BILL CADY
Post Office Box 567
San Luis Rey, California 92068-0567
Tel: (760) 803-6690
Fax: (760) 637-2862
bill@billcady.com
Ben Dover:
What's Love Got To Do With It?
By Bill Cady
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 Bill Cady
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What's Love Got To Do With It?
Somewhere, in a place too hard to find,
waits the perfect woman for every man,
but the why and when of her perfection
won't be seen until she shows her hand.
GUILLAUME
PROLOGUE
I probably should've killed her.
The idea had merit at different times while I knew her, but I never actually got to where I could follow through on it. Love can make a man do silly things, or be silly enough not to do a few things he should.
If I'd known what kind of woman she was the day I met her, I would've kept going. Aimed my eyes down at the floor to avoid eye contact and quickly walked by. Saved myself a helluva lot of grief.
It would be an all or nothing bet, killing her. Win or lose, no head games. Kill her right there in the supermarket aisle, no witnesses ahead of or behind us, and walk away a free man.
Getting caught would be bad, of course. It would mean a lifetime in a cold, creepy 8x10 cell, probably with some huge black guy who's decided I'm his loving new wife. I like to think he'd have to kill me to get what he wanted. Hope I never have to find out.
If I had killed her … this is the funny part … I'd be right where I am now. On the run.
She's dead. Someone did kill her, but it wasn't me. The cops think I did it, of course. They're combing the bushes for me. My few supposed friends are all inclined to think I did it, although no one actually says it out loud.
My real friends are a short list. A damned short list. I can count 'em on one hand.
Another funny thing. One's a guy who'd kill for me. I don't dare involve him in this mess.
One's a woman I thought would be with me until I drew my last breath on this planet. She won't be.
One's a woman I never thought would be any part of my life, for a list of reasons I'd seem like an idiot to recount. She says she'll be there.
Who knows? Maybe she will be. I can only hope. Doesn't look too good.
Am I supposed to believe in someone again? Another woman? Take her word she'll carry through with what she tells me?
That'd make her unusual. She'd be the second woman in my life who never lied to me.
The first one's dead. I called her Mom.
Do I trust this one? Now, when it only means everything.
I'm not sure. Perhaps you can advise me.
CHAPTER ONE
The day I met her I was grocery shopping, if you want to call it that. It's a chore I normally do late in the evening. Ten, eleven o'clock, when it's quieter and less crowded. Normally, fewer spoiled, bratty kids yelling and whining, a quick way to get a pissed off expression on my face.
Today, for no particularly good reason other than a whim, I decided to go in the late afternoon.
My shopping's always pretty quick. A stop at the cookie section for a box of Hostess cupcakes and a box of Ding Dongs. Every few trips I get a couple gallons of milk. When I really want to put on the dog, I go to the frozen food aisle and get a few Stouffer's selections, fettuccini alfredo, spaghetti and meatballs, Swedish meatballs, like that.
Dining out usually means stopping at a little café I've enjoyed the last few years in Escondido, twenty minutes southeast of Oceanside, California, where I live. Eggs and pancakes, no matter what time I arrive, and I feel nourished. Just like Mom always wanted for me.
The day was pretty average, in most respects. I slept until noon, as usual. Did the crossword on my computer, ate some cupcakes while I figured it out, and slowly tried to come alive. Mornings are a helluva lot like liver and asparagus. They should be avoided at any cost. Mornings are a good waste of daylight and my time. Better spent with my head on a pillow.
Afternoons are the time to get the day started. Accomplish things while the slaves to the system are still at work. Evenings are the time to enjoy yourself.
I haven't done much of that in recent years. An exciting evening for me is an episode of NYPD Blue, maybe a few tense moments on The West Wing, on my VCR before turning out the lights at three or four in the morning.
So, I was running my errand. The kitchen wall rack where I keep the cupcakes was empty after breakfast. I didn't want to go hungry later, which meant a trip to the grocery. When I turned my cart right, into the cookie aisle, she was standing near the other end.
I stopped. Looked hard. Looked some more. Stayed stopped. After a while it came to me I wasn't breathing. It more than likely had a lot to do with the fact I was lightheaded, so I inhaled. I tried to think of a number that applied, finally settling on 210. That's about how many times per minute my heart was beating.
I decided if good ol' Russ, my doctor, saw my blood pressure, he'd be the one who'd pass out. From shock.
Possibly she's five-two, I conceded, but that's max. Not a damned bit taller. If her weight has three digits, questionable, the first two are one and zero.
Beautiful soft black hair hung straight down her back, shaped at the end. It came to a rounded point there between the pockets of Levis no one ever thought would be so appealing on anyone. Soft, silken tresses somehow managed to gather sunlight not even present and funnel it into a blazing burst of artistry no painter could hope to capture.
She wore a light pink top, no sleeves. Frilly around the drooping neckline. I saw three or four inches of skin between the bottom of her shirt and the top of the Levis. White socks and clean as new Reeboks finished things off.
Looking closer, I tried to determine her age. Asian, which means not a helluva lot to me, beyond the fact some Asian women are among the most beautiful in the world. I couldn't hope to guess if she was Filipino, Japanese, Korean, Thai, Chinese, Vietnamese, or who knows what.
Intelligent. Damned intelligent. She reeked of it. Her concentration as she read the label of whatever she had in her hand was intense. So severe, I could almost hear it.
I suppose, if I'd decided to shoot her right then, she wouldn't've known it. Probably wouldn't've heard the "m" in blam.
Lightheadedness again reminded me to breathe.
I followed the scene slowly, concentrating on the woman sixty feet ahead of me. Another part of me, what I seem to do so often, came to mind.
Okay, it's gonna happen. Soon. In just a few seconds. I'll walk up to this woman with all the best intentions, and some of the stupidest things ever said by any human being will dribble out of my mouth. I'll make a complete ass of myself and back my way out jabbering something to save face, which will be impossible by that point.
I looked over my shoulder at George, a figurative person I allude to who, in truth, is the other side of me. The meaner, nastier side. Someone who came to be in my wilder youth, back when I was a tough guy … or thought I was. The part of me so long buried, I'm the only one who knows he still exists.
He doesn't visit, mind you, but he's always there, in case I get in trouble and can't handle it. So, as if winning encouragement from George was the decisive factor, I muttered, "Hey, at least I'll know I tried, right?"
As always, George didn't give a damn what I did, unless he had to step in and cover for some dumb ass move I made. He said nothing. Just stood there being George.
That much decided, I felt things were about to get easier.
I have a great pickup line I stole years ago from a comic series. It's priceless. It never fails. So, like any other reasonably intelligent guy, with a goal too valuable to estimate relying on success or failure, I changed my plan when I was ten feet away from her. How the hell am I supposed to know why I changed it? I just did. "Excuse me, Miss. Can you help me?"
Her concentration broke from the label, still so strong it felt like a link ran to it from her eyes. She focused on me. "Pardon me?"
Well, she sure as hell didn't just arrive from wherever her heritage began. Absolutely no accent. A bit like me, as I was once a Midwesterner. From Michigan, a great place to be from. No to go to. To be from.
No matter where else you go if you live in Michigan, with the exception of Illinois, Wisconsin, Iowa or Nebraska, it's always the same. "Man, the weather here is great! So much better than we have in Michigan."
That state has three heavenly weeks in spring, and three in the fall with crisp, cold air that invigorates you to the tips of your toes. The rest is a few months of dog days, humidity making you think you're in Alabama in midsummer, and seven plus months of winter colder'n a car dealer's heart.
Midwesterners have no accent. Just plain English, modified from whatever was imported by redcoats who didn't go back to England, but stayed to make this great country what it is today.
She had something much the same. No twang, drawl, hardness or softness to indicate a region where she learned to speak it. Textbook intonation.
As if that mattered. For Christ's sake, if all this woman spoke was Swahili, I'd be signing up for a language class before the day was finished.
Her eyes ran up and down me, taking in whatever there might be to take in. I tentatively pegged her age late twenties, thirty tops. I just turned fifty-five a while back, but haven't totally gone to seed.
I'm a touch over six one, not the six two plus when I was younger. I weigh 205, a bit more than the 192 when I boxed as a semipro heavyweight in the late 60s.
Today's glamorous outfit was a pair of white denim shorts, a short sleeved navy blue facsimile polo shirt, white socks and, like her, Reeboks. Mine weren't, by any means, as clean and white as hers.
Doesn't matter. I can get witnesses to testify there are at least twenty-five, perhaps even fifty, guys uglier than I am in the tri-city area. If we go outside to all of San Diego county, my numbers look even better, in the high hundreds.
In any event, no one ever looked at me, then turned around to barf. I'm sure I'd remember if it happened.
Assured by her expression she wouldn't upchuck, I continued my Star Trek routine, trying to boldly go where no man has gone before. Get next to this woman as quickly and securely as possible.
Hell, from my innate honesty streak, if she'd asked advice on this strange dude in front of her, I'd've told her to blow the guy off and get away. Thankfully, I thought, she isn't asking, so I don't have to advise this complete goddess to ditch me and run.
In retrospect, I wish she'd asked the question and I'd given her that answer.
Still, there's no excuse for what happened. I had too many chances to get out before it was too late, but didn't. As my beloved Grandpa used to advise when I was a boy, "Excuses are like assholes. Everybody has one, and they all stink."
I looked at my watch, posturing a puzzled expression. "It's just after three in the afternoon," I explained, "and we're in a public place. A grocery store."
"Thanks for the update." Her eyes roamed, the images confirming she was forming an impression of me. "That's good to know."
"That being the case," I continued as suavely as I could manage, "I need to know something. That's why I'm asking for your help."
"I'm not sure what I can do to help you." She slowly put whatever she'd been holding back on the shelf and faced me directly. Her eyes shouted, Deep scan. Let's see who the hell this guy is and find out what he really wants.
That sexy mouth fell into a relaxed smile and I damned near went blind. Teeth so white they'd make a polar bear look dingy erupted behind soft lips shaded the same pink as her shirt. Deep, dark brown eyes reached out to grab me. They would've faded to obscurity if she stood next to a tree in a dark forest. Turning the smile up a notch, sealing my doom, she suggested, "Since we now know the time and where we are, perhaps you'll tell me how I can help you?"
Show time! This is it! This is where you use this quickly improvised line and find out if it actually works! Man, why the hell didn't you use the one you know will always work? If this one goes down the toilet, that's it. You're dead.
With no idea if my daring improvisation would sink or float, I continued. "Given that," I went on, forming the clear impression I wasn't off my game by even a half step, "would this, or would this not, be a good time to hit on you?"
The eyes grew large. I could've placed a coffee cup on each and still seen brown.
Her smile followed, widening so much it would've taken three minutes to kiss her mouth. Then came the sound. Like a small wind chime on heaven's porch, her laughter gushed, urging anyone in earshot to join. Nothing comedic or contrived. Not a trace of phoniness. I swear before God, if she stood in a sound booth and laughed for three minutes, we'd have a new Top 40 singles hit. It'd be in first place for a year. Better than music, that laugh, more pleasurable than any sound I can recall.
When she dialed it down, chuckling mirthfully but no longer calling angels to listen and take notes, she gave me an answer. Not a good answer, mind you, but an answer, all the same. "I don't think this is a very good time," she advised, "but I must say, you're very amusing. Oh, and clever, too. Very clever".
The smile popped up a moment, treating me and anyone in the vicinity to a moment of beauty none of us deserved. It idled down, leaving an enticing splendor on her face few women would ever know. "I'll be sure to let you know when it's a good time to hit on me, though." Her eyes crinkled with humor for a moment and she turned to push her cart away.
Damn it! Shit! She's taking off and I … wait! Maybe there's still time to get in my ace! "Uh, Miss? Excuse me, Miss?"
She turned, just the top of her body, resting her arms on the push bar of the cart. "Yes?"
"Can I get your zip code?"
Confusion and questions swarmed in those incredibly beautiful eyes. At the same time, amusement was evident. "Uh-huh, sure. It's 92057."
Pulling a piece of paper from my left hip pocket, hastily yanking a pen from my shirt where it buttons, I wrote the number. "92057, you said?"
"Yup". A quiet giggle.
I looked at the number. "92057, huh?"
"Correct." A little more smile.
"Okay. Thanks. I mean it. Thanks a lot." I turned and started to walk away slowly, a wheel on my cart squeaking to announce it was overworked and had more to do than the other three wheels.
Walking away is a crucial part of this never-fail pickup line.
At my fourth step I heard her call, "Hold it, dude! What's up with that? Get back here."
Bingo! Hot damn, it worked!
Forcing a composed expression, I turned the same way she'd done with me, only the top half of my body. "I'm sorry," I began, acting as innocent as I did in grade school when the nuns caught me doing bad things. "Something wrong?"
"Yeah," she admitted from behind a playful smile. "What's up with this zip code stuff? Why the heck would you ask for my zip code, a number I share with probably fifty thousand people here in Oceanside?"
Go for it, man. This is it! Now or never! "Well, I actually wanted to ask for your phone number, but it seemed a bit pushy."
This emissary from on high burst into gales of laughter, eventually wrapping her arms around her sides. She must've howled two, maybe three minutes.
When it finally began to subside, she looked at me with tears glistening in those adorable eyes. "You're too funny!" she ruled, classifying me in what I hoped was a good category, in her opinion.
With no one here to press my case but me, and time running out in a hurry, I stayed on track. "Does that mean I get your phone number?"
More effusive laughter. In a few moments she used the knuckle of each index finger to clear the wetness from her eyes. "No, but I really do promise to let you know when it's time to hit on me." She tossed in another smile. It would've stopped an invading army. Still snickering, she turned and began to push her cart away.
"Okay," I advised, "but you can still find me if you change your mind. I'll be wandering the aisles with my broken heart whining for all it's worth."
"Take care," she chuckled, turning left into the next aisle.
I caught the image in a glass door behind her when she entered the aisle and waited a few seconds before slowly nudging my cart back the way I'd come. Too far in to quit, I started whimpering like a sad, hungry puppy. "Mmmmph, mmmmph, mmmmph, mmmmph!"
I continued my shrill noises all the way to the beginning of the aisle, where I once more came upon that ungodly beautiful woman. Right hand on her hip, left foot in front of the right, a piece of paper in her left hand.
She extended her arm, obviously so I could take the paper.
The fingers of my right hand accepted it. My arm fell to my side. This time my eyes asked, What's this?
"That's my cell phone," she explained, words wrapped in a chuckle. "If you're this funny, and you try this hard, maybe we could get together at Starbucks sometime and talk. Maybe."
"So, this means "
"It means you can call me," she said with about half as much bubble in her voice. "I might meet with you, I might not." She winked. "Still, you can call. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"
"Exactly." I smiled, much of it influenced by gratitude. "Don't worry. I will call you."
"Somehow, I have no doubt." Her laughter was bubbly again. One more wink and she turned right, then right again into the next aisle.
I waited thirty seconds, looked at her number, pulled my cell phone from my pants pocket. I dialed and waited three rings before it was picked up. "This is Moki."
"Hi, this is Ben, the guy who makes puppy noises. There's a Starbucks there at El Camino Real and Mission. How's three thirty sound?"
A three second pause was followed by extra bubbly laughter. I heard it from the phone and the next aisle. "You goof, that's barely ten minutes from now. I still have a few things to buy, have to check out at the counter "
"Four o'clock it is," I amended. "What drink shall I have waiting for you?"
More chuckling. "You know their Caramel Macchiato?"
"My favorite," I said with pleasant surprise. "What size?"
Laughter again. "Can you afford a Grande?"
"Yeah, if you drink slowly. See you at four."
CHAPTER TWO
4:03 pm
On the patio at Starbucks
Funny thing. An omen, perhaps? I quickly gathered my Hostess cupcakes, Ding Dongs, and two gallons of whole milk. Tina Turner was singing on the grocery store PA system as only Tina can do. What's love got to do, got to do with it? What's love but a second hand emotion?
Man, did I ever pick the wrong time not to listen.
Instead, I hurried as fast as I could, checked out my "dinner items", raced to the house about ten minutes away, and unloaded my haul. Blessed with a few extra minutes, I gargled some mouthwash. Even applied some cologne.
The last woman in my life, a fiancée for three and a half years until things went south, gave me numerous scents during that time. I never used any, but they were safely nestled in my medicine cabinet. It made sense.
As far as I knew, there was a long, uphill battle ahead if I had even a remote shot at getting something started with Moki.
I stopped, looked in the mirror, maybe to consult myself by talking with my own image. What a beautiful name! Must have some connection with her upbringing. Her heritage. Just sounds foreign, doesn't it?
Hell, who knows? Still, it's a beautiful name. Have to be sure I ask about it … assuming I don't get greased by something I say, or answering her questions, in the first two or three minutes.
Finished primping, I took off for Starbucks, one I'd never visited, although it's less than a mile from my house. I happened to see it one day going through the intersection and made a note to stop when I could.
However, when I made that note, it was questionable I could afford anything as costly as a Starbucks treat. It was ancient history for me now. Affording things. I was extra proud of myself, remembering the store at such an appropriate moment.
It was ten to four when I got there. I ordered both drinks, then gathered "the essentials" out of habit.
During the years with my fiancée, Dannie, we spent lots of time at Starbucks. One in particular, where we often went, is on the edge of San Diego, on Mira Mesa Boulevard between Scripps Ranch and Poway.
As the drinks were prepared, I collected a stack of napkins, a straw for Moki, and sugarless sweetener on the off-chance she might want some. It made no sense at all, but a helluva lot of things mandatory to women make no sense to me.
I took my items outside to a table, weighted the napkins with sweetener, and went back for our drinks.
They were ready in a couple minutes. I went to the table and sat, waiting to see if she'd actually show up. I took off my watch, positioned so I could see it, confiscated an ashtray from another table. With a hopeful second thought, I grabbed another, just in case I got lucky.
I went over and over in my mind the myriad of questions and answers sure to come. Speculated randomly on the "real biggies".
She's young. Does she want kids?
I smoke. Will that gross her out?
I've been married more than once. A lot more. Will it scare the hell out of her?
I'm not all that interested in getting married again. Will that get her to run like a fool?
My religious point of view, Christian in every sense, is unique. Will she hear it, make a cross with her fingers, and back away slowly to protect herself?
As I was conjuring up the thirtieth reason Moki would dump me before she even took a seat, I saw her car pull in. Some kind of mid 80s Toyota. Dirty gray, paint worn and faded. A few expected dents. Appearance testifying such a car would last well past 100,000 miles. It was obviously true for hers.
I glanced at mine while she fiddled in front of her mirror as girls do.
From dozens of Starbucks meetings with many different women, I learned just because a woman parks her car doesn't mean you'll see her right away. Most need a few minutes to do whatever they do, some longer.
Dannie used to average a good five minutes before I'd see her door open.
My car was a few spots past Moki's. A shiny black Dodge Viper, the coolest car I've owned. Not the only one I have, mind you, or the most expensive, but the coolest. Due to recent good fortune, a phrase that honestly won't describe my good luck from a short time back, I have three other cars.
One is a Mercedes 2005 CLK500 Cabriolet, (I bought two that day), I keep for visitors to drive. Another is a Cadillac Escalade, something I bought to satisfy my ego and serve as a multi-passenger vehicle. The third, also an ego item for me, is a Cadillac stretch limo, black.
We'll talk about the cars later, but the odd factor was the way Moki's piece of crap made me feel guilty about what I was driving.
Shit! Another reason she might be put off. Maybe she won't like the way I gave myself these expensive treats after all those years of being poorer than a church mouse. Back then, I was broke flatter than piss on a platter. It felt good to buy a few luxury items when I finally hit it big.
What'll I do if she doesn't see it that way? Maybe, if I make sure we don't talk about our cars, she'll focus on other things and we can
Son-of-a-bitch! My jaw dropped.
Moki got out, closed the door, then locked it.
Of course that was necessary. She'd be a good fifty feet from a car directly under a parking lot lamp. All she had to protect her "valuable" car was a crowd of people, me, and the concealed weapon I carry that, of course, she has no idea exists.
Aw, Christ! There's another reason!
I shifted around, undid the fanny pack I wear, which also holds a Taurus .38, and took it off. Setting it by my feet, I watched her approach and tried like hell not to slobber.
I've seen supermodels stride down a runway, creating the appearance of power and sexiness.
I've seen women in beauty contests do everything possible to come off as so unforgettable a judge was forced to select them.
I've seen strippers in clubs, women who arouse men for a living, moving sexily, as if the only idea in their mind was getting in bed with every individual customer.
I've never seen a woman walk the way Moki did. Create such a nearly lurid turn-on merely moving from point A to point B.
When she entered the patio, it was a lot like I envisioned when Moses parted the Red Sea. Instead of huge walls of water, it was faces.
Orchestrated choreography, in a sense.
In a sequential pattern, faces turned as she approached. Necks twisted as Moki went by. Eyes followed her all the way to my table.
Not just young guys. Not just guys, either. One man had to be at least eighty years old. Maybe he lives in my community, I mused. I live in a retirement community with a minimum age of fifty-five for residents … and no kids, no matter what the reason.
The women were ogling Moki, as well. Not because their boyfriends did it, although a few of these guys were going to pay dearly judging from the unhappy facial expressions on these women. The women were watching with envy.
Perhaps disappointment, too. Knowing there's no way they'll ever create such a striking appearance, no matter what salon they go to.
As I waited, ogling as much as anyone, grateful not an eye in the place was on me, Moki intensified the moment. Her face lit up with that damned smile. The one that would halt the invading hordes. I was damned glad to still be sitting.
My knees were rubber. If I'd been standing, I'd've made a complete fool of myself before a word was spoken.
Summoning a strength a didn't even know I had, something that springs from the inherent gentleman in me, I managed to clamber to my feet as she drew close. I smiled, a mixture of happiness, gratitude and disbelief. "So, do I owe you anything for that stellar performance?" I asked, left hand entering the pocket where I keep my money clip.
"I think so," she chirped happily, a teasing smile on her face. "How much have you got on you?"
"Probably not enough to pay what your entrance was worth, but I'll count it if you want."
"Naw, you can run a tab," Moki offered with a slightly different smile. "We can settle up later."
"I see." Stepping around her, I held the metal chair and let Moki be seated before heading to my chair. "Should I leave while all we have are these pleasant memories, or do you want me to stick around long enough to really screw things up?"
"Let's try 'b' and see how it goes." She pointed at the drinks. "That mine?"Nodding, I sat in my chair. "I've had the feeling since we 'met', as it were, if there's any way I manage to create a relationship with you, I'll use a three word, rhyming phrase very, very often."
"Yeah? Like what?" The eyebrows, thin and sculpted, soared a notch.
"Okey-dokey, Moki."
The Top 40 hit started playing again. Moki leaned back in her chair and threw her head back even farther, all that black silk swishing behind her. "You are too funny!"
"Glad you think so," I responded. "It's probably a bad idea to say anything like this, especially since we really just met, but I'm not sure I'll ever be able to say 'no' to anything you ask me."
With a scowl, Moki grabbed her purse and stood.
"What's wrong, Moki? Why are you … I mean, you just got here and I haven't even "
"What if I like being turned down?" she queried, the stern look on her face scaring the hell out of me. "What if I enjoy never getting the things I want?"
"Well, I guess I'd, um, I'd, you know, I'd probably, um …" I jabbered, my face suddenly red enough to piss off a castrated bull and make him charge.
The Top 40 hit started playing loud and clear as Moki sat and put her purse on the ground by her feet. "I sure hope you'd get me checked out by a specialist, 'cause that's definitely not me!" she squealed amidst her laughter. "Had you going for a sec, didn't I?"
"You could say that," I countered as I inhaled a lungful of badly needed air. I repeated the process three times from necessity. I pointed at her drink. "I hope you'll at least finish that before you leave. I honestly enjoy … with a plus mark … looking at you."
"No problem," she responded as she unwrapped the straw and stuck it in her drink. "What made you get this for me? Oh, and thank you, sir, by the way."
"Old habits," I answered without thinking.
"Old ?"
"Moki?" I interrupted. "Can we get to some of the, um, really crucial parts of these singles meetings so I can hang my head and trudge off to my car when I give a 'no-no' answer? I mean, if this deal's gonna tank, we might as well wrap it up as quickly and painlessly as possible."
"Jeez, the guy's so serious, and so quickly," she said, almost as an aside to someone next to her. "Okay, shoot, Sport. What've you got?"
Seeing myself already on my way out of her life, I reached into my right pants pocket and pulled out a pack of Winston 100s. "For starters, I smoke." Knowing full well from experience 75% of single women don't smoke, I saw it as a deal breaker. Figured it best to confess that sin first.
Moki grabbed her purse and stood. "You smoke? Ben, are you telling me the God's truth?"
"Yes, 'cause that's the only way for me. If that means you're gone "
Giggling mischievously, Moki pulled a pack of Winston 100 Lights from her purse as she sat again. "You mean, you don't mind if I smoke, too?"
More Top 40 hit filled my ears as she pulled one out. She was still fumbling in her purse, assumedly for a lighter, when my hand shot across the table at a speed that would leave a pissed off cobra in the dust."Allow me," I offered, hoping the thumpitty-thump of my heart wouldn't drown out what I said. "Damn, that was one of the big ones and I passed it. Or, maybe I should say we passed it, with flying colors."
"That we did, Handsome. So, what other 'crucial things' do you have?"
"What did you just call me?"
"I called you 'Handsome', if memory serves me," she chortled. "Is that on your 'no-no' list?"
"Of course not," I replied, feeling the heat as my face reddened. "I just have to wonder why you said it."
She adopted a confused expression. "I don't get it. I mean, if you were what they call butt-ugly, I wouldn't call you 'Gruesome', or anything like that, but you really are a good looking guy."
Moki inhaled her cigarette slowly and watched for my reaction. "Shouldn't I call you that?"
Impulsively, I reached into my pocket and withdrew my money clip. Peeled a hundred dollar bill from the top of what was still pretty close to a thousand dollars and handed it to her with a big smile. "Will that cover it?"
With a different smile, one I hadn't seen so far, she nodded and took the bill. It went directly into her cleavage. "I'll make a note on your tab to show you've already made a payment."
I said nothing for a few seconds. Just watched her face.
Waited a bit to see her start laughing as she handed the money back to me.
Rather quickly, I realized I'd be sitting a long, long time before that c-note found its way back to my money clip. As I realized it, I determined I didn't give a damn.
As a friend of mine said indicating a sum of money was inconsequential, "I'd pay a hundred dollars to watch frogs kiss". Okay, he didn't actually say the word "kiss", but the concept is the same.
Moki altered her smile, back to the one that made puddles of my emotions. She pointed toward her cleavage. "Do you want this back?"
No Top 40 hit. Just the question, accompanied by that smile.
"Do you want to give it back?" I inquired.
"Not really. Do you want it?" She blew smoke to the side. Those eyes, those delectable windows to her soul, remained fixed on me.
"Not really." I lit a cigarette, exhaled, pondered a moment, took another drag. "Okay, one down, many to go."
"Meaning?" she asked coyly, rich dark eyes dancing again.
"Meaning we made it past smoking, which I doubted would happen, and find very encouraging, but there's a list of things I'm worried about."
"Why should you be worried?" The question dripped sincerity. She really meant it. Every word. Her tone of voice and facial expression attested to it.
"Because, if I say the wrong thing, which I almost certainly will pretty damned quick, you're going to pull 'the poof routine' and be gone. I'm not sure why. Not really. I don't know how I'd take that if it happened."
"Wow. Sounds serious." Moki inhaled again, pondered as I'd just done, and raked me with her eyes. "Do you really think that could happen?"
"Could?" My question bordered on sneering. The answer was so terribly obvious. At least, it was to me.
While she finished a swallow from her drink, I sampled mine to give me something to do as I waited for her reply.
"Uh-huh," she answered with a nod. Another drag, another sip. Her eyes found mine again. "Think it will happen?"
"Honestly?" I fiddled with my cigarette pack a moment, looking down at it, then faced Moki again. "Yes."
I cleared a dry throat, unexpected since I just tasted my drink. "Yes, I do. Life has shown a very nasty habit of taking away the things I want most."
She patted my hand. "Well, let's just get on with it and see."
With the cigarette near her mouth, she added, "I think you're being a tad too pessimistic." One more drag. She continued her pensive look, cigarette in her right hand, out to the side, right elbow cupped in her left palm.
"Okay, I'm game if you are." I cleared my throat. "Our ages, for starters."
"I thought about that," Moki said with an abbreviated nod. "I decided I'm going to tell you my real age, right now in this first meeting. I think you're a good fifteen years older than I am." The smile came back, silently promising any storm clouds that might appear would instantly get their asses kicked.
I looked the woman up and down, shaking my head. "Impossible."
"No, I think it's true." She blushed just a little. "I'm thirty, Ben, only thirty. I don't feel bad, somehow, telling you."
"Really?" My grin was huge. Can't say if it was born of gratitude or pure amusement. "So, you're telling me math was never a very good subject for you?"
"No, I got all A's, but you can't mean … wait a sec. You're older than forty-five? Really?"
"You could say that, sweetheart. Actually, you could say it a few times."
"You're kidding? What, forty-seven? Eight?" Her eyes grew larger.
"Yeah". I took a drag from my cigarette to heighten the suspense. "A few years ago, I was."
"Was what?" She leaned forward.
"Forty-eight."
Puzzlement filled that gorgeous face.
"Huh? But, I mean, jeez-o, just look at you!" Her brow knotted. "You mean you're, what … like, um, like fifty?"
I held out my left hand in a fist, the turned in fingers facing her, opened it, closed it, then opened it again.
"Fifty-five? Are you kidding me?" Her expression was a little girl seeing Daddy put presents under the Christmas tree when she's been told Santa was on his way. "Ben, are you serious?"
"As a heart attack, pretty girl."
An advertising blurb for Moki's Top 40 hit popped up, lasted a good two or three seconds, and disappeared. "Gee, want some warm milk?"
I hefted my Caramel Macchiato. "Already have some, thank you." Before she could reply, I stood. "Is it time for me to leave?"
Two stanzas of the Top 40 hit rang out and she briefly waved her hand. "Of course not. Sit down, you goof."
I did, gratitude rising, but the fear of blowing this one still haunted me. An elephant in the room, so to speak. "That's not a problem for you? My age?"
"Is mine a problem for you, Ben?"
"Not unless a couple other things that often go along with your age jump up and bite me in the ass."
She grinned. "Hey, I've got one." Her expression turned coy again. "Here we are, exchanging histories, and we haven't even shared our full names." Her hand came across to me. "My name's Moki, Ben. Moki Taylor."
I took her hand gently, wondering how something with so many possibilities could fall apart so damned fast.
Shit! How'd we get to this part so damned quick? Okay, here goes nothing. "Dover," I told her, "first name Benjamin, but everyone calls me Ben."
"That's nice. Ben D" She looked at me, eyes agape, mind replaying what she just heard.
"Don't even go there," I warned.
"Ben Dover." The Top 40 hit was back, chorus after chorus. "Oh, my God! Too good! Too, way too good!"
She leaned forward, all that beautiful hair sweeping the table in, arms wrapped around her sides. When she finally got it manageable, Moki looked at me and asked, "Are you serious, or is this another joke?"
I raised my hand as if taking an oath. "May God strike me down where I sit if I'm lying. That's my name."Still rippling with laughter, but able to speak clearly, she probed, "Does that mean you're going to 'bend over' to make me happy?" She took a drag on the now shrunken cigarette, mashed it in the ashtray, and awaited my reply.
"More than you could hope to guess," I admitted. "I'm afraid I'll be doing a lot of it, although I'm not sure it'll be good for us, if there should ever be an 'us'."
"Maybe," Moki added with a bubbly giggle, "it means you're gonna want me to 'bend over' for you?"
"That," I countered with scarcely disguised lust, "is an interesting concept." I grinned. "I first noticed it at the supermarket."
"Noticed what?" All I could see were those enticing eyes over her cup as she took a drink.
"Well, I noticed even then, in that short time, how much I hate to have you leave me, but I damned sure love to watch you walk away."
My remark instigated what had already become my favorite song of all time, her Top 40 hit.
When her glee subsided, I pushed on. "Okay, we're past smoking, and our age difference, but there's more."
"Yeah? Like what?"
"Um, kids?"
"Uh-huh? What about 'em?"
"Good question." I smiled. "Do you know the nice thing about kids?"
Her grin was anticipatory. "No. What?"
"You can't think of anything, either?"
"You're too funny!" Moki howled, leaning forward again, having what might be the time of her life. "That's a good one!"
"Actually, I mean it," I told her, damned near certain this would be the one that sent the whole thing into the shitter. "I can't stand kids."
The laughter subsided, but didn't quit. "Really? You mean that?"
I nodded. "I don't like kids as much as W.C. Fields did."
The curious expression resumed control. "But, he hated kids?"
"I know. What's your point?"
On cue, the Top 40 hit filled the air. "You're too funny!"
"Do you know why the best children in America live in Maine, Vermont and New Hampshire?"
Her guffaws were down to around 20% now. "No, tell me."
"Because I live in San Diego county," I explained truthfully.
In what was happily becoming customary, I listened again to the treat of Moki's laughter, pulling two more "You're too funny!" comments between waves of hilarity splashing over her.
When she calmed down, Moki inquired, "Do you have kids?"
"Oh, yeah." Glumly. "Last count, six of 'em."
"Six? Oh my God! Really?"
"Yup. Of the six, fifty percent are stepchildren, one third are adopted, one sixth was created to save a marriage." I slapped my forehead as I mentioned the last. "Three girls, three boys, two of each."
Watching her forehead furrow as her eyes changed expression, I added, "Not full-time, though. I only have kids 362 days per year."
"What? Why 362 days? How can "
"I have no children on Christmas Day, my birthday, or Father's Day. No calls, no card, not even a 'kiss my ass, Dad' from anybody."
"Aw, that's too bad. Honestly." The sworn testimony proving she meant every word dripped from her eyes and words. Moki placed a hand on mine. "I'm really sorry. How did things get that way with your kids?"
"Most kids, mine included, take it poorly when you divorce their mother. That's how things work. I can live with it."
The mystified look overtook her face again. "You said three boys, three girls, two of each. How the heck "
"My oldest daughter and youngest son are gay."
I sat back and listened to my favorite music, Moki grabbing her ribs as she played the Top 40 hit. Finally, almost exhausted from so much laughter, she wiped her eyes again with her knuckles. "Ben, you really are too funny!"
"Glad you think so," I commented, "but it gets worse."
"Huh? How? Why?"
"When Taylor … his first name is the same as your surname … was eleven days old, I had a vasectomy." My index finger gestured toward my lap. "My doctor converted this into an RV."
"An RV? What "
"A recreational vehicle," I explained. "It's only good for pokin' fun at you."
Moki must've thought that was the funniest thing I said to date. She burst into uproarious laughter.
Waiting for it to die down, I noticed several people at other tables watching this woman laugh herself to the edge of hysteria.
"Oh … God!" she exclaimed, trying to catch her breath. "You're … too funny, Ben! Way too … darned funny!"
Able to breathe properly again, noticing me pull out a cigarette, Moki got one of her own. My lighter was there at the speed of light. Her eyes thanked me. She added a voice version. "Thanks. You're quite the gentleman."
"Glad you noticed," I remarked. "To be quite honest, I enjoy doing it. Being a gentleman, I mean. I know you can put on your coat, open your door, light your cigarette … even drive a car, for God's sake … but I really like it when the courtesy of doing it for you is honestly appreciated."
Whatever she thought about what I said became a pail of water on the flames of her laughter and that dazzling smile. Moki's face went completely sober. "That's a very sweet thing to say."
"Really?" I was more surprised than she could've imagined.
"Yup," she told me, smile quickly recovering. "You just got a whole lot of points added to your card."
"I did? What, if I might ask, can these points be redeemed for?"
One quick flash of seriousness on her face, a moment to switch gears, and the smile was back. "Let's finish our 'interview' first and make sure neither of us tells the other to hit the road."
"Huh? You think there's a chance … even a remote one … I might tell you to get lost? Girl, you haven't been listening to Ben confess his fears and the vast multitude of his insecurities."
"Yes, I have. Really." Moki took a drag from her cigarette, blew it out and sipped her drink.
I copied her, wondering what was next. "So, do you have any kids?"
"Not a chance," she answered, no smile on her face, shaking her head. "Not a chance of that. Never."
"I'm sorry." My hand covered hers a moment. "I don't want to intrude, but is it because you can't?"
She shook her head again, eyes cast down to the table. "Nope."
Her face came back up and formed a different smile from anything I'd seen so far. Kind of a happy expression, but something indefinable was attached to it. "I just don't like kids as much as you do."
"What? Moki, I can't stand kids!" Bewilderment engulfed me.
"So? What's your point?" She immediately broke into the strongest version yet of the Top 40 hit. "You have … no idea … how much I … liked it when you … said you … don't like kids!"
She finally had to lay her head on crossed arms until the hilarity subsided enough for her to talk. "I'd rather handle snakes than be around kids, Ben. Honest to God."
"I take it you don't like snakes, either?"
"I suppose they'd serve some purpose if I wanted to barf," she giggled. "God, no. Who does?"
I left that one unanswered, determined to stay on track. "Okay, what about religion? What are your feelings?"
"I was afraid you'd get to that." She inhaled from the cigarette again and scanned my face. "Important to you?"
"Your beliefs don't matter a bit," I said very honestly, and with relief. "As long as they don't conflict with mine." I took a drag and watched her face. "Hell, I even dated a Wicca for a while, a few years ago."
"What's that?"
"A witch. One of the good ones, not a Satan worshiper. Actually, what they believe is pretty much the same as Catholicism, with the exception they have two gods. The primary is female. The male dies every fall and resurrects every year in springtime. Beyond that, and the secret meetings I really think they only do for the hype, those people are Catholics."
"How do you know so much about Catholics?" Moki inquired, expelling a stream of smoke, eyes welded to mine.
"I was one," I admitted. "Until I was about fifteen. I went to a Catholic school, went to Mass six days a week … we got Saturdays off … and had religion class five days per week."
"Interesting. You say you 'were' a Catholic?"
I nodded, wondering why it was an issue. "Yep. I found only two kinds of Catholics. Those who never ask questions and are still Catholic, and former Catholics who asked questions."
That one brought a chuckle. "What kind of questions?"
"Crap. Okay, here we go." I took a drag, finished my drink, and tried to explain my feelings. "The priest who married my first wife and me … we'll get into those details pretty soon, I imagine … later became the bishop. He had a problem about us getting married, one I solved by asking him a question."
"Where?"
"Lansing, Michigan."
"Really? It's cold back there, isn't it?"
"As a car dealer's heart," I agreed.
Moki erupted into more raucous laughter, which I sat back and enjoyed.
When she was stable again, I added, "The only thing known to mankind to be any colder than a car dealer's heart is the shoulder on the mother of my children. That's cold enough to freeze a diamond and make the damned thing crack."
Following a few delightful choruses of my newfound favorite tune, when she was again in shape to listen, I continued.
"My biggest objection to what I was taught as a good Catholic boy was something he felt critical to giving me communion at the wedding mass."
"And that was …?"
I grinned. "I told him I'd even come back to the church if he could answer one question."
Her hand in a whirling motion, Moki said, "Big drum roll. So, you asked …?"
"I asked, since I'd been taught from age six God is omniscient, all knowing, all seeing, never misses a trick, why can't He understand I'm sorry for something I've done unless I go into a closet with some guy with his collar on backward?"
My favorite tune absorbed the next thirty seconds. "Ben, you're just way too funny!"
"I do what I can, for a tall guy." Another grin. "I have three other bones of contention with them," I added.
When her expression requested further explanation, I provided it. "One, they taught us about Adam and Eve. Told us they had three sons."
"Uh-huh?" Wondering where I was going.
"All those sons had children. Hence began the human race."
"Okay. So?"
"Nowhere I can find, at any place in the bible, does it say Adam and Eve had daughters. Therefore, using my Catholic school math, we have a twelve letter word for guys like that. The first six letters spell 'mother'."
More music to my ears, followed by Moki dabbing her eyes with a Starbucks napkin. "My God, Ben, you're too funny!"
"That wasn't meant to be funny."
"I know," she chuckled, still wiping her eyes. "Maybe it's the way you say it, but I'm afraid I'm going to laugh my butt off!"
"And such a terrible loss for humanity that would be," I complimented.
Her answer was a smile, golden and warm, along with a message from those incredible eyes. It made me wonder if I was becoming unforgettable to her.
"That's two," she reminded me."Alright. So, let's say we see something happen today. Something unusual. We each tell a friend. A week later, in another context and at a different location, we overhear someone tell the same story."
I paused and took a drag. "Think it'll be the same thing we saw? The same as the story we first told some friend?"
She shook her head. "No. Most likely not. It'd be changed."
"My point exactly. So, expand it a little. Let's say this word of mouth story wasn't written until six-hundred years after it happened. How accurate do you think it would be?"
"Not very," she replied, shaking her head. "Most of it would be different from what really happened."
"Do you know the number one selling book of all time is also the greatest piece of fiction ever written?"
Moki shook her head. "No. What is it?"
"It's called the Bible. My third bone of contention with the Catholic church. You really piss those people off by daring to question it. I do, and that's why."
I watched her nod a few times without saying anything. "I do not, however, disagree with the precepts and premises in the bible. I believe they all hold true and have great value. I just can't accept it as 100% truth, exactly the way it's written, and with no variations, things I read in that book."
"Amazing." Moki was silent a moment, thinking. Her eyes faced me, but she wasn't really looking at me. Wasn't seeing me. Just mulling what I'd said. "And the fourth bone?"
"This one only got under my skin a while back. It's another part of what they preach that makes no sense to me."
"I want to hear about it." She took a drag, never looking at the cigarette. Almost afraid to look away from my face now, it seemed. She stubbed it out, eyes still locked on mine, and waited.
"I was taught, from a very early age, to pray. I prayed to God, I prayed to His mother, Mary, and I prayed to a slew of various saints. I prayed for blessings, prayed for assistance, prayed for counsel, prayed for a lot of things. That was, as I was taught, my means of communication with God."
"Okay, I go along with that," Moki conceded. "So?"
"So, what's the first thing you're supposed to do when you finish doing the farce I see as confession? What're you supposed to do immediately, and I mean directly after exiting the confessional?"
"Say your penance, of course."
"Which is?"
Moki was dumbstruck a moment. "Prayers? Our Fathers? Hail Marys?"
I nodded. "Uh-huh. That make any sense? The number one way I was taught to communicate with God is also the way they want me to punish myself for my sins? Does that sound logical … or right … to you?"
Her face went slack, piety and reverence ablaze. "Ben, you're not only funny as can be, you're deep. Very, very deep."
CHAPTER THREE
Still at Starbucks
The sun is getting ready to settle
The weather in southern California is the greatest in the world. I've been to forty-eight of the fifty states, taken a few excursions to Europe, trips throughout Canada, and made numerous visits to different parts of Mexico.
While I've seen beautiful weather in other places, I've never seen anything quite like the splendor found in San Diego county.
Farther north, even as close as LA, it's not quite this nice. San Diego county beats the rest of the world by quite a margin.
One of its most awe inspiring facets is sunset.
The temperature gets near its high around noon. Two or three degrees may be added by three o'clock, then things start cooling off.
Anywhere within ten miles of the coast, which excluded Escondido, where I spent the first fourteen years after moving out of San Diego in 1990, can be a bit chilly in the evening for some.
Since I came from Michigan, where the breaking weather story is often the first time in over a month with a daytime high above freezing, I'm not one of those people. I never get cold here, even living less than four miles from the water.
By six o'clock, slightly later in the summer, the sun is heading for a planned rendezvous over the water with the horizon. A majestic ball, reddish-orange, glowing like God's porch lamp, begins to sink toward the horizon of a blue-black ocean.
Whitecaps rush to the beach as the Pacific extinguishes the flame in the lamp. The glowing orb bids a fond adieu to America's left coast, bringing a sense of peace to anyone watching, then sinks softly into the depths.
As it disappears it creates the impression someone set fire to China and no one called the hook and ladder trucks. That entire Asian nation goes up in flames, a gigantic recreation of the havoc and carnage we once saw in Watts. It paints the sky with a splash of splendorous colors God will only share with the blessed few on hand as witnesses, and moves aimlessly into those murky waters.
It almost takes my breath away to tell you about it. You can only hope to imagine what it's like to see it in person.
With that spectacular show, someone unknown dials down the furnace. The winds pick up, especially within a few miles of the coast. It's no longer the time for shorts or short sleeves.
Moki wrapped her arms around herself, bare fingers clasping her equally bare shoulders. "Ben, I'd really like to stay and talk, I mean it, but I'm getting cold. Maybe we should "
"Say not another word, my pretty," I began in a gallant promise. "I have a few jackets in my car. May I get one for you?"
This smile was heavily drenched in amazement. "Jackets? Really? Women's jackets? You have them … more than one … in your car?"
"Have I ever lied to you, Moki? Of course I do. Can I get you one?"
She nodded, gratefully. "Yes, please."
I indicated our empty drinks, then gathered the cups up to drop in the waste container as I passed it. "Would you like to get us refills?"