Not a Draft Dodger (Chapter 2), Part 2

Continued from the last line of part one...

I answer the door.

“Are you Mr. Smith?” asks the voice on the other side.

“Yeah, this is Mr. Smith,” I reply, walking outside the door and leaving it open a crack. The card game comes to an abrupt halt. “You’re late.”

“Shit happens,” she replies.

“Is it possible for you to come back later?”

“I’ve been on my feet for 18 hours. It’s now or never.”

I see the garters hanging from her too-short skirt that looks like nurse’s scrubs.

“Do I know you?”

“OK, I changed before I came over. I thought you were joking when you said you were having a party.”

“I didn’t really want to do this with company over, you know?”

“Why, don’t you want your friends to know about the cyst?”

I don’t move or speak.

“I’m going to fall asleep on the porch if you don’t let me in.”

I theatrically look over my shoulder and let out a world-weary sigh. “OK, let’s get this over with.”

“Call me Heather.”

I give her a look. “Heather?”

“Because you don’t want your friends to know that I’m your neighbor and that you make me dinner three nights a week.”

I open the door. “You know where to go.”

Only when she clears the threshold does she say the next thing. “You’re kind of cute. I might give you a discount.” Looking at the boys, she adds, “Do your friends want to watch?”

I feel dizzy. “Go to the bedroom,” I try to whisper.

Her cheeks flush. “I’ll be good, sir.” She bows her head, and walks as far away from the guys as possible, her three-inch black heels clacking on the hardwood floors.
“Heather” says hi to the boys, who all watch her wobble to my bedroom. She tries to look sexy but she probably hasn’t worn heels in months. I realize that I should explain myself, but one quick look at the table renders me speechless.

The walk past the table isn’t easy.

“Who is that?” Phil asks.

“Nurse,” I respond before my face turns completely red and I fast-walk into my bedroom, loudly slamming the door. There’s laughter and a round of applause on the other side.

“I think I have a hernia. Could she check that?” Brian asks. I don’t listen for any follow-ups.

When I get into the bedroom I see that Heather has found my stash. All of the necessary items are in a large zip-loc bag. I grab a long pillow and clutch it to my chest.

“Sorry about that,” I say sheepishly.

“Do these guys really not know what I’m doing here?” she responds.

“Actually, no.”

“Are these friends paid to be here?”

“It’s all about the TV. No one out there really likes me.”

“I’ll be gentle.”

I nod, reach on the top of the bedside cabinet for a towel and put it on top of the pillow. I put this combination on top of the bedspread, drop my shorts and underwear and lay down. I have to suck in my gut.

Time passes. I hear water running and know that it’s time for me to pull up my shorts and underpants. I change my boxer briefs and wipe my face with the towel before Heather comes out again.

“I think I can see myself out,” she says.

“I’ll see you later, Nadine.”

“Call me Heather,” she says with a smile.

My friends would call Nadine more homely than pretty. She has small almond-colored eyes, a pale complexion and sandy blonde hair with dark roots. The scrubs are a nice touch, though. She brushes past me and back out into the main room.

I limp out of the bedroom. All six faces are upon me. As I pause to think of something pithy to say, “Heather” stops at the door and has her final say.

“You’ll get the bill in the mail,” she says with a small smile before opening the door.

“Damn, Larry, even I usually get a kiss on the cheek at the end,” Phil says.

I walk back into the room. When I get to my chair I gently sink into the padded seat. I could use about four extra-strength Tylenol right now. Standing up is not an option.

The draft saves me. Paul Tagliabue strides up to the podium.

“With the third selection in the 2005 NFL Draft, the Tennessee Titans select. . .”

“Matt Leinart,” Phil says.

“Vince Young,” Desmond and I say at the same time. I look at Joseph, who gives me the thumbs-up sign.

“Vince Young, quarterback from the University of Texas,” Tagliabue says. Desmond gives me a high five. It didn’t hurt.

What can I say about Vince Young that hasn’t been said? College football has a funny system of determining a national champion. A computer decides which two teams play for the title game, and this year Deep Blue selected the University of Texas to play the University of Southern California. Vince Young was the star of the game, passing and running for more than 400 total yards, along with a dramatic fourth-down run that scored the winning points. It’s pretty much impossible to beat that as a college finale, so Mr. Young decided to give up his senior year of eligibility to try his luck in the NFL.

The controversy about the Young pick is this: The other top QB prospect is Matt Leinart, who coincidentally enough played for USC and lost to Texas in that great championship game. The offensive coordinator during Leinart’s first two years in college is now the Offensive Coordinator for the Tennessee Titans. If the Titans signed Leinart, he wouldn’t have to learn an entirely new offensive system. Learning an offensive system that has a playbook longer than the Yellow Pages is often the downfall of a great college QB.

Another slight detail to the story is that Young is black and Leinart is white. More importantly, Young ran as often as he passed in college. Running quarterbacks get chewed up and spit out by the faster, stronger, and meaner NFL. Running quarterbacks survive in the NFL by becoming passing quarterbacks. Many experts thought that Young couldn’t become a passing quarterback.

Even though I read three sports magazines a week and probably spend two to three hours a day browsing sports-related sites, I’ll take the side of professionals who scout players for a living. They can be wrong but they most certainly have more information and more on the line than I do.

“He’s a bust,” Brian says with an air of confidence.

“Two-time Rose Bowl MVP,” Phil replies.

“So was Ron Dayne,” Vince adds. To put it briefly, Ron Dayne was a great college running back who has been a bust in the NFL.

“That statement is so ridiculous,” I say.

“Vince Young. Is. A. Bust,” Brian repeats.

“How is he a bust?” I ask.

“He has that funky sidearm delivery.”

“Brett Favre throws sidearm sometimes,” Tom said. “Ben Roethlisberger, of course, has a perfect delivery.” Guess who’s the starting QB for the Super Bowl Champion Pittsburgh Steelers?

“Listen, you can argue all day about whether he has the skills to be a productive NFL quarterback. I could argue both sides quite convincingly, but that would bore the crap out of all of you,” I say, looking directly at Brian.

There’s a bit of laughter to that. I continue.

“None of these guys has set foot on a field during an NFL game. That’s a fact. Right now everyone’s statistics are a big fat zero. Are you a bust? Am I a bust? It’s really doubtful that either of us is going to play in the NFL, but it’s a certainty that none of the guys drafted today, including Vince Young, has done squat in the league yet. When they have, and played poorly for an extended period of time, then we can call them busts. You used the present tense. The present tense is not the tense for today. Today is all about the future tense. If you said that Vince Young will be a bust I would have sat here in stone silence because your statement had plenty of potential energy. Calling Vince Young a bust now is as useful as our Vince farting and calling it an alternative energy source.”

Brian turns pink and takes a long pull of his beer. “I’ll bet you a hundred bucks that Vince Young is a bust.”

I reach for my wallet. “Do you take traveler’s checks?”

“I’ll bet you that Vince Young is not drawing an NFL paycheck in five years. Is that specific enough for you?”

“I’ll take that action,” Phil says. Desmond hesitates. Vince is too busy looking at the Ace of Hearts to comment. I think he’s in love. Tom drops his American Express on the table. Everyone looks at Joseph. He shrugs. So predicting the future isn’t part of his special powers.

“Aw, fuck it. It’s my deal. Let’s play follow the bitch,” Brian finally says, the bet forgotten. Brian once lost a bet to me involving the performance of our fantasy football teams. He lost a case of beer. It was three years ago. Brian has since failed to pull the trigger on any bets.

Men who are gathered together far away from women have the collective confidence to call a card game named Follow the Queen, Follow the Bitch. The misogyny doubles when all the cards are of topless women. We have a good mix of married and single guys. I suppose deep down there is something wrong with the verbal sparring that goes on at this kind of event. There’s a group dysfunction that covers up the individual attitudes. I highly doubt that there is a group of women sitting around, playing cards with men displaying large, obviously fake penises, playing a game called Follow the Cock.

I lose the hand, and the next three. Vince pours me a Warsteiner. It tastes like it’s been sitting on the bottom of a liquor store cooler for three months.

“So what was up with that nurse?” Phil asks, continuing to look at his cards.

“I had a problem. She took care of it,” I reply.

“That’s what we call a slump-buster,” Desmond says.

“I liked the scrubs,” Tom says.

“When I first saw her, I didn’t think she was that pretty. She did have presence, and the outfit was fantastic,” Joseph adds.

“I’ve never had to pay for it,” Brian says.

“Pay for what?” Vince asks. He’s clearly paying more attention to his three of hearts. She has a nice smile.

“Pay to see this next card,” I say, raising the bet to fifty cents even though my cards are hideous.

The Jets take D’Brickashaw Ferguson, a left tackle out of the University of Virginia named after a character from the Thornbirds, next. The distraction is long enough for Tom to lean over and whisper to me.

“You’re my personal hero,” Tom says. “You have a girl come over in the middle of the NFL draft, and things are completed between picks. I want to be you in my next life.”

“I know you do,” I reply with a nod.

Somehow my bluff works, as Brian gets a Queen and I get a four on the next deal. The four is now a wild card, and seeing as I have another four face down, I have a minimum of three of a kind. This holds up and I win a modest pot. We play for three more hours and I win maybe two more. No one mentions the nurse.

Once the New York Giants draft Mathias Kiwauka, a defensive end whose motor, or effort, had been questioned prior to the draft, the first round is over and so is my party. A few of the guys dump their plates in the trash and pile beer bottles on my counter. I start to walk to the bathroom and decide that the nearby couch is a better idea.

Unfortunately, the couch didn’t currently face the TV. I get up and see Phil placing all the bottles into a large Hefty garbage bag.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.

“I wanted to bust your chops a bit with that nurse line.”

“It was timely.”

“If you don’t want to share your personal business with your closest friends, that’s your deal,” Phil says.

“Could you help me put the couch back in place?”

“Sure man, I can do that.”

The card table goes back in its closet. The couch ends up where it was yesterday afternoon.

“I cheated,” Phil says.

“At cards?” I reply. He’s standing so I’m standing. I hurt badly.

“On my wife. It was a client. More accurately, a friend of a client.”

“I thought she slept around on you.”

“She did after she found out. Hoo boy did she.”

“Why tell me this now?”

“It all comes out eventually, Larry.”

‘“I don’t like talking about personal stuff.”

“Listen, man, I’m better off now. The marriage was over for a while. I’m seeing someone now. I’m sure that she has at least one friend who’d give you a blowjob if you buy her dinner.”

“I’m not really hip to the dating scene right now,” I say. Phil’s face tells me that I need to say something more. “I met someone, but I don’t want to say anything until I know it’s going to work out.”

“I get it, man. I do. You never know how things are going to work out.”

“You sure don’t,” I say, convinced that Phil can see the pain I’m in.

“I’m going to go. I need to pick up the kids,” Phil says. I know for a fact that this is his weekend away from his daughters. They’re both young enough to not resent the fact that daddy moved out.

“Thanks for sticking around,” I say.

“No problemo,” Phil replies, offering me a solid handshake before walking out the door.

I wait five seconds after the door closes to limp into the bathroom. The child-proof bottle befuddles me for a minute before I pick out one circular white pill and dry-swallow. The bottle clearly says not to mix the medication with alcohol. I don’t plan on drinking any more alcohol today.

The bed beckons, but the there’s a knock on the door. I take my time.

“Howdy, stranger,” says the girl on the other end.

“For fuck’s sake, Nadine,” I say.

“What happened to Heather?” she asks incredulously.

“You tell me.” She’s wearing sweats and garden clogs and I doubt that the garters are still attached to her pale thighs.

She pushes me aside and heads straight for the couch.

“Is this draft shit still going on?” she asks, kicking off her shoes. “Is Trading Spaces on?”

“I certainly hope not,” I say with a sigh. The door is shut and triple-locked again. I slump into the chair opposite the couch.

“There’s room for two over here,” she says.

“You didn’t have to ham it up earlier.”

“That was the most fun I’ve had in weeks.”

“Did you really want my friends to think that you’re a prostitute?”

“I’m just glad that you have friends,” she says breezily. Her eyes narrow. “I see the Percoset haze approaching. If that’s chasing the half-dozen beers you drank in the past couple hours, you’re in for a long nap indeed.”

“I’m in pain.”

“I know you are,” she says in her softest, most empathetic voice. “The next packing can wait until you wake up.”

“Services instead of cash,” I mumble.

When I found out that I had a cyst in a very uncomfortable place, it wasn’t just a matter of getting it removed. After reading many, many accounts, I discovered that the wound takes as long as three months to heal. The very open and large wound had to be packed with gauze twice a day until it completely healed. Leaving the wound open decreased the odds of infection. The packing process hurts as much as it sounds. The doctor gave me a choice. Either I went to the doc’s office twice a day and had someone change the packing, or I had a “loved one” take care of it.

I didn’t have a loved one. I might not have a liked one. Nadine is one of my neighbors. I almost ran her over as I was returning from my cabin weekend with whatshername. We ran into each other at the mailbox one day and got to talking. She is a nurse. My brilliant idea for the year was to hire her to take care of my special needs. Being a freelancer, sometimes I have to barter services rather than paying in cash, which can be in short supply. We made a deal that was off the books, and for me, rather vague. To date the services I offered included dinners on nights when she wasn’t working, and the use of my massive TV. I’d even loaned her some space on my digital video recorder.

“It’s good that you’re going to pass out, so I don’t have to deal with you giving me shit for watching what I want on TV. Since I see you’re in no shape to service me I’m going to wear out your TV instead.”

I don’t know what the veiled sexual reference is about. Our relationship has been strictly professional to date. “It’s not what I thought it would be,” I say. It’s getting harder and harder to keep my eyes open.

“It never is, sugar,” she says in a bad fake Southern accent. Nadine is from Detroit.

I’m asleep before the annoying theme song from Trading Spaces can torment my dreams.