Lights Out (12 page)

‘You’re so full of shit.’ Ryan was raising his voice again. ‘You know he’s a scumbag, that he treats you like shit, but you just wanna stay with him for the money. That’s all you care about -his goddamn bank account!’

‘That’s not true.’

‘What the hell were you doing with me for ten fuckin’ months, huh? Were you just using me, trying to get him to get off the pot to marry you?’

‘Come on,’ she said, touching his arm. ‘You know it wasn’t like that.’

Ryan pulled his arm away, said, ‘Then what was it like? I mean, I know what you’ve been telling me, but I guess I was an idiot for believing any of that.’

Christina was crying harder now, her lips trembling.

‘I really didn’t want to hurt you,’ she said slowly, struggling to get the words out.

‘Bullshit. You couldn’t even tell me to my face. I had to read about it in the fucking newspaper.’

‘I have no idea how it got into the papers - I swear to God. I just got here, and Dr Hoffman said congratulations, and I was like, “What’re you talking about?” I called you, but I hung up - I didn’t know what to say. Please - please don’t hate me. I still love you. I know that’s hard for you to believe, but I really do love you. I’m just in a really complicated situation right now. I mean, you knewr that all along - you knew I was engaged, and I really did want to be with you, but I also feel like I have to give me and Jake a chance. It might not work out, but I just have to see. And I’m really, really sorry you had to read about it in the newspaper. Jake must’ve called them last night or something and told them - I honestly had no idea. . . . But, look, we should talk about this. Maybe we could, like, meet for coffee later, or maybe we could have dinner or . . . Why won’t you look at me?’

Ryan, who’d been staring at the floor, looked up at Christina standing there, crying, with her back to the stairs, and imagined pushing her. It would be so easy - just one little push and she’d go tumbling backward.

He stood there for a few more seconds, staring into her eyes, hating her.

Then he said, ‘Just stay the fuck away from me,’ and he went by her and headed down the stairs.

He was hoping she’d say, ‘Wait, come back,’ or, ‘Don’t go,’ or something to show she gave a shit. But she said nothing - zippo. She just let him walk out to the street as if she didn’t care whether she saw him again or not.

A meter maid was standing in front of Ryan’s car, writing a ticket. She handed it to him, explaining that he was parked illegally. Without an argument, Ryan snatched it and drove away.

A few minutes later, as he drove along Bay Parkway, it hit him. Christina was gone, really gone - they might never even talk to each other again. How could everything have turned to shit so quickly? Just yesterday, at her place, she was saying all those things about how great it would be when Jake was out of the picture, about how much she loved Ryan and wanted to be with him forever, and now she was back with Jake. How could she have done this to him? How could she be so sick and heartless?

Ryan managed to drive a few more blocks, but then he couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled over, sobbing, with his head resting against the steering wheel. After his baseball career ended he had cried on and off for weeks, but this pain was much worse. Christina had meant everything to him. When he was down and out and had nothing left, she had given him hope, a reason to live. But now she was gone, and that hope was gone too. He wanted to take pills, slit his wrists, jump in front of a subway, end his stupid fucking life.

He continued to sob, occasionally pounding the dashboard with his fists. His beeper started vibrating. He wasn’t going to check it, but then he realized it could be Christina.

He looked at the display, angry to see Franky’s number flashing. How could she not call him? How could she not give a shit? What the hell was wrong with her?

He stopped crying, wiping the tears off his cheeks with his forearms. He was angry at himself for losing control, for being weak. He remembered standing in front of Christina on the landing, listening to her ‘explain’ why she’d treated him like total dogshit and feeling like he wanted to push her down the stairs.

Franky beeped him again and he turned the beeper off. He didn’t give a shit about work - he didn’t give a shit about anything.

He started the car, made a sharp U-turn, and headed back toward the dental office. Lie was imagining going in there, grabbing her, taking her someplace, and beating the living hell out of her.

He pulled over again. With his eyes closed he took slow, deep breaths, trying to calm down.

After a couple of minutes he made another U-turn and drove away. He put on 50 Cent with the volume all the way up and kept going. He had no idea where he was going - he just wanted to keep moving. He took Flatbush to downtown Brooklyn, and then he drove through the streets of Williamsburg and Bed-Stuy. He drove through parts of Brooklyn he’d never been to before, slums where white boys got killed if their cars broke down, and then wound up in Queens, and on Long Island. Eventually, after he’d been riding around for about two hours, he returned to Brooklyn and drove through East New York back toward Canarsie.

He was tired, empty, numb, and nauseous, and he wanted to go home, get into bed, and sleep for a very long time, maybe forever. Then he turned onto East Eighty-first Street and saw the crowd in front of Jake’s house, and that huge banner still hanging over the street, and he felt the blood rushing to his head again.

Without realizing what he was doing, he screeched to a stop, backed out onto Flatlands Avenue, and started speeding toward Christina’s office. Then, after going about ten blocks, he decided he had to get a grip and he pulled into a spot near Cousin’s, a sports bar his father used to take him to on Sundays to watch football games. It had just opened for the day, and there was only one old drunk at the far end of the bar. Ryan sat at the other end and the bartender came over.

‘What can I get you?’ the bartender asked.

Ryan recognized him. His name was Mike and he’d been working there for years.

‘Rum and Coke - heavy on the rum,’ Ryan said. Then he handed Mike a MasterCard and said, ‘Start a tab.’

‘You got it,’ Mike said.

Mike brought the drink, and Ryan sucked it down like there was no rum in it and ordered another. After he chugged the second drink, Mike said to him, ‘You feeling okay, guy?’

‘Just get me another,’ Ryan said, already slurring.

Mike stared at him for a couple of seconds, then went and made the third drink.

Ryan finished it in several gulps and immediately held up the empty glass and shook it, signaling for number four.

‘Let’s take it easy now,’ Mike said. ‘Maybe you want to wait ten, fifteen minutes and—’

‘Just make it,’ Ryan said.

‘I want you to slow down, buddy. You’re drinking way too .. . Wait a sec - I know you, don’t I? You’re Rocco Rossetti’s kid.’

‘Wrong,’ Ryan said.

‘No, come on, you’re Ryan Rossetti - the baseball player.’ ‘Okay, that’s me, but I’m not a baseball player anymore; I’m a house painter. Can I just get that drink?’

‘I thought you looked familiar when you walked in here. I just couldn’t place the face. You haven’t been by here in a long time, huh?’

Ryan was getting drunk, but the rum wasn’t lessening his rage. He needed another drink fast.

‘Few years,’ Ryan said. ‘Can you just—’

‘You used to be buddies with Jake Thomas, right?’ Mike said. ‘I remember your old man coming in here, talking about you two all the time, and he’d show me all the articles about you guys in the papers. You got drafted by who? St Louis?’

‘Cleveland,’ Ryan said.

‘Right, the Cleveland Indians. Yeah, your old man was real proud of you - never shut up about you, matter of fact. Hey, your old buddy Jake’s in town, ain’t he? Read about it in the paper -they had some big party for him yesterday, right?’

‘Right,’ Ryan said, ‘but—’

‘Guy’s some ballplayer,’ Mike said. ‘Can do it all - hits, runs, and the ladies love him. The guy’s got a charmed life, don’t he?’

Ryan stared at his drink.

‘So what’s up with you, anyway?’ Mike asked. ‘Why’re you sucking down the rum and Cokes like you’re going to the chair?’

‘I’m just thirsty.’

‘Come on, I been tendin’ bar long enough to know when a guy’s got something on his mind, and you definitely got something on your mind. You can tell me all about it - I’m a real good listener.’

Ryan didn’t feel like talking, then decided maybe it was a good idea. Maybe it would help get all of the sick ideas out of his head.

‘Okay, you really want to know,’ Ryan said, ‘my girlfriend just dumped my ass, all right? She swore we were gonna be together forever; then she just flat-out dumped me.’

This didn’t come out the way Ryan meant it to. It didn’t sound serious enough. It sounded like he was some brokenhearted high school kid.

‘Look, I’m sure this girl was real special and everything,’ Mike said, ‘but trust me when I say this - no woman is worth it.’

Ryan was going to go on, explain that this wasn’t any woman; this was Christina Mercado, Jake Thomas’s fiancee. He was going to tell him how he’d been in love with her since kindergarten, and how they’d planned to spend the rest of their lives together until he read in the newspaper this morning that she and Jake had set a wedding date. But he knew he’d just be wasting his time, that Mike would never understand. Everybody loved Jake. Jake was a hero - he could do no wrong. If anything Mike would feel sorry for Jake for almost losing his fiancee to some other guy.

‘Never mind,’ Ryan said. ‘How ‘bout just bringing me that refill?’

‘Drinking’s not gonna get your girl back,’ Mike said.

‘I just need one more. I’m not driving, and I know how to handle my liquor. It’s not a big deal.’

Mike thought it over for a few seconds, then said, ‘All right, but you better nurse this one or I’m cutting you off.’

Mike made the new drink and brought it over. Ryan took a sip, then rested the glass on the bar and looked around. The guy at the end of the bar had left, so now Ryan was the only customer. Old-fart music, maybe Tony Bennett, was playing at a low volume, and the air was musty, making it hard to breathe. Ryan looked in the mirror behind the bar and saw himself sitting with his shoulders slumped, looking bitter and depressed.

After he took another small sip of the drink, resisting the impulse to chug it, he wondered if it all had to do with sex. Maybe Christina thought that she and Ryan would never do it for longer than thirty seconds and that she’d never be able to come with him. Maybe last night Jake seduced her and lasted a long time. Maybe she made her decision right then -
To hell with Ryan, I’m staying with Jake.
Sex and money. That was what it always came down to, wasn’t it?

Ryan lifted the drink angrily, ready to swallow it in one tip of the glass, and then he looked over at Mike, watching him at the other end of the bar. Ryan took a big sip, leaving the glass half-full; then he swished the alcohol around like mouthwash before swallowing.

Fuck Christina, that little whore.
All that crap, promising how great the sex would be when Jake was out of the picture and laying on all that bullshit about what a relief it would be not to have to sneak around anymore. And how about all those times they talked about what their kids would look like - whose eyes, nose, and hair they would have? They’d even named their kids - Justin and Amber - and decided that they’d have a golden retriever named Max.

Fucking whore. Fucking lying little tramp.

The alcohol wasn’t working, or at least he hadn’t had enough yet. Ryan was afraid that if he left the bar right now, he’d drive right to Christina’s office and kill that lying, cheating little bitch.

He had to take a leak. When he stood up he realized he was drunker than he’d thought. He was wobbling, bumping into bar stools. In the bathroom, standing over the toilet bowl, he decided it was all his dick’s fault. His dick had let him down big-time. If his dick just worked the way it supposed to, maybe Christina would still be with him right now. He hated his dick. He couldn’t stand looking at it anymore.

Then he started staring at his left elbow, at the surgery scars. He hated his elbow as much as he hated his dick. If his elbow worked the way
it
was supposed to, his whole life would’ve been different. Instead of getting drunk in a Brooklyn bar, trying not to want to go kill his girlfriend, he’d have been in his ten-million-dollar mansion somewhere outside Cleveland. He’d have a wife and kids and would’ve forgotten about Christina a long time ago.

He finished peeing, then flexed his left arm. He didn’t have any pain in his elbow. He remembered what his father had told him about trying out for the Brooklyn Cyclones. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea. He hadn’t even tried to throw a baseball in over three years - how did he know he couldn’t pitch? There’d been stories before about miracle recoveries, guys defying the odds. Maybe his elbow had healed. Maybe he could do it.

After he finished peeing he stood in front of the mirror and went into a windup. He was so drunk it was hard to keep his balance on his right leg, and then, as he cocked his left arm as if about to throw, he felt the familiar sharp twinge. Maybe it was nothing, just some stiffness, but he knew he was kidding himself. His arm even hurt sometimes while he was painting, using the roller, so how would it feel when he tried to throw a ninety-mile-per-hour heater? Miracle comebacks were for movies. In real life, when things got fucked-up they stayed that way.

Ryan walked unsteadily back toward the bar. As he settled on the stool, he realized he hadn’t had a smoke all day. He took out a cigarette from the pack in his jacket pocket, lit up, and took a drag.

Mike came right over and said, ‘Sorry, can’t smoke in here.’

Ryan inhaled again, exhaling the smoke through his nostrils, then looked around and said, ‘But nobody’s here.’

‘Sorry, you still gotta put it out,’ Mike said.

Ryan brought the cigarette to his lips again and took another drag.

Mike took out an ashtray from behind the bar, placed it in front of Ryan, and said, ‘I’m serious.’