Chapter 4

The long-awaited Chapter 4 of the Larry Smith Saga:

Chapter Four of the Larry Smith Saga

One Date Too Many

My third and final unreturned call to Nell was made at 10:13 p.m. on Friday night. I was at Turner Field, watching the Red Sox beat the fading Braves. Not only was every Red Sox fan in a three-state radius at the game, it was fireworks night, which meant a long and tedious drive home, made extra tedious by Cindy’s passed-out drunken self in my backseat. I didn’t even bother putting her in the passenger seat. Between the countless beers before, during, and after the game, the girl was toast. This was her first opportunity to see the ‘hometown’ team. Cindy was born in Vermont, so at least her affiliation with all things Boston Red Sox had some regional legitimacy.

It hadn’t been the best day so far. I awoke at 5 a.m. to meet Tom, my friend and exercise buddy, in the gym on the first floor of my condominium building. I was still sore from our first venture three days ago. I’m not a goal-setter. My dogged personality allows me to accomplish most assigned tasks in an efficient and thorough manner. Exercise has never been part of my regimen. Tom could be a certified physical trainer after rehabbing anterior cruciate ligament tears in both knees. Unlike most fit people, Tom never commented on my prominent gut and tendency to get winded halfway up one flight of stairs. Despite his gruff exterior, he doesn’t go all drill sergeant on me.

He did once ask about the gym at my complex, which is full of top-of–the-line equipment. That’s one reason for my $245 monthly association fees. I told him that he could come over anytime, and he offered to show me a few things as a friendly gesture that I ignored until the previous weekend.

Today’s torture was mostly cardio. I thought I did fine in my 30-minute session on the elliptical, until I saw that Tom traveled nearly a mile more than I did. He was sweaty but didn’t seem to be breathing too hard. I gasped like a kid stuck in the ocean’s undertow for 60 seconds. We did some stretching before it was time to go.

“Want to meet me at the Drunkard next Tuesday?”

“Guess so,” I replied. I replied. I sat down on a bench near the entrance. When I first moved in I was desperate enough for female companionship that I would throw some water myself, perch on the bench, and hope for the young lovlies to come in and be impressed by my lack of physique.

“We could catch a meeting before.”

I looked at him.

“All right, I’m going to open up in a last-ditch effort to get you out there. If you don’t respond, I’ll have to find someone else. I don’t travel anymore.”

“Aren’t you supposed to?” There were rules.

“I go through the motions. I, I can’t do it right now. It’s too much.”

“If that’s the case, don’t we make the perfect team?”

“Why is that?”

“You can’t travel and I don’t.”

Tom looked pained. I didn’t blame him for not wanting to go back. He had a lot of shit in his past.

“I still think you should. Do me a favor,” he said, clasping my shoulder. “Find a place. Go there once a week. Don’t stay long. Just do it. You’re going to need this someday.”

“Give me a date and I’ll do it.”

“Last August 11, Modern Drunkard. I went home with Jennifer, the blonde, and you went home with Trish, the brunette. Frankly, I think it would have worked out better the other way round.”

“Really. I barely remember that night.”

“Trust me. Your tongue. Her ear. Don’t tell me any details, because I already know.”

“Fine. Say that I go back to that night, have my way with her, and come back. How does that help me today?”

“I’m not going to say that you’re curing cancer here. I’m just saying that the moments in life when you can predict the outcome are few. Plus, every minute you’re back there is one more minute that you can contemplate what you’re going to do when you’re here again.”

I leaned back. My heart started to slow back to normal. I had a different date in mind than what Tom suggested. “A billion little decisions led me to where I am today. If one thing changes between here and there, I’m not here. Understand?”

“You seem to be in control of your own affairs. Far be it for me to suggest that you change a thing.” Tom stood up, shook my hand, and hit the showers. I went upstairs, spread an old towel on the couch and passed out for an hour.

Fridays are my ‘hustle’ days, when I call all past, present, and hopefully future clients trying to drum up work. I had a couple of things to write and felt pretty good about the next couple of weeks. July looked like it could be a little tight.

At 5 p.m. I changed, filled a cooler with Red Hook Blonde and left the condo. More than an hour later I reached the parking lots of Turner Field. This was only the second visit to Atlanta ever for the Red Sox, so every fan or bandwagoner who joined when the team won the 2004 World Series was already there. If I had friends, I would have invited them to join me at the game. Since they were in short supply at the moment, I substituted Cindy’s friends. As I arrived, and paid $40 for what the lot attendant assured me was the last parking space for two miles, I saw that the party was already in full gear. I put on a cheap Braves hat before I left, but second-guessed the decision when everyone in the three-car convoy wore Red Sox gear. Cindy looked at me, gave me a halfhearted wave then turned to continue discussing matters of importance with two strapping young men who flanked her like wolves.

Cindy was a friend with whom I have a mutual understanding. We like to share the occasional sport-fuck. There are not a lot of common interests, other than both of us being easy. I’m not even that much of a baseball fan, truth be told. Once football season starts, I forget all about the pennant races.

While most of the yahoos in this group paid $10 for standing-room-only seats, I purchased a large block of tickets for this and Sunday’s game as soon as they went on sale in February. All but two went to ebay and helped finance my man-sized plasma television. I imagined that fifth-row lower-level outfield seats would lead to an appropriate reward later. Instead I sat back and watched her flirt with her Romeo in a Manny Ramirez jersey as I withstood serious commentary from the other members of this group. The best? “Braves suck.” “No wait, the Yankees suck more.”

Cindy seemed reluctant to part from the group, but after one more red Jell-O shot and hastily chugged Miller Lite, she did. I approve of women wearing sports jerseys, although her choice of a black sports bra with a white Red Sox jersey didn’t strike me as wise. She’s short and rather top-heavy.

The game would have been fun had we seen much of it. Cindy’s cell buzzed constantly, and after the second inning we joined the group at a bar with a view much worse than the ones at our abandoned seats. I played along, since I didn’t know anyone in the group. They were in good spirits, as the Red Sox won and the fireworks after the game seemed like a fitting celebration.

I parked outside Cindy’s apartment and doubted that she would notice if I left her on a chair outside her pool. Instead I carried her inside. I took off the jersey, which I knew to be her favorite possession due to the ‘rare’ World Series patch, deposited her on the bed and deposited myself on the couch. I woke up six hours later, checked on her briefly and went home.

When I got home I found a message on my cell phone. I left the ringer on silent for some reason. It was Cindy. I won’t bore you with the details of the slurry message. She was angry at me not for staying the night, but for not servicing her the following morning. If sleeping with a passed out girl is morally reprehensible, trying to get pleasure out of a hung over girl would qualify one for sainthood.

I woke up my sleeping laptop as I erased the message on my cell phone. I absentmindedly clicked to the ‘received’ menu. My e-mail automatically comes up when my computer boots. A client sent me a note about a project that needed a quick turnaround. I pressed the call button on my phone. It was time to tell Cindy that her message crossed the line, and only a no-strings shagging would ease my hurt feelings.

“Hello?” answered a voice much lower than Cindy’s.

I froze. The e-mail forgotten, I looked at my phone. The simple message “Connected to Nell” displayed on the screen. It was time for some major-league improvisation. “Hi,” I said in my least cool tone.

“Larry, is that you?” she asked.

“I suppose it is,” I replied.

“I’m glad you called.”

Glad? How about those unreturned messages?

“So, what’s the deal?” she asked, as she did every time we talked.

“The deal is, I’m going to be hungry tonight around seven, and I have an aversion to eating alone. Know what I’m sayin’?”

“Perhaps you need some reading material.”

“Well, that’s exactly why I was calling. Could you make a recommendation?”

If I was going to lose this, I might as well give it a good shot.

“I’d love to, but I think this kind of literary discussion needs to happen in person.”

“You are so right about that. Have you been to Ray’s Sushi?”

“Not in this lifetime.”

“It’s off 8th and Juniper. I’ll see you at seven.”

“Not if I see you first.”

I heard the click before I could drop the line. It had been a while since something happened in the Atlanta dating scene that surprised me. The third unreturned phone call is like the third date. If nothing happens then, it’s not going to happen.

Ray’s is one of those places that should be an institution but hasn’t been discovered by the masses yet. I helped hook the owner, whose name happens to be Vince, with a Web designer and because of that I eat for free. Vince told me that if I ever brought a date to his establishment, the waiter would leave a check. All I’d have to do was enclose a business card with the words “Vince slept here” on the back and that would be that.

Vince stood behind the main counter. He wore an apron but never made a roll of sushi in his life. He was strong and lean and always had a smile on his face.

“Larry!” he yelled as his staff greeted me warmly, as they did with every arriving customer. Some places go through the motions but they really meant it.

“How’s it going?” I said, walking around the counter to shake his hand. He slapped me on the shoulder.

“Better every day,” he replied.

“How are the kids?”

“They’re monsters. I think they get it from their mother.”

“They must love it when dad gets home at 3 a.m. every night,” I replied, quite insensitive I know.

“Naw, they’re asleep by then. You got a hot date tonight.”

“Medium hot,” I replied.

“Hey, I’m going for a bike ride tomorrow. Wanna join me?”

“When are you heading out?” I asked, playing along.

“Six a.m.”

“If I had a bike, I’d really feel bad about letting you down.”

“I have a spare that you could borrow.”

“Sunday’s my sleep in day. In fact, I might not wake up until Monday.”

“OK buddy. I’ll talk to you later,” Vince said, turning around. He really did work hard.

Nell arrived a minute later. She gave me a big hug, then put my face in her hands and said “You look good.”

I found us a booth and soon thereafter we were chowing down on a rainbow roll and some tuna. Nell liked the wasabi-soy sauce, light on the soy, as much as I did.

We reached for the last roll at the same time. Our fingers touched. I gave the piece to my date, and as I turned to motion to the waiter I felt her bare toes on my leg. As I watched the sushi disappear between her red lips, I had a feeling that the evening was going to turn out very nicely.

The waiter arrived and I asked for the check. Nell winked at me. Without even asking she got into my car and we headed to my condo.

I try to spare my couch from trysts, but we never made it to the bedroom. As a precautionary measure I keep condoms in the drawer with the remote control. We rushed past the usual first-time awkwardness. She insisted that we skip the foreplay, which made me pause for almost half a second. Heck, on our last phone call before our third date, she mentioned that if a man gave her oral pleasure, she would be ‘his slave’. I knew that wasn’t a term that an African-American woman used lightly.

So we did what consenting adults do and afterward we sat together on the couch and watched bad TV for a while. About an hour later Nell asked me if I’d drive her back to her car. I asked her if there was anything else I could do for her. There was.

She repeated her request around midnight, and I accepted. At 1:30 I drove her to her car and we parted. The good-night kiss was better than after the third date.

The following day my reward for our lovemaking was to listen for an hour as she told me in detail about her mother. The reason she bolted from date number three was a frantic phone call from her mom. The mom in question confused the 35-year-old Prunella (sex earned me her real name) with her 16-year-old self who promised to be home from the school dance by 11 p.m. It seems that mom was on the road to Alzheimer’s, which gave Nell an excuse to move in with her. After the third date, you’re looking for clothes to come off. After the fourth date, some of your date’s mysteries are resolved, and most of the time it’s drama that has nothing to do with you. I could empathize with the best of them but I couldn’t bring myself to care. I did ask when I could see her again, and Nell told me that she’d have to call me back.

Cindy called me back the following day, and I had a momentary crisis of conscience. As far as I knew, Cindy had no family nor history to bother me with. When she called, I knew what she wanted and vice versa. We never spoke just to talk. The Red Sox were hosting the Nationals for the first time. Did I want to share this historic night? I did. Part of me rebelled. There’s a part of me that wants the romantic ideal, the girlfriend who shares my thoughts and dreams and whom would respect me in the morning. That part always loses to the part that preaches instant gratification.

It was this conflicted mind that greeted Nell when we went out the following Friday evening. I didn’t make big plans. We went to dinner at a place two steps above a chain restaurant, and during dessert I made it clear that she was welcome at my place. Her reply was clear.

The following morning, I felt a soft, persistent knock on my temple. Lifting my hands to instinctively rub my eyes, strong hands grip my wrists and hold them down.

“What the fuck?” I exclaim.

“Rub your eyes? How cliché. I expected more out of you, big boy.”

I recognized that voice. “It’s you? Give me my fucking hands.”

“What’s up, sugar? Can’t outwrestle a weak-ass girl?”

“You have strong hands,” I said, blinking until her too-close face came into focus.

“Oh man, your breath,” Nadine said, releasing her grip.

“Speak for yourself, little miss Starbucks.”

I heard the faint clomp of her clogs as she walked to the kitchen. I often start my day on the couch. Because I have no particular schedule, I can watch the occasional West-coast baseball game, and it’s usually easier to just stay on the couch when I go to sleep. I’m not a light sleeper.

I didn’t give Nadine a set of keys but she found out where I hid the set. I had to break a window at my previous address when I locked myself out and I vowed never to do that again. Finding a new hiding place other than under the welcome mat could be a good idea for the future.

“Here you go,” she said, dropping two Eclipse mints in my right hand.

“One usually suffices,” I replied.

“You have an amazing capacity for stank breath.”

“What did I do to deserve such an early wake-up call?” I asked, sitting up.

“It’s not that early.”

“Five minutes to eight?” I asked, fingering my watch.

“I couldn’t sleep and I needed a Hills fix.”

Nadine loves trash TV. Once she discovered my HD TV and Tivo, a love affair blossomed. I have no interest in most of her shows, although they can be addictive. The Hills was a spin-off of another putrid MTV reality show. Nadine watched it like a cat watches a goldfish.

“If you can do me a little favor in the bedroom, I’ll hand you the remote.”

“All right then. Get in there, drop your drawers, and I’ll be join you in a jiff.”

Does anyone say “in a jiff” anymore? I guess that’s what people in Detroit say when not dodging gunfire.

The slap of a rubber gloved hand on my backside told me that it was over. The doctor told me that my wound would heal in six to eight weeks. This was week eight, and things were getting worse, if anything. The gauze still stuck to the wound, and even with the help of some hydrogen peroxide, the removal process stung. I guess open wounds can be like that.

I rolled over, but we weren’t finished. Nadine stood there, hands on her hips. She had removed the gloves. I shrugged. Instead of pulling up my shorts, I nodded in the direction of the dresser drawer. She paused for a moment, nodded back and I closed my eyes.

My goodness she has strong hands. I broke a mild sweat during the packing but her next procedure made me feel like I was in a sauna.

“Payback’s going to be a bitch before dinner tonight,” she whispered in my ear right before I finished.

Five minutes of cleanup later, I desperately searched for football news on the laptop while she watched her show. When it was over she turned off the TV.

“I think I’m going to go home,” she said. The girl needed a couple of hours to slow down after a hectic 12-hour, and sometimes longer, shift. When she finally did, Nadine would only sleep for a few hours. She slept hard, though. On off days she might pull ten or twelve hours in a row. That generally was the highlight of her off days.

“If you insist,” I said, not really paying attention.

“Were you on a date last night?”

I quickly turned off the computer. “Yeah,” I finally offered in reply.

“I suggest a shower.”

“You did just pack me. I don’t mind a little stink on the weekends.” Thirty seconds in the shower would ruin the gauze. I didn’t want to repeat the process until I had to.

“How’d it go?”

“I’ve had worse.”

“That’s all you have to say? I know you at least got a good-night kiss.”

“I did.” Nell was very friendly in the car after our dinner, but she stuck with her story. After her mother had another episode, Nell didn’t want to come home late again.

“Is that all?”

“Pretty much.”

“What date was it?”

“I think I lost count.”

“Really?”

“It was the fifth date,” I said, finally looking her in the eyes.

“Oh wow, so this is serious.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Do me a favor, and never say that to a woman who really likes you.”

She stood up, found her clogs, and walked to the door.

“Did I do something wrong?” I asked.

“Obviously, or she would have stayed the night. Do me a favor and scrub some of that stink off before I come over tonight. What’s on the menu?”

“Meatloaf.”

“Sounds good to me. Oh, and Larry? If she really likes you, it’s going to be pretty obvious.”

The following Tuesday I convinced Nadine to come over early and finish my packing, minus the turn-down service. Instead of writing on Monday I spent a large portion of the afternoon planning a romantic dinner for the following evening. My plans were to plan, anyway. What actually happened is I spent the majority of an hour in a chat room arguing with a Texans’ fan about Mario Williams versus Reggie Bush, and after that we spent another 30 minutes working out a complicated fantasy trade that ended up not happening. After that, I had to do some actual work, and by Tuesday I had already decided to order Chinese instead.

When Nell arrived I had candles lit. They looked romantic, but their real purpose was to cut down on the gas I had from making the tragic error of eating Indian food for lunch. It tastes wonderful but is as good for my system as inhaling broken glass. The last thing I wanted to do at that point was chow down on some General Tsao. I offered her a beer without realizing that she didn’t like beer. Strike one. We sat down at the table, started to have a decent enough conversation, then the phone rang when the Chinese delivery guy needed to be buzzed in. I ordered early enough to get the food before she arrived. She was early and the food was late. I kicked myself for saying that I had some “special” plans for the evening.

I did order cashew shrimp, which she liked. I consumed maybe three bites of my food, and while chewing each one my stomach said the equivalent of “oh hell no.”

Eventually she had enough and I put away the leftovers. Part of me wanted to dump the rest in the garbage disposal but the smell would have been too noticeable. I set up the iPod on the Bose Sound Dock and prepared myself for some romancin’. If you follow a sex date with a non-sex date, the following date should be something like the Paris Hilton video.

Before I even sat down, Nell gave me the Heisman. See, the Heisman trophy has the pose of a football player giving a mean stiff-arm, and when a woman gives you that, things are not good. She found my remote and shut off the music.

“I’d love to relax, but I want to talk first,” she said in her deep, strong voice. She’d make a killing reading books on CD.

“If you insist,” I replied, hands spread in a non-threatening gesture.

I sat next to her on the couch, and she moved to the chair on the other side of the room. Body language I can read.

“I was talking with some of my friends at work today. Told ‘em that I had a date tonight. They asked me how many dates this was. I couldn’t remember.”

“Six,” I replied. The Steelers went to their sixth Super Bowl last year. Peyton Manning has been to six Pro Bowls. Bill Belichick has coached the New England Patriots for six years.

Hmm. . . that’s three sixes.

“Don’t you worry, they told me the number. Sometimes I think these girls have been on these dates with us, from what they remember.”

This was reason 19 why I didn’t work at an office. You spent as much time chatting up your co-workers than actually getting work done. Heck, between taking breaks and going to meetings, that could fill your 40 hours right there. I got paid only when I worked, and I liked it that way.

“So I’m infamous.”

“I like to share. Before we started going out I was one of the girls, living vicariously through others.”

I liked her use of vicariously. I didn’t like the direction of our conversation.

“I like you, Larry. I enjoy your company.”

“Then what’s the problem?” I asked, trying to cut her off at the pass. She had on a short black dress, the same dress she wore on our third date, a dress that I had not removed yet but could imagine doing so. My stomach gurgled slightly. Oh damn.

“You don’t have a romantic soul,” Nell said.

I let out a fart that, had we been married, would have resulted in divorce. Despite the sound and the intense smell, she didn’t react immediately. She simply stood up, found her shoes and purse, and walked out. I wasn’t going to see her again.

I called Tom later that night. He answered on the fourth ring. I immediately identified myself.

“Hey Laser Larry. What’s shaking?”

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Oh no, she’ll be fine on her own for another ten minutes or so. What’s up?”

“I want to go to the Drunkard.”

“I just got home from the Drunkard.”

“August 11, 2005, to be exact.”

“Let me call you back in an hour. OK, thirty minutes. Shit, I just forgot her name. Should I go with sweetie, darling, or Your Highness?”

Tom hung up the phone before I could reply.