The District Manager (20 page)

This Saturday morning isn’t too brutal because I got ahold of my drinking before it was too late (I really had no choice, as I was caring for Brenna). If I’d been drinking something other than wine, I’d probably feel nothing at all. But wine loiters in the brain, and I forgot to pop a few Ibuprofens before bed.

Keith is sitting in his chair reading an old
Thrasher
mag from way back in the mid-eighties. I, zombie-like, head into the kitchen to make coffee.

“Is that out of one of those boxes I got out of storage for you?” I ask as I pop the Folgers lid.

“Yeah, it is. I have several of them, actually. What a great fucking magazine this once was. They wrote about so much cool music. I need to bring out some of my skate rock LPs. I think you’d really dig them.”

“I never was into skateboarding,” I respond. I’m trying to pour the water into the coffee maker tank, but I’m so tired half of it spills to the side.

“You don’t have to be into skateboarding to get into skate rock, Mason. You just have to have good taste in music, which you do— because of me.”

“Is that right?” I reply with a dash of sarcasm. I’m too tired to debate him.

“That’s right. I wish I still had my old skateboard,” Keith says with regret.

“Why? What would you do with it?”

“I’d skate on it!”

“Dude, you can barely walk. Don’t you think you need to shoot a little lower? I’m not trying to be a dick, but I just don’t want you to be hurt by unrealistic expectations.”

“That’s what’s wrong with you. You’re so worried about disappointment you won’t let yourself dream big dreams. Well, I do dream big, Mason. And I want to skateboard. All the doctors said I would never walk again. But I did. They said I’d never fuck again.”

“When did you get laid?”

“I haven’t been laid, but I’ve jerked off and that proves I can do it!” he declares, indignantly.

“Hey, it’s cool. I hope you get to fuckin’ skate man… I really do.”

“You need a cup of coffee, Mason.”

“I’m aware of this, Keith.”

“I won’t speak to you anymore until you’ve had a cup.”

“Sounds good.”

“Although I’m anxious to know how last night went with Brenna. I’ll wait until you’ve had a cup.”

“Fine with me.”

“I was reading about skating in the eighties. You interrupted me, by the way,” he turns back to the magazine.

I wait by the coffee maker and then pour myself a cup… and then another. After about ten minutes I go into the den.

“So what happened? How did it go last night?” Keith asks, impatiently.

“It went well. We went to the wine bar and then got dinner.”

“And then?”

“And then what?”

“What happened?”

“She got sick,” I say with an air of both defeat and factuality.

“No way!”

“Yep. She got sick, really fucking sick. She puked for…an hour at least.”

“Where? Not in your car I hope—or worse—the bar or restaurant?”

“No, she waited ’til I got her home. It was terrible. She was so pitiful. I undressed her and put her to bed. Then split.”

“Undressed her?”

“Yeah, I got her into bed. She was wasted.”

Keith is looking at me suspiciously.

“She wasn’t naked you pervert! She was in her underwear.”

“I’m not saying anything, Mason. Just wondering what happened.”

“That’s it.”

“So how did she look?”

“Dude, what the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Okay…okay, sorry man…. But did she look good?”

“Yes, she looked good. She’s beautiful. Just my luck that she got sick.”

“Just your luck? You spoiled motherfucker. You know how long it’s been since I’ve seen an actual naked woman?”

“She wasn’t naked, like I told you.”

“You know what I mean. I’d kill to be in your shoes.”

“Well, I guess we’ll see. To tell you the truth, I’m really nervous about going to bed with her.”

“That’s perfectly natural, Mason. You loved your wife and she was taken from you. But, you’ll know what to do when the time comes—when the time…cums…,” Keith starts to snicker, “I think that’s what they call a pun.”

“Ha, ha, you’re an idiot,” I snipe. “I’m just glad Crane gave me those Texans tickets.”

I’m hungry so Keith and I go grab some breakfast at Whataburger.

“Is that your phone?” Keith asks when he hears the ping.

“Yep. It’s a text… from you know who.”

Such a fool. So embarrassed. Sorry. R U OK?

“What’s she say?”

I read the text to him.

He takes a bite of his taco, shakes his head, swallows his food down with a gulp of his OJ, and starts the process again.

“Well, how do you think I should respond?”

“I’m gonna need more orange juice before I can participate in this discussion,” He smirks at me.

“Look asshole, what do you think I should say?”

“Say? What are you worried about?”

“I don’t know, I worry about everything.”

“You always have, Mason. That’s one of the things that drove Ann so crazy, but also one of the reasons she loved you so much.”

“How do you know these things, Keith? How many conversations about me did you and Ann have?”

“Lots.”

“Alright, whatever…what should I say?”

“Ask her what she’s doing tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah, tonight, dipshit.”

“But we’re going to the game tomorrow night.”

“Sunday night is a lame time to do it for the first time. Both of you have to get up in the morning…her kid…”

“But her ex is taking Will to school Monday.”

“Okay, I still think you should go over there tonight. Ask if she wants to watch a movie or something. How the fuck did you ever get laid, dude?”

“Do you really think it’s good timing?”

“What are you, a moron? Of course it’s good timing. Think about it. You went out. First weekend y’all have been dating that her kid isn’t around. She gets sick. She’s worried you don’t want anything to do with her.”

“What kind of movie? At the theater or her place?”

“Her place, dummy. As for what movie, I don’t know…what’s in that vast collection you’ve got sitting in the den? I watched John Carpenter’s
The Thing
not too long ago.”

“What?” I ask him in utter confusion.

“I’m fuckin’ with you, dude. A chick flick or something. Something you can watch with a date.”

“I’m not a big chick flick guru. Any ideas?”

“Uh…have you ever seen
When Harry Met Sally?”

“
No. What is that?”

“Jesus Christ, people your age have no clue about good popular culture. Do you realize how lucky you are to have me as a friend and a guide? You should be paying me to live with you.”

“Right, can I write you a check or, do you even have a bank account?”

“Cash will be fine. As far as the picture goes, trust me. Go to the bookstore and pick up a copy. They should have it. It’s very popular. Trust me.”

“Okay, I’ll trust you on this.
When Harry Met Sally.”

“That’s right,” Keith says as he crumples up his taco wrapper. He concludes with a snide, “Oh, after you text her, call her! And bring her one red rose.”

“Okay.” I text back:
Everything’s fine. Don’t worry. I’ll call soon.

My phone pings. She responds with a smiley face.

When we get back to my apartment, I go into my bedroom and give Brenna a call. Keith flawlessly predicted how the conversation would go.
I guess that’s a talent you have when you’re born a scoundrel.

I replay the conversation in my head, which consisted of her apologizing repeatedly then waiting for exoneration. Not that she did anything wrong, she’s just worried that she blew more than the contents of her stomach. When I suggested we meet tonight she jumped on it. I decided to throw both movie scenarios out: one at the theater and one at her house. She leapt on the latter like a lioness on a llama. She’s even heard of
When Harry Met Sally.

I head out to buy the DVD.

There’s a nice September drizzle coating things with a mellow balm as I drive over to Brenna’s house. I feel the wasp nest rattle, but so far it hasn’t swarmed.

I arrive, park at the curb, and pace across the front walkway that cuts through Brenna’s freshly cut lawn. The supple smell of rain mixes with the odor of grass clippings.

I’ve remembered the single red rose. I hand it to her as soon as she opens the door.

“It smells lovely,” Brenna comments as she buries the tip of her pretty pink nose in the folds of the flower. “Did you get the movie we talked about?”

“Sure did.” I smile and pull it from the small plastic bag.

“Well then, come on in.” Her smile is both innocent and mischievous. I watch as her plump bottom shakes before me. She’s dressed very casually, in only a blue and white checkered tank top with a pair of Daisy Dukes. Her hair is pinned up and she’s wearing very little makeup.

This is amazing. She’s so proper in public.

She’s turning me on. Following Keith’s advice I’m wearing a short sleeve, collared shirt and pair of blue jeans.
Bastard, he’s right again.

“I was going to cook burgers out on the grill, but the rain has kind of…”

I interrupt her with my lips when we reach the kitchen. Her tongue is so soft. As our lips pulsate about one another’s, my nostrils savor the fruity aroma of her neck. She smells so girly. We’re standing with our bodies against one another. I’m getting hard and wonder if she can feel me pressing against her tummy.

Brenna moves her arm from around my neck and places her hand on my bulge. Her fingers knead with the same rhythm as our lips. The plushness of her behind deepens as my hands make their way south. We break from kissing and I begin to nibble on her neck and earlobe. Her hand has not left my crouch when I run my fingers up her shirt. I joyfully discover she’s not wearing a bra. Lightly grasping her left breast, I run my thumb over her nipple, but it is covered by a petal.

“I didn’t want to show off too much,” she sexily whispers in response to my exploring. “Follow me,” she adds.

She breaks our embrace and turns towards the hallway. As she’s walking, she unbuttons her shorts and slips them off her hips, down her legs, from around her knees, then from her naked feet. Her skinny purple thong is almost invisible as it runs the ravine of her ass.

When we get to her bedroom, which is painted in a blue as cool and deep as the Aegean, Brenna pauses at the front of her bed. Now behind her, I lean my head slightly down and begin kissing the back of her neck. I drop to my knees and press my face between her cool, ivory, bulbous cheeks. With a deep sniff I draw in the rich essence of her identity, like an animal in the wild. Thrusting her panties off, I nudge my nose in further. From above she begins making sounds of pleasure. She then starts to giggle.

“You’re whiskers are ticklish.”

Keith told me not to shave.
Bastard, he’s right again.

Still standing, but collapsing forward, supported by her two hands, Brenna unfolds like a spreading flower.

While she climbs towards the front of the bed on all fours, I start undressing. I unbutton my jeans, and Brenna, who is now reclining completely naked against the pillowed headboard, stares at my erection as it begins to reveal itself. She runs her fingernails up her bent knee and the curve of her ample hip.