing this arrogant mantra, because while he respected others who loved their country and their zeal for freedom, he thought that people often joined this chorus without considering the deeper meaning of America. In this case, however, every spectator had heard the facts and they understood them, which made Alex smile.
After seven or eight seconds, the group disbanded, the music blared again, and the party continued as if their conversation had never taken place.
Brad stepped into Alex’s path. “Think I didn’t know who you were, you pussy?”
Alex’s heartbeat quickened, but he gained control of his emotions. “Glad to hear you have a brain inside your head. Even if it’s smaller than a peanut.”
“Made me look like an idiot, so now it’s your turn to feel like one. I want your costume.” He moved in closer, leaving only two inches between their faces. “Take it off. Now.”
Alex prepared for an attack. Images of the damage he’d inflicted years ago, along with the fear that getting into another fight, resulting in sending another person to the hospital didn’t reappear beyond his eyes. It seemed that he only needed the willingness to fight when necessary, as well as knowing when to walk away.
And this time, Alex didn’t plan on walking away. “You can go to hell.”
“Do what he says,” Damon said to Alex, walking up to both men, dressed as Rocky Balboa: bare-chested, wearing two red gloves encircling his fists, stars and stripes boxing shorts, and white boots.
Alex glanced at Damon before returning his glare to Brad. “I got this.”
“Remember us talking about bringing in the bazooka? This is it. Your last ditch effort.”
Alex didn’t respond to that. He simply wanted to give Brad what he had coming to him.
“Marisa is watching,” Damon said. “Do you think she’ll call you a hero for starting a fight?” He brushed past him. “Trust me on this,” he said with a severe tone.
Brad held out an arm, offering Alex a chance to head toward the restroom to change.
Alex didn’t want to back down, but Damon hadn’t failed him yet. And he deserved the benefit of the doubt. Without a word, he walked in the direction Brad pointed to, expecting to do as he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Marisa appreciated that Alex had humbled Brad, because her quasi-boyfriend had the impression that, since he had a commanding voice, he should always use it to express his thoughts and opinions. But that didn’t mean that he should. Yet, by that same token, it didn’t mean that she liked seeing Alex embarrass Brad.
“Quick thinking,” she said to Kelsey with a good measure of appreciation. “Starting the U-S-A chant got everybody patriotic, and their brains lost functionality.”
“Just like rebooting a computer. It takes a minute to get back online.”
“And it also gave Brad a chance to save face. Thanks for that.”
“I did it for you. Not for Brad.”
“Come on, he isn’t that bad.”
“And he isn’t that good.”
Marisa considered the comment. It had a lot of merit. Underneath Brad’s lackadaisical approach to consulting common-sense, she’d always thought that he stored a reservoir of intelligence. But Alex had looked inside that reservoir and uncovered ignorance. It seemed that she had given Brad more credit than he deserved.
She couldn’t deny that getting trounced in the debate had rubbed off some of the shine in the way that she perceived him. He no longer looked so self-assured; he looked like a blowhard who couldn’t back up his statements with facts.
More than that, she wondered if he used that voice to project an image that he didn’t quite believe. But she couldn’t know for sure – not without noting his expression: his mask prevented her from seeing his face. Then she recalled his sweet side, the one that had written that poem. And once again, she figured that getting taken down a notch would help him become more conservative, which considering his aggressive nature, might help him in the long run. It might also engender more sensitivity – something he could benefit from.
“What do you mean he isn’t that good?” Marisa asked.
“Don’t get me wrong, I can see why you think he’s sexy, but he’s not as bright as he lets on. And I always figured you for someone who needs intellectual stimulation as much as the physical kind. Besides, he doesn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor. And by the way, he was getting in Alex’s face after their debate, so he seems like a poor loser with anger management issues.”
“You just don’t know him like I do.” If she had misgivings about him, why did she continue to defend him? Because she really believed her words? Or because she wanted to believe them?
“I’m only going by what you told me – and what I saw.”
Marisa watched her friend walk away and meet up with Cassandra. Which, of course, reminded her of Cassandra’s comment about Alex: that he had magic lips. But Alex hadn’t taken the chance to give Marisa the opportunity to make her own assessment. And she’d wanted to. Caught up in that moment, she’d wanted nothing so badly.
Yet, Alex had no problem humiliating Brad in public.
The dichotomy confused her: if he loved her as much as he claimed, why would he pass up the chance to kiss her, but risk getting pounded into oblivious by Brad? The more she pondered that mystery, the more it bothered her.
By defeating Brad in the debate, Alex hadn’t shied away from victory, even though he knew he’d face embarrassment if he’d gotten beat up, so fear wasn’t an obstacle. Then what was it? The unanswered question irritated her, igniting a burning need for answers.
She spun around, hoping to find someone to talk to.
Cassandra stood on her tiptoes, leaning over as she whispered into Batman’s ear, probably congratulating Alex on his victory. She looked up at him, smiling.
Without hesitation, he moved in and ki
ssed her.
Pain stabbed Marisa’s heart, knocking the wind out of her. She stared at the couple, shocked. She wanted to look away, but she didn’t. One day, she would need to pull up this image in her mind. At that time, Alex would once again profess his love for her. And with perfect clarity, she would recite the evidence from this very moment.
By the way Alex puckered his lips against Cassandra’s, however, Marisa was relieved that she hadn’t kissed him a few days ago. She imagined the sensation of feeling his lips opening and closing against hers like a goldfish – and felt sure it would have repulsed her.
Right now, the whole affair looked awkward: although his lips touched Cassandra’s, their bodies couldn’t have been further away, lending the impression that they both stood on the ledge of a cliff, their arms wavering out in front of them, trying to find their balance. When they finally embraced, he pulled her toward him, but both participants continued drifting their hands across their waists, backs, and shoulders, trying to find a comfort level that eluded them.
Finally, sensing that magic would not hit twice, Cassandra twitched, lifted her palms, pressed them against Alex’s chest, and pushed him away. The effort dislodged the hat from her head. She kneeled down, snatched it up, and got to her feet, wincing at him as she dragged her forearm across her lips.
She looked deep into his eyes, shaking her head slowly at first but quicker as a couple seconds ticked away. Obviously, she didn’t see the same intensity she’d hoped to see there.
Then Cassandra slapped his face. She turned, made her way to the front door, and walked away with purpose, with pride.
Alex just stared after her, head cocked, confused.
Satisfied that she’d seared that bizarre lip-lock into her mind, Marisa made her way upstairs and into an empty guest bedroom, looking out the window at the glittering stars against a cloudless night sky.
She hoped the darkness would clear her mind, but she couldn’t remove the hideous spectacle with Cassandra from the forefront of her brain. More than that, she couldn’t get over the idea that Alex had lied to her. She understood why he tried to kiss Cassandra – to see if he could look past his feelings for another woman. But if he’d truly loved Marisa, he never would have attempted to kiss Cassandra again.
One Step Away (A Bedford Falls Novel Book 1) Page 21