Remember that thing I said I was forgetting? Well, I’m about to remember it in 4.8 seconds. At this exact moment I barely hear, “We are losing this fight!” come from the speakers of Taylor’s TV in the confined living room area of our dorm. My brain makes a connection that is altogether super stupid and super late. You see, ‘fight’ happens to rhyme with ‘might’, ‘kite’, ‘right’, ‘tight’, ‘tonight’ (a two syllable word, but still, it’s an acceptable rhyme), ‘light’ … and finally my mind finishes this silly internal game with ‘flight’. Holy Crap! I completely forgot about Liz Jenkins and our plans to watch The Art of Flight.
Is it too late to call? Yes, I know it is, and she would be superbly upset. With my earlier forgetfulness of our plans together, it will only inflate the negative effect to come, given the hour of night. I have this insane thought that perhaps she got busy too and maybe I can be the one who pretends to be angry that I was stood up by her. But trying to put that convoluted idea into a working scenario falls dead in its tracks like … well … like some animal being hunted by a crazed psychotic redneck poacher. In my mind I see every potential conversation with Liz ending in: she never wants to talk to me again. So I think back on every shred of Jedi training I have received in regards to women.* (All from romance movies.)
It should all work out according to plan if I just come clean before she has the chance to find out from someone else, and I’m forced to give her the details after the fact, and she no longer wants to speak with me. We’ve all seen it in the movies and heard a woman say it in the theater while it played, ‘He should have just told her the truth to begin with and everything would have been fine.’
So this is where Operation Spill the Beans is born.
06 The Choice to Confide
“Are you freakin’ serious?” Liz turns on her cute little wedged heels, then spins around to face me again. “I’m done. Don’t talk to me anymore!” And just like that she’s gone, out of my life forever.* (That line is for pure dramatics; she’s still in my Biology 201 class, remember? I’ll see her tomorrow at 10 o’ five in the morning. God, I really hope you’re paying attention.)
Well. Crap. Screw you, Hollywood, with your false hope and your fictitious endings.
I like to imagine this happens when I told her the news: rain is pouring down on us like in one of those crappy rom-coms; I end up looking both pathetic and sexy as hell at the same time with my hair drenched and my shirt soaked through; and although I’m incapable of crying due to my extreme manliness, the rain streaming down my face tells a different tale and it appears that I have a quasi-sensitive side.
But instead, I have gel in my hair that couldn’t tame the bed head and a wrinkled Social Distortion shirt with ‘1945’ on it and an atomic bomb exploding over Hiroshima. This getup makes me look like a dirty hobo and a supreme racist; in actuality, the song is an anti-war punk ballad.
Now I want you to consider this, fellas: it doesn’t matter what you do or say, it’ll never be the right thing at a moment like this. There will always be another way you should have done or said something, and trust me – the girl or woman you are talking to will let you know. Let’s pretend you could go back in time and relive the event again. Even if you chose the one that was mentioned, it wouldn’t work. And I’ll tell you why. There would be an altogether different response needed. The truth is that women want to hear something different no matter what you say, because showing you just how horribly wrong you were is what they do best. It gives them the upper hand, and now you are snared in the ‘shoulda, coulda, woulda’-done trap. It can take years or an infinity to escape.
I would have loved to hang with her, maybe even get to know her just a little better, and who knows … get married and have two or three kids.* (Come on now, let’s be serious for a minute – I’m 19; that’s moving it just a bit too quick. Give me at least six years to get that doctorate I’ve been talking about first.)
Right now I’m stuck pondering the relevance of myself in Liz’s life. It seems to me that everyone is in a constant conscious or subconscious battle to remain relevant. I am reminded of the bazillion documentaries that spoke of the end of the world in the years leading up to the ‘fateful’ day of December 25th, 2012, according to the Mayan calendar. Well, it’s 2014 and where are those documentaries now? Irrelevant. They faded into the abyss of nothingness like a fart lost in a tornado. And all those highly paid doctors and physicists and seismologists who believed with deep vigor the end was nigh – where are they? I’m not sure myself, but they definitely didn’t hang around to explain why they were incorrect. You see, nobody likes to be wrong. And I’m no exception. Which is why I feel terrible that Liz believes I’ve done something wrong. Perhaps I have.
But as I watch her butt literally round the corner, not conversing with her again isn’t what scares me the most right now. I look at my watch – the expensive one I referenced earlier – and see it’s closing in on four o’clock. My shift at The Sub Shop starts in less than an hour, and I have this really bad feeling Sam is going to make me go on another dirty money run. Why do I know this, you might be wondering? Oh, because I forgot to mention that last night as I handed him the drugs, he said I had done such a great job with the delivery that he would need me to make another one today. You can see how this isn’t a great life changer for me. And with a nickname like LSD, that alone will convince any jury to send me straight to the slammer.
I feel like I may have forgotten one minor detail. There could be more, but this one feels more important than others right now. So let’s get back to seeing Liz tomorrow. I really hope that does happen unless she decides to ditch class. So, perhaps I should clarify the where and when of the events I am cataloguing for you. Even if she does decide to show her pretty face in Biology tomorrow, it will be the last time I see her for ten days. In case I haven’t brought it up yet, failed to inform you, or it just plain skipped my mind: tomorrow is Friday, March 7th, 2014. Now that may not mean much to anyone else, but for those currently enrolled at Duke University, it means spring break starts.
So who’s ready for backstory? If you aren’t, skip forward to Chapter 8 because Chapter 7 is about to begin, and it will be a flashback of the life and times of four good friends. Didn’t that feel like a zinger to just toss in? Because by easy math there should be only three, right? Well, that’s why it’s called a backstory, and you are about to be filled in.
Chester, Taylor, and I didn’t just happen to become roomies for no reason. We’ve known each other since before grade school. Our first encounter was at La Petite Academy. Or a place we like to call day care.
07 The Life and Times of Four Good Friends
Chester has always been chunky. As a baby it was considered adorable; as a toddler, precious; when he hit childhood (age 4-10), his parents said it was baby fat that refused to let go; by middle school, it was called his phase and he was supposed to grow out of it; high school came along and we all knew it (the fat), was here to stay. Now, to see him enter the shared dorm’s shower room and disrobe … well, it’s disturbing.
Taylor has more or less stayed the same. He was a good-looking kid and turned into the guy all the chicks wanted in college. I won’t go further into his physical appearance, as it usually lowers my self-esteem by margins I’m not comfortable with. However, he has always been the tough one – or so he likes to pretend. We all believe the reality is that he’s afraid to have his pretty face disfigured and therefore backs away from confrontation.
As for me, meet the middle ground. I’ve always been the guy who never really had a clique but at the same time fit in everywhere. I had some brains, so the nerdy guys and girls liked me, and I paid just enough attention to sports (and had the endurance for it) so the jocks never threatened wedgies or stuffed me in a gym locker.
Okay, so I mentioned a fourth musketeer, and that is where Henry Gomez comes into play. Henry was the one we all wanted to be. At first it was because he was two years older than we were. Later, we aspire
d to be like him because he was smart, good looking, built like a tank (even in high school), and with enough moral fiber to be closely related to Jesus himself. In fact, that part is semi-true. Henry’s real name is Enrique, and his father’s name was indeed Jesus, but it’s pronounced the way they do in Mexico. Right out of high school Henry joined up with the Navy, jumped up the chain quickly, and last we heard he was going for SEAL training.
Our enduring bond began from the usual thing: a discussion on whether Pinky and the Brain could have totally taken on and beaten The Toxic Avenger. We all agreed brains over brawn, except Taylor.
Our family lives were where we greatly differed. Henry has four brothers and two sisters; I won’t go into names, most of which I can’t pronounce.
Chester was the contrast to Henry. He is an only child and never learned the importance of sharing with siblings. His constant disregard for others’ feelings and lack of a verbal filter stems from that.
Taylor has one older sister. She’s eight years his senior, and of course – with the same great genes that Taylor possesses – was the hottie that captured our fascinations. In middle school Taylor charged us money so Chester and I could sneak into her room and watch her dress. Henry, with his solid convictions, never took part. I grew out of those juvenile ways.* (Every now and then I feel a relapse coming on though). And Chester … well, Chester never evolved. In fact, there might have been some regression.
I’m a middle child of three. Neither favored from the beginning nor spoiled in the end, which may have had a hand in my fitting in at high school.
With time churning by and Chester being the sole child, his parents were able to afford to send him to Duke – albeit barely. Taylor’s parents came from money and had sent his sister there – who graduated with honors, etc. (Magna Cum Laude) – so they were not financially hurt in the slightest to send another child. I, on the other hand, had to make it happen. My brother, so close on my heels and not the brightest, wasn’t going to score himself a scholarship, so it would end up that only one of us went to college if I didn’t do well. With a solid 4.0* and a 1580 on the SAT, I was able to gain passage to Duke University and join my friends. (Now with real world problems on my shoulders like bills, living expenses, and eating food, I’ve slipped to a 3.4.)
To put things plainly, Chester and Taylor don’t work. Taylor doesn’t need to, and Chester, being a neighbor in the same subdivision as Taylor since childhood, has been supported by Taylor for so long it just seems ingrained into both their lifestyles. For Taylor, it’s as if he’s expected to do it. For Chester, it’s as if it’s expected to be done.
Now that we have all grown up, we still have great relations with our families, but spring break happens to be our time. If funds allow it, a beach trip is usually in order. This year that trip won’t be happening. Taylor has volunteered as an intern at Wabash, Ingles, and Lynch – a law firm in downtown Raleigh – and I can’t afford the high gas prices the economy has thrown in my path.* (Real world problems have reared their ugly heads. Thanks, Obama.)
I had placed myself on the schedule to work at The Sub Shop for solid eights every day from now until spring break ends, and I’m sure if I hadn’t my job wouldn’t be waiting for me afterward. I can’t quit outright, as now I’m terrified that I’ve seen too much and Sam might just do something rash. My plan at the moment is to quit when the school year is over in about two months and hope that doesn’t rouse suspicion. What I don’t know, however, is that life is about to throw me another curveball I’m not ready for.
08 The Fraud
It’s my fourth day into spring break and I’ve made two ‘deliveries’ for Sam. He’s been keeping an ever-watchful eye on me, but still lashes out with verbal attacks. While out on a normal transport of a meatball hoagie, my cell phone vibrates in my pocket.* (I still don’t know why I forget to pull it out and place it in the cup holder when I drive.)
I answer with my standard “Hello?” rather than an obscene remark, because by the caller ID, I don’t know who it is.
“Hello, sir.” There’s no pause and the woman goes right into her speech. “This is Bostrom Ford. Is this Mr. Ellis DeAngelo?”
Normally I hang up when I get these calls, but I’m intrigued. I need a new car and maybe there’s a great special right now that requires nothing down. “Yes, this is he.”* (I’ve always felt dumb saying that line, but on the phone it sounds very official and can’t be avoided when I’m on autopilot.)
“Hi, yes – we’re calling because there’s been an issue with the paperwork you signed the other day. We can’t verify your address, and we won’t be able to send out your statements until it’s correct. So I was wondering if we might have just missed a digit on the home address?”
I’m super confused at the moment, but I ask anyway, “What address do you have?”
“Let me see, ah, we have 1278 South West Myrtle Park Drive, Lake Winnipesaukee, New Hampshire.”
“New Hampshire?”
“That’s what it says.”
‘What the shit?’ I want to say, but I’m trying to keep things professional so I go with, “Okay, hold on. What’s this for?”
“This is for the 2014 Ford Mustang you purchased.”
‘Are you shitting me?’ I want to blurt out, but I manage a chokehold on my lower-class tongue. “I haven’t bought a car in two years, ma’am.”
“It says you put down two thousand in cash. Is your social security XXX-XX-XXXX?”* (After this little event in my life, I don’t give out my SSN anymore. Even though I recently became a member of LifeLock, I still don’t feel comfortable throwing it out there.)
Holy shit-fuck, Jesus Christ, this is bullshit! I’ve just had my identity stolen! Then I say, “Holy shit-fuck, Jesus Christ, this is bullshit! I’ve just had my identity stolen!”
“Excuse me?” The woman sounds horrified and I can’t understand why. Then it dawns on me that I had lost my reserve and was still blasting off profanities out loud to myself.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Listen, there’s been a misunderstanding. I think we’ve both been taken for a ride we weren’t prepared for. I think the police need to be notified.”
“Sir, I just need some information from you regar–”
I hang up like I should have done when I didn’t recognize the phone number, but that wouldn’t have been good either; the problem would just metastasize while I went along with my life, unaware.
Thinking fast on my feet, I Google search LifeLock and make the decision to become a member instantly. Of course, I will only be protected after the fact, but at least nothing more can happen, right?
I call up a credit agency and find out that everything is completely fine with my life, if that includes having a $235,000 boat taking up space on my report. I’m screwed. I order my report and send a backup copy of it to my e-mail so I can get a better look at the finer details later.
I make two more calls. One to Chester – who thinks it’s funny for a second and wants to take the boat to the lake. My second is to my father – a conversation I don’t want to have, but he reassures me it will all get worked out.* (Although they are kind words, I feel this mess isn’t just going to die away.)
After hanging up, I stare out the window for a long moment, not sure what to do or how much trouble I’m in. I look at the passenger seat, and the meatball hoagie still sits there, having not been delivered during this chaotic crisis. I’m so deep in crap at the moment, I no longer care. I rip open the bag and take a glorious bite, barely chewing and almost unable to swallow. I glance at the receipt. Looks like Eddie Willard in Trinity Heights will be getting his next sandwich on the house.
09 Help From the Law
I’m not sure if everything is connected, but I figure I can kill two birds with one stone. As I walk into the police department, a sense of guilt washes over me and holds me captive by the doorway like a straitjacket. I’m not sure how long I stand there, but at some point I’m noticed by the desk sergeant.
??
?Can I help you?” comes the voice of a ridiculously hot police officer. She is smoking* in her uniform and my every thought of Liz Jenkins evaporates. (She’s not really hot at all. She sports a very suspicious mole on her cheek, which holds a few surly hairs erupting from every direction. She’s also in her mid-fifties and based on her other attributes doesn’t take more than one hundred steps a day.)
“Ummm … yes, I’d like to talk with one of the detectives in either fraud, vice, or both, if possible.”
She gives me a strange look as if she knows my socks don’t match. “Are you putting me on, boy?”
Boy? I sprouted hair on my nethers when I was eleven, but I’ll let that particular malicious comment slide. “No, I’m not putting you on.”* (However, I think Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs would have gone crazy for so much skin. Side note: from her unhealthy pallor, I’m positive it doesn’t rub the lotion on its skin.)
Two Mountain Dews, a Snickers bar, and a half-hour later I’m standing on the opposite side of a jail cell begging to be let loose. I’m kidding. I’m sitting in a rather hot, wooden, and uncomfortable chair. The placard on the desk reads, ‘Detective Archibald Kline’.