the drip, chapter 3

He slumped into his chair. The crickets were out early today. He listened in peace for a few minutes. A car drove past, Dean Martin’s “Memories are Made of This” came out of the speakers.

For just a second, life was perfect, he thought. And of course, by thinking it, it ended.

The blonde haired hooker from General Pershing strolled by just as the car disappeared around a corner. He waved at her. She waved back.

“We need to talk,” he said to her.

She tilted her head as to question why.

“Johnny’s in love with you,” he said.

She slumped just a little in the shoulders. “I know,” she replied, kicking a crushed water bottle around with her right foot. Almost like a cat playing with it, but not quite.

He’d known her when she was at Tulane. She played soccer there. A right fullback. Just like he played when he was young and didn’t fear getting kicked in the face and losing his teeth. They met while he was writing game stories and features on the team for a local web site. It started with the Picayune, but they didn’t want a lot on the women’s soccer team. There was a time in his life when covering smaller sports like that for a big paper was the dream. He’d met a guy in Phoenix who got to do it, and always wondered how he could do the same. It never happened. Supply and demand.

Back then, he just wrote stories for papers and web sites all over the country. Luckily, Tulane played in Conference USA, which was so spread out, no one traveled to games. Making it stringer friendly. And supported him for the most part when he first moved back to the city. He had sex with her three weeks after she blew her knee out during her senior season. He was there to write a feature on the 23 year olds attempted comeback. They ended up going out for drinks, jumped on a street car to her house and one thing led to another.

He told his editor the next morning. He wasn’t allowed to cover Tulane anymore. Things kind of dried up at the paper soon after. Go figure.

Three years and a pain-killer addiction later, she was a Craigslist hooker and stripper. Private parties only. Not in the Quarter. He found out one day and tried to stop her. Instead, he became a steady customer. Life is funny that way.

“He’s a douche,” she said.

“Agree,” he said. “But I told you that.”

“What should I do?”

“Keep them.”

“Them?”

“You’ll have twins. His is Johnny Two Kids, you know.”

“Shit.”

“And then get him to pay for everything.”

“That’s mean. And I don’t know if I want kids. Especially his kids.”

“No meaner than an abortion.”

“Johnny tell you that?”

“Yeah. I know you won’t do it, too. Your mom would kill you.”

“You tell him that?”

“No. He doesn’t deserve that. Yet.”

“Yeah.”

“So buck up and own it, babe.”

“I don’t know.”

“Plus, you won’t have to be on Craigs anymore.”

“That means none for you, too.”

“Poor Bono.”

She laughed. His sense of humor was a bit off. But she liked it. It’s why they’d been friends. Even though she charged him, it never seemed that way to her. In fact, he had insisted on it. Kind of weird, but it helped pay the bar tabs. If he were 15 years younger, she thought, we’d probably have made it. But he’s old. I’m not.

“Listen, Tara,” he said. “Come to Matty’s this afternoon. We can talk about it in a better setting.”

“A better setting?”

“They’ve got a great jukebox. I should know, it’s mine.”

“I can’t drink.”

“I know, babe. We’ll have ginger ales on ice. Just like during rehab.”

She smiled. He always had the right words for her. She wondered why he got her so well.

“Ok, George,” she leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheer. He blushed.

“You’re blushing!”

“Every time, sweetheart.”

“You’re going to have to explain that to me sometime.”

“Sometime.”

“Ta Ta. I’ve got to go to the market to get some veggies.”

She closed the gate with her left hand. Oh so gently. She understood how much he hated it when people just slammed the old iron fence. That clanky sound just shot through him like a knife through butter.

He looked at her face. She smiled and waved.

He smiled back, then slumped back into his chair. He grabbed a notepad. It was writing time.

“But first, another beer,” he said aloud to no one but the birds and crickets. He reached into his old metal Dixie 45 ice chest. One of his favorite possessions. Found it in an alley after a couple of warehouses were torn down to build a new parking garage a couple months ago. It was sturdy, with just a little bit of rust. He found a beer, a Shiner Black.

“She was beautiful, but crazy,” he wrote. The day was young still. And the drip had stopped.