A Life of Inches (12 page)

In the dim light of the bar, the cut on his face seems to move on its own. “Look, I’m not some errand boy or first-timer. I’ve made a career out of this. No matter who you are or how special you might’ve been, I do business my way or no way, got it?”

Put in my place, I give Delvin my full attention. I sway a bit and belch. “Maybe I could’ve skipped that last drink.”

“You haven’t needed the last three.” Delvin leans in, rubbing heavily jeweled fingers through his beard. “Do you understand the repercussions I face if this offer is a baited trap? How do I know this meeting wasn’t set up by the DEA? How can I be certain that you’re coming to me with a legitimate desire to strengthen your body and be the player I know you can be? If I was smart, I would walk out that door right now and lose your number.”

I chuckle at the absurdity of his comments. “Is it backend money you’re after, Delvin? Is that it? Do you think I give a rat’s ass what it costs me to pitch in the majors at this point? Do you want me to sign some contract in my own blood promising you millions of dollars? Because I’ll go ahead and cut myself right here right now and we can use this napkin to make it official. I’m a pitcher, Delvin, that’s who I am, and I’m prepared to do what it takes to make it before it’s too late. Money not enough for you? How about we head out to your fancy sports car so you can pump that needle in my arm. Right. Fucking. Now.”

Delvin opens and closes his pursed lips rapidly, as if peppering an imaginary woman with kisses.

After his invisible gal is overwhelmed, Delvin shoots me a measured glance. “Go to the middle stall of the bathroom. Lift off the top of the toilet. There are three needles inside the bag you’ll find, so be very careful. I’m not promising anything and you’re not committing to anything. I know you’re all hell-bent on making your dreams happen, but no matter what we decide, I’m guessing the only thing you will accomplish tonight is to regurgitate the excess alcohol you’re forcing down your throat.”

He sips his tea. A flash of mischief sparkles in his eyes over the cup. “And I’m sorry to disappoint, but I won’t be demanding any of your blood. Not tonight, anyways. Grab the bag and head home. Call me tomorrow. I’ll explain what each vial will do, when to use them, and whatever details you need. Do not take them until we’ve spoken. Got it?”

We separate with a handshake. I make my way to the bathroom.

A poignant potpourri of urinal cakes, old cigarettes, and the unmistakable odor of substandard cleaning practices assaults me as I enter the second stall and open the toilet. My eyes, growing heavier by the second, flirt with closing as I try to recount each drink I’ve imbibed. Before I can pull out the bag, the bathroom door opens. I freeze and listen.

The newcomer is muttering and sniffling as if his sinuses are going as wild as my excited, nervous heart. One thing is for sure, that isn’t Delvin coming back to give me further instructions. When the man begins to relieve himself at one of the urinals, I drop onto the toilet seat and pray the stall stops spinning. Reading the graffiti written on the forest green divider, I wonder if it’s true that I could enjoy a magical evening if I called Topeka.

I grab the package, handling the glass needles with care.

Unwrapping the cloth, I see the first needle is short and fat, its syringe covered with bands of red lettering. The second is long and thin and all the writing is a dark blue. The liquid has a yellowish tint, like urine, which I find unsettling. The third and final vial is full of clear liquid, as was the first, but the lettering is green. ‘Warning.’ is labeled just above the needle with a very emphatic exclamation point.

The urinal flushes and the drunken man, still muttering, stumbles toward the door without washing his hands.

I rewrap the needles as a wave of guilty exhilaration and hope swells within me. Deciding it’s time for a celebratory shot, I unlock the stall door just as the drunken man lets loose a sickening fart that echoes around the bathroom.

He giggles. “That was a close one.”

Suppressing the urge to laugh with him or to comment on what has just happened, I cover my mouth with my free hand.

“Better make sure…” the man continues. He bangs into the wall.

Judging by his shuffling feet and awkward commentary, the man is fighting a losing battle with his equilibrium. “Gotta, remember to tell her. Gotta remember to—oh, boy.”

This time he lunges forward and knocks into my stall, which I have just begun to open. The force of his momentum carries him crashing through the door, smashing it back toward me. I fall back, clutching my needle-filled bag with both arms, leaving nothing to slow my momentum. My back crashes into the toilet as my head smacks the wall, the wind whooshing from my lungs.

The package presses into my stomach, and then bounces up as my fingers spring open from the force of impact. One of the needles flies free, up and away from my body. I let out a yelp of pain and surprise as my eyes comprehend the disaster that’s about to take place.

The man falls forward, too drunk to react.

I watch the green-lettered needle spinning in midair as it heads toward the dirty blue and brown tile of the bathroom floor.

Athletic instincts override the dulling effects of the alcohol. My arm, a blur of speed, snatches the falling needle just an inch before it smashes to the ground. The cloth still holding the other two needles tickles my right ear. “Holy shit, champ. You still got it.” I say, unable in my current situation to properly pat myself on the back.

The groans emanating from both me and the other man seem to harmonize in the same annoying pitch. I wipe blood away from my upper lip, though I can’t recall anything hitting my nose to cause the trickle of red.

I exhale a long, nerve-wracked breath and confirm that not only did I catch the renegade needle, but I also managed to avoid squeezing it on the way down. I thank my lucky stars that I still have the pitchers’ touch.

The fallen drunk man shifts, catching my attention. I ask, “You all right, mister?”

He gaze fixes on my hand and the needle protruding from it. If ever I needed a quick sob story about diabetes, now is the time. Then again, this guy appears 6 beers passed tipsy, so it shouldn’t be too difficult a situation to talk myself out of. Our eyes meet and I stare into a reflection of myself. The eyes are my eyes.

I ask, “Dad?”

Whatever hurt Michael Kelly felt earlier at the funeral doesn’t even compare to the pain visible in his eyes now. They peer back at me with a mixture of horror, disappointment, and utter comprehension.

My attempt to rise onto my knees fails as my dad’s anger boils into action and he shoves me back against the toilet. Again, breath escapes my lungs, leaving only a dizzy grasp on the world shattering around me. A left jab from my father effectively ends any excuse offering I could devise. Just like riding a bike, when you learn to throw a good punch, you never forget, and unfortunately for me, my father was a pro. The familiar taste of my blood fills my mouth. My attempts to cover my head prove useless against his kicking legs and thrashing arms. Within moments, my body numbs to the pain of the attack, but nothing can prepare me for the verbal assault my father unleashes through tears of anger and disappointment.

His hoarse voice echoes around the bathroom. “You damned junkie. Now I know why you were too weak to make something of yourself.”

I scream, “Please, Dad
, please stop.
”

One blow pivots my head, smashing my temple into the toilet paper dispenser. I’m unsure if the loud crack comes from the dispenser or my skull.

He says, “You’re dead to me.”

As the blue and brown tiles are stained with droplets of red, I fade to black.

Chapter Sixteen

September 4, 2005

“The Tribe wins!”

A standing room only crowd of electrified fans cheers as our hometown team bludgeons the visiting Yanks at Jacob’s field.

My throat feels raw from all the cheering, yelling, and flirting I did during the game. I couldn’t have asked for a better night to get my mind off of everything. Well, it would’ve been better if I was playing for the Indians, but those dreams ended unceremoniously as I bled onto the bathroom floor.

Tonight I’m on a date with Rosaria, a statuesque African-Latino-American aerobics instructor from the fitness center where I’ve worked since retiring—and yes, Mitch owns this gym as well. He and I have shared some of the same talks about Molly that Woodie and I used to have. From what I’ve heard, Molly has broken a few hearts since her father passed away. Mitch thinks she’s going through some post-traumatic outburst, but I just think our egos are unable to process someone not loving us. In fact, seeing Woodie and Mitch act like mopey teenagers has helped me move on.

Besides being attractive, as an aerobics instructor Rosaria keeps herself in great shape. She recently added streaks of green, purple, and pink in her curly hair and the look drives me wild. I’m anxious to see where this night leads. My phone buzzed several times during the game, my mom calling. She only reaches out to me when my dad isn’t around. He and I don’t speak anymore. I’m sure she’ll understand next time we talk when I explain I was on a date.

I rub Rosaria’s ear with my thumb. “Ready to get out of here?”

“Sure, but will you stop it with those puppy dog eyes? You knew he would have to retire someday.”

The
he
Rosaria refers to is my favorite Indian of all time, Jeremy Wilder. He announced a few days ago that he’s retiring at season’s end. There’s nothing to make you feel older than witnessing your childhood idols hanging up their gloves.

I search the crowd and see several Wilder jerseys. “Good to see my guy going out on top, though. Now start the countdown to Cooperstown.”

As his own protest against the oncoming end, Jeremy demolished a three-run homer in the 7th inning, sending the ballpark into an eardrum-bursting frenzy. It was the loudest Jacob’s field has been since the late '90s.

Since I’m in impress Rosaria mode, I fought against my nature and parked in the expensive garage attached to the stadium rather than in my usual spot about a mile away. On the one hand, I enjoy walking with my fellow fans out to the bars, whooping and hollering for the Tribe, but on the other I desire to get my date back to my apartment for a different kind of whooping and hollering.

Veering my car onto I-90, I head west. So far, I’ve played it cool, after being out of the dating game for so long, much to my surprise.

Underneath a cashmere shawl, Rosaria sports a pink Grady Sizemore jersey so tight it leaves very little to the imagination. She notices me checking her out. “So I’ve seen you at the gym, a lot, and thought you noticed me, but I figured by the time you made a move, we’d be getting the senior discount.”

Her confident tone betrays a flirtatious and aggressive nature. Rosaria’s intense workouts have become water cooler legends around the gym for the last year. She wears minimal makeup, allowing her true natural beauty to shine.

“Yeah,” I stumble, “I’ve seen you, but I just try and get the most I can out of the gym. I’m focused on my comeback.”

“Comeback, are you serious?” When she doesn’t detect a hint of humor from me, she narrows her eyes. “When was the last time you played?”

“This summer, I was with Lorain County.”

“Lorain County? They aren’t even an affiliated team.”

I shrug. “You asked.”

“Were you starting or coming out of the bullpen, like the old days?” She giggles when I do a double-take.

“Truth be told, I’m their pitching coach.”

Her giggles explode into incredulous chortles. “You’re not even playing?”

Not that I expected her to be impressed by me pitching on a team no one has heard of, but at least it was cooler than being a coach. “Sounds weird, doesn’t it? I feel too young to be done, but my shoulder disagrees with me.”

Rosaria squeezes my biceps. “Oh, you feel too old, huh? Try becoming a gymnast, they told me to hang it up when I turned fourteen.”

“I was just getting started then.”

“I know, right? Before I was in high school my dreams of making the Olympic squad got squashed. I stuck with it for a few years into college, going through the motions, but when it was time, I walked away with no regrets.”

“Well, you’re a better person than I am. If a team called me right now with a roster spot in the Siberian League, I’d be on the first plane to Russia.”

Rosaria runs a hand down my forearm. “I admire your dedication. In fact, I find it sexy. Most guys spend all day working to find an easier way, while you, you just grind it out until the job is done.”

As she licks her thick, cranberry lips, Rosaria undoes her jersey’s top button. I decide that the unconfident, bashful approach will serve me well, so I play my role in hopes of a reward. “I’d love to take credit for grinding, but it’s just an old habit I developed after years of non-stop rehabbing. Sometimes to get through the monotony, I daydreamed of taking the field again.”

In the passenger seat, Rosaria bats her eyes. “Oh, I see the former big football star is too good for us little folks at the gym.” She gives my shoulder a playful push. “That’s right, I’ll never forget that blue number 52 jersey plowing over my quarterback boyfriend in a playoff game.”

I puff out my chest. “Wow, I must’ve made quite the impression.”

“Yeah, it was a blow to our relationship. Up until then, I thought he was the toughest kid in the city, but after that play it couldn’t be the same between him and me. You demolished him with the hardest hit I’d ever seen. When his teammates had to carry him off the field, I knew I wanted to meet you. Of course, back then it was to slap you for hurting my boyfriend, but now…” Rosaria trails off and gives me a look that sends a tidal wave of dopamine pumping through me.

I can picture the guy she must be talking about, because I only played one year of football, but I can’t remember his name. “Jeez, sorry for ending your relationship. Wasn’t his name like Lamarca or Larocco or something?”

“LoCastro.” Her tone pained that I don’t recall.

“Yeah. Yeah. Well again, sorry. All I wanted to do was win, and your guy got in my way. Nothing personal.”

“No biggie. It’s ancient history.” She slides her hand up my leg. I hadn’t even noticed it there until she moved. “He’s a great guy, but I’m glad I saw you at the gym. I’ve wanted to meet you for some time.”

We’re almost to my place, and I’m finding it very tough to concentrate on the road as she leans over and starts kissing my neck. I say, “Listen, I don’t know what you have planned for the night, but I’m not feeling up for going out to the bars. Would you like to come over to my place?”

“Wow,” Rosaria purrs, still kissing. “Listen to Mr. Confident over here. A few days ago, I couldn’t get your attention at the gym even if I danced topless around your weight bench, and now you’re pumping up the smooth-man vibe like a set of military presses.”

She giggles and nibbles on my ear. The smooth purple cashmere shawl falls from her shoulders as she works her magic. “Looks like I won’t be needing this to keep me warm, after all.”

As I steer the car into the parking lot of my apartment complex, Rosaria stops kissing me long enough to undo another button on her jersey. Before I shift the car into park, Rosaria has unbuckled my seat belt and forced a warm hand under my shirt.

A chill of excitement ripples across my chest as Rosaria tickles me with her elaborately painted fingernails. I say, “Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten any of my moves. I’ll always be a safety at heart.”

All rationalization flies out the window as we maneuver in for a full-on kiss, except one thought, which clicks into place just as she dives in for another kiss.

“Wait. Wait a sec,” I say, the words muffled by my busy lips.

Every inch of my self-respect begs me to shut up and keep kissing. Fighting the urges, I push Rosaria back far enough to assure her full attention. “A few minutes ago, did you say, ‘he’s a great guy’ as-in, still a great guy and still your boyfriend?”

The growing silence weighs heavier by the moment, and I see she’s uncertain how to answer.

“Well, yeah, we’re still dating,” Rosaria says at last. “In fact, we’re engaged, but what does that have to do with us, here and now?”

“Well, come on. I mean…”

The devil and the angel sit on my shoulders, pleading their cases as I stall for time. “I mean, you’re engaged and all. I don’t want to ruin that for you.”

As I recalibrate my moral compass, she keeps unbuttoning her jersey, and it seems that every time I decide to end the night, another button separates. In the end, what do I care if this ruins her marriage or her chance at happiness? Heck, this guy is a bum I crushed in high school. Maybe I’m doing her a favor.

Nature gets the best of me, and once again, I find myself back on the field rushing toward my goal, one hundred percent focused. This time, when the seductress leans in for another kiss, I don’t push, I pull her forward. We dash into my building and onto the elevator. With each floor it raises, so does the heat. Between kisses, bites, and whatever else she’s doing, Rosaria manages some seductive conversation as we exit onto my floor. “I want you to treat me like the quarterback from another team.”

Pressing her against the door to my apartment, I search my pockets for the keys, and use my other hand to search elsewhere. She grabs at the doorknob for balance and lets out a surprised shout.

I tumble into her as the door opens. I shout, “Holy crap,” as she lets out a yelp as we fall through, four arms shooting out to regain balance. As quick as I may be, I’m unable to prevent our crash onto the floor.

“Well that was unexpected,” I manage, regaining my breath. “Has the gym made that much of an impact, or could you break down doors before you started there?”

Though stunned, she lets loose a devilish grin. “Is it safe to assume there’s nothing worthwhile in here for people to steal, so you just leave it unlocked all the time?”

“Well, you’re right to assume that for sure, but I still don’t just leave my door unlocked. Stay here. I’ll see if anyone’s in the apartment.”

Searching the living room, I find no evidence of a break-in, but I don’t understand why my door was unlocked.

“Oh, is the big strong man going to protect little helpless me? Get real, I’m coming with you.” Rosaria says, as she gathers her hair into a thick ponytail.

She seems as excited as when we were in the hall, but for different reasons now. After a few steps toward the main hallway, my gym-rat date pauses, as if she’s remembered something or just had an idea.

“Unless—,” Her green eyes widen. “Wait, you mentioned you live alone, but do you have a girlfriend already, or a boyfriend? Please, Ryan, tell me you’re not gay and I’m just a cover.”

Speaking mostly to myself, I ask, “Why the hell is my door unlocked?”

My parents possess the only spare, and I doubt my father has softened enough to apologize for kicking my ass. That rift I consider irreparable. So why would my mom visit?

Idiot, the phone calls. “My mom called me while we were at the game, I’m guessing it’s her in there.”

Rosaria sighs and rolls her eyes, unconvinced.

I say, “This doesn’t happen often.”

I intend to ask Rosaria to give me a few minutes to handle things, but I fall silent when we both hear someone sobbing softly in my bedroom.

The sobbing stops and a strained, stressed female voice asks, “Ryan? It’s Molly in here. I’m sorry for barging in.”

Rosaria shoots me a sideways glance, all thoughts of romance dashed.

I rub my bald scalp. “Rosaria, I had an awesome time and would love to see you again, but I need to help my…”

Roommate? Sister? Friend? Mother? Who makes the best excuse? I need to play this right or I’ll go from stud to public enemy number one at the gym.

“You don’t need to explain anything.” Rosaria’s voice is sharp, as she looks me up and down with disdain. “I don’t want to be anyone’s plan b.”

Even as disheveled as she appears, I find it difficult to watch her leave. What a fox.

“Ryan, are you okay out there?” Molly asks after the apartment door slams behind my date.

I vow that if she came here for me, I will do whatever it takes to make her stay.

“Ryan?” she asks, a little louder this time.

Something in her voice gives me strength.

I turn the doorknob and enter my bedroom with a new life, a new breath. She’s sitting on the edge of my bed, and, although she’s been crying, Molly couldn’t look more beautiful.

Whatever brought her here: a fight, a loss, politics, it must have been stressful. Her hair is tussled, her makeup streaked, but the dead giveaway of her distress lies in the vulnerability in her eyes. Molly showing up here constitutes a Hail Mary pass, and my comfort equals the immaculate reception.