By the end of the seventh, the Yankees were up 7-1. That’s when Mark nudged me, and said, “Franco has the hiccups.”
“OK,” I said, “do you know who’s up batting for the Blue Jays?”
“I mean,” Mark said, “he has the hiccups and can’t get rid of them.”
I looked over at Franco and saw him hiccup.
“OK, so?” I said.
“He wants to leave.”
“So?”
“So, he’s pushing my brother to take off as well.”
“And?”
“Well, the game seems kind of done,” Mark said. “I’m in an awkward spot with my brother. I thought you and I could just grab a beer somewhere back in Manhattan and talk.”
“So when does Hiccup boy want to leave?”
“They want to go right now.”
“Freaking sacrilege,” I said.
“I know, I’m sorry.”
“They want to leave right now?”
“Yeah.”
“All right, fine, let’s go.”
Franco was still hiccupping as we left him and Mark’s brother at the 125th street Harlem station.
****
“Between you and me,” Mark said as we sipped gin martinis at an Upper West side bar, “I was kind of looking to get some perspective—relationship advice, I guess.”
“How do you mean?” I asked.
Mark had gone to our wedding, but I didn’t know him well.
“There’s some turbulence going on right now between Camilla and me,” he said, “and I see how solid you and Ashley are. I was looking for your thoughts.”
That piqued my curiosity. I wondered what he was going to say. Had he learned Camilla was fucking another guy behind his back? Had he walked in on her having sex and witnessed another man’s cock going, balls deep, inside his girl—precious little Camilla?
“Sure,” I said, “what’s the turbulence?”
“Well, you know people wonder about us.”
“I didn’t, Mark. What do they wonder about?”
“Well, we’ve been dating for four years, and people think, ‘What’s wrong with Mark? Why hasn’t he slipped a ring on Camilla yet?’ ”
“Well it’s not their business. I mean, who cares what people think, right?”
I could tell he found that response unhelpful.
“I’m sorry,” I added, “are you just not ready for marriage? I mean is that the turbulence? She wants to and you don’t?”
“No, I want to, I’ve wanted to propose for six months, but she’s not sure.”
Had Mark learned sweet but horny Camilla was getting another man’s cock on the side? Was that it?
“Why is she not sure?” I asked.
“Because she wants to stay in Chicago and doesn’t want kids—at least right now—and she knows I want to move back to Jersey and start a family.”
“Oh,” I said, “Why not compromise? Why not try for a baby but stay in Chicago?”
I was being too flip; the martini had gotten to me.
“David, my company’s corporate headquarters are in Jersey. I’ve already turned down one job offer because of Camilla. They’re going to offer me another one there soon. I know that. If I turn that down, I can kiss any future promotion goodbye. I’ll be the dead-ender regional office guy.”
“What does Camilla do again? An event planner, yes?”
“Yeah.”
“And you make more money?”
“Yeah, a lot more.”
“OK, so decision made. You have to take that job offer when it comes. Lay off the pressure on kids for now. She can do event planning in Jersey just as easily.”
“But she has built all her contacts there.”
“To hell with her contacts. She can make new ones.”
“Yeah, but she loves Chicago and the idea of suburban Jersey living nauseates her.”
“So you promise her you’ll do weekends in the city. She went to school here, it’s not like she doesn’t have friends.”
“All I’m saying, Mark,” I continued, “is you need to explain to her that if you don’t take this, all that you’ve worked for is shot to shreds. She will understand that. And if she still doesn’t care, then leave her knowing that you and she weren’t ultimately meant to be.”
“Yeah,” he said, “that’s what I admire about you and Ashley.”
I choked slightly on my martini.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean you both seem so on the same page.”
“Yeah?” I said, “I wasn’t feeling that last night at karaoke.”
“Well at dinner, it seemed like you both have common purpose, and I envy that.”
“Oh man, Mark, no one’s relationship is perfect. I thought we’d be out in the suburbs now and starting to have kids ourselves. But Ashley wants to wait and enjoy our time now in the city. I had to compromise on that. It’s your career; she’s gotta compromise as well.”
Mark pulled out his cell phone, saying, “Hold on.”
The bartender asked if I wanted another. “Sure,” I said, “and one for my friend.”
“Just a Bud Light for me,” Mark said.
“They just got back,” he said to me. “They’re taking a cab over to meet us.”
“Huh?” I said as the bartender handed me my third martini.
“Camilla and Ashley.”
“It’s not even eleven.”
“They caught an earlier bus.”
****
Ten minutes later, they strolled on through in their shorts and tight tops.
“So how are you guys doing?” Ashley asked.
“Just bonding with my boy Mark,” I said.
“I can see that. How was the game?”
“A blowout,” Mark replied, “we left early.”
“We left,” I said, “because of Franco Hiccup-pottomus. Do you know why Franco Hiccup-pottumus made us all leave?”
“Franco’s the guy who had the tickets,” Mark explained.
“Because the Hiccup-pottomus had the hiccups,” I said, “and when Franco Hiccup-pottoumus has the hiccups, what do you think happens? Everyone has to leave.”
“Well, someone is mighty drunky drunky,” Ashley said. “How many of those have you had? Never mind, it doesn’t matter.”
I kept quiet after that and just listened to them tell their stories of their day.
I remember saying, “I’m sorry” and “I love you” on the short cab ride home.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“I just had the strangest dream,” Ashley told me the following morning.
“How so?”
“I was on the beach and a lot of our friends were there. And I started wondering if there was any truth to the whole flapping-your-arms thing.”
“Flapping your arms?”
“Yeah,” she said, laughing and standing up, “you know, like to fly.”
“So I just started doing this,” she said, stretching her arms out and flapping them.
Looking at Ashley like that—in her bra and thong—gave me a boner.
“And suddenly,” she continued, “I was airborne, like a few feet at first, but then like twenty feet, thirty feet. I was like, ‘This flapping your arms stuff really works. Why didn’t I think to ever try this before?’ And everyone was pointing up, saying, ‘Look at Ashley—she’s flying.’ ”
“Sounds fun,” I said.
“Oh, it was a blast, I was bummed to wake up. But now it just doesn’t seem to work so well, does it? What do you say, Dave, are my feet off the ground yet?”
“No,” I replied, “but keep trying, you’ll get the hang of it.”
****
I’m sure to Ashley her dream meant nothing, and who knows what dreams really mean anyway.
But when she was at the gym, I Googled, “Flying dreams” and “meaning.” Many dreamers describe the ability to fly in their dreams as an exhilarating, joyful, and liberating experience. If you are flying with ease and are enjoyin
g the scene and landscape below, then it suggests you are on top of a situation. You have risen above something. It may also mean that you have gained new perspective. Flying dreams and the ability to control your flight represent your own personal sense of power.
What the fuck, I thought.
Had fucking Jim Murta in that bathroom been exhilarating? Did she feel liberated, knowing I accepted it? Did she feel more powerful in our relationship? Did she understand the incredible power she had given that prick that night? Had it been exhilarating to be the center of attention in her dream, flying above everyone in her bikini—or maybe even naked—her tits bouncing for everyone to see?
Where was I in her dream?
****
Ashley called me an hour later, on her way home from the gym, asking, “Aren’t your parents away this weekend?”
“Yeah,” I replied, “are you thinking a pool day?”
“Well, it’s hot already and I just heard it’s going up to 95.”
“I’d be game,” I said, “but my mom told me she’d given a few pool passes to a couple neighbors before she left. So if you don’t mind a few potential freeloaders—”
“I don’t mind. We can make some bloodies at your house.”
“Sure, you got it, Ash.”
No one was there when we arrived. Ashley skimmed the few insects and leaves from the pool while I did the vacuuming.
“Looks better than a pool at a posh hotel,” she said when we finished.
“Yeah, and hotel pools don’t have diving boards—or even deep ends these days.”
“Or a lush floral, rock garden behind it, right?”
I gave her a long kiss before she went back in to make the bloodies. But Ashley had forgotten to bring celery salt.
What seemed like a simple thing turned into me going to three different supermarkets.
Ashley was already outside on a recliner when I returned. She was wearing that sky-blue bikini from the photo in Florida—the one I had just masturbated to yesterday. The next-door neighbor kid from last summer would be all over the view I had of her from the kitchen.
****
The neighbors showed as Ashley was pouring us a second Bloody Mary. They were two older couples in their mid-fifties I’d met before.
“Hi David, I’m sorry, your mom said—” one of the wives began.
“Not at all, Mrs. Seever, I’m the one pool-hopping,” I replied. “My wife and I heard the forecast, and we just had to flee the city.”
I introduced the Seevers and Marshmans to Ashley. They had met her before and said so; the Seevers had attended our wedding. But I’m sure she looked a bit different now, in nothing but her blue bikini.
“We’ve got a pitcher of bloodies,” Ashley said, “what do you say, Jane?”
“It sounds like we came to the right place,” she said.
When the Marshmans said they’d have one, Ashley turned to Mr. Seevers, asking, “Bill, is it ‘yeas’ all around or what?”
“Don’t need to twist my arm,” he said, “sounds good.”
Ashley went to work, running around in her bikini, asking all of them how it tasted … “more mix, more vodka, more spicy?”
“It’s great Ashley,” Jane said. “C’mon, have a seat.”
Ashley began chatting up the wives, so I moved my chair in and talked up their husbands. Neither of them followed baseball, so we talked business, the economy, interest rates … the over-priced home at the end of the street on the market for over a year.
Perhaps Ashley’s conversation had gotten boring as well, because she was encouraging the two ladies into the pool. Once that was accomplished, Ashley began pitching us men.
“The pool thermometer says eighty-one,” she said, “and your wives are waiting for you.”
“Well maybe now you really will have to twist my arm,” Mr. Seevers replied.
“OK, Greg,” Ashley said, walking up to him pretending to reach for his arm.
“I’m going, I’m going,” he said and took off his shirt.
Mr. Marshman hesitated. He was a heavy guy and seemed self-conscious. But I could relate to his checkmate feeling. In a short time, he was in the pool.
Ashley brought out plastic cups and served everyone from the edge of the pool. She was on such display. I watched Mr. Marshman look over at his wife, deep in conversation, before copping another view of Ashley as she set up the iPod deck. She joined us in the pool as Bono sang, “It’s a beautiful day.”
****
About an hour and another bloody later, another neighbor arrived.
Mrs. Seever had told me Jay might show, but also how “with his schedule, you never know.” I had hoped he’d be a no-show. The half-dozen times I’d met Jay in as many years, I’d never cared for him. My parents liked him, or my mom anyway. He built a sunroom on the house a few years ago.
Jay was a blue-collar type living in a white-collar town. Despite owning his own construction business, he had the requisite chip on his shoulder—or at least that’s how it seemed to me—when he walked through the gate with his “I take no bullshit” expression.
But Jay smiled broadly when the neighbors greeted him, saying, “I didn’t know I was coming over to a party.”
“You just made the party official, Jay,” Mrs. Marshman said.
Ashley got out of the pool and introduced herself.
“Hi, Ashley,” I watched him say, “we met at a cook-out last summer. July-Fourth weekend, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Good memory,” Ashley replied, “I thought you looked familiar.”
“Yeah, you had recently gotten married,” he added, “to Dave—how you doing Dave?”
“I’m good. How’re you, Jay?” I said from the pool.
“What are you drinking?” Ashley asked as the water dripped off her. “We’ve got Bloody Marys or there’s beer or soda or—”
“A beer sounds good,” Jay said, “what kind do you have?”
“Hmm, that’s a really good question,” Ashley said, before turning to me, like I was going to rattle off the beer list.
When I didn’t immediately answer, she replied “Just come inside with me, and decide what you like.”
And I just watched as this older construction guy followed my bikini-clad wife into my parents’ kitchen.
Can you stop being a hostess for one friggin’ second, Ashley? I thought. Can you not see how a guy like that might misinterpret your Ashley Martens’ welcome wagon?
I thought of the whole golly-gee way she got out of the pool and greeted him.
“Hi, I’m Ashley, and these are my big tits. You can see my nipples in my bikini. Can I get you something? Some alcohol to drink? And going inside, I can give you a close-up view of my petite, toned ass.”
Being on a beach with Ashley never bothered me. Sure, I noticed guys checking her out. I had a “can’t blame them” attitude—but they’d get nothing more than a look. But then I thought of Ashley’s friends. Sure, Tamara pushed the envelope, but many of them wore one-pieces or bottoms with miniskirts. How is a bikini much different than bra and panties? It’s just two small pieces of cloth away from being naked. Didn’t Ashley know she was giving this construction guy a hard-on or an image he might jerk off to later?
****
When they came back out, Ashley was chatting him up about a house he’d built last year, and he was making her laugh by describing the owner’s idiosyncrasies. “The guy was a real clown,” Jay said, “a fool with money.” Then he took off his t-shirt and stood by the side of the pool drinking his Budweiser.
”Wow,” Ashley said, “You are really ripped.”
“Thanks, not bad for a guy about to turn fifty.”
“Fifty?” Ashley said. “Not bad at all.”
“Well I’ll be fifty August twenty-second. You guys should come to the party they’re throwing for me.”
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