The
Black Knight Squash Fiction League Match #2
The Handouts versus The Tin Ringers
EAST
SIDE A
Collaborative Novel
Chapter 3-A Ringing Ears by Will Gens
"Yep," said Hank, "that sure is him. Weird, I guess some coincidence."
Jerry added, "You think
there's a connection to the Pike incident a couple of years back? One
way of getting even, especially if the wife is still at the club, is to
buy it out and tear it down."
"But Pike hasn't been here for a long time."
"I know, but the wife
is still coming here, maybe she’s screwing someone else or still
screwing Pike. Maybe in his mind squash turned his wife into a cheating
two-faced harlot. I don't know. But it can't be just coincidence."
"Jerry, from the hearing schedule, what's your angle, how you going to stall this thing?"
"The City Review Board for permits is probably the one agency that’s made up of untouchables—"
"What do you mean 'untouchables'?”
"I mean incorruptible:
they are watchdogs and vehement about policing the contract awarding
and bidding process. If there's any hint of payoffs, bribery, or the
like, or they suspect there is, they’ll investigate."
"Have they ever stopped construction or prevented projects?”
"Yes, but not often,
mostly because these contractors and deal makers are clever and many of
them very corrupt. I know, I’m in the business."
"So you just have to get them to investigate some impropriety or suspicion of such..."
"That's it, my man, and
an investigation can drag on and on. You have to understand that deals
often fall through, signed and sealed deals, because of something like
this. They can't have all this do, re, mi tied up in a deal under
investigation. Investors pull out and put their money elsewhere, the
whole enchilada collapses."
Each night when Hank
left the club and walked the three miles home, he passed the liquor
store he used to stop at when he was drinking heavily. Just before his
marriage broke up. He eventually stopped drinking completely, but it
was too late. Margaret and Kate had seen the dissolution of the
marriage with his drinking. He never thought his drinking bothered
anyone; he often did it late at night when everyone was asleep, when
he’d work on his book into the wee hours of the morning. He hadn't
written anything since he stopped drinking. He just couldn't push past
the methodical, predictable, and depressing turn his life had taken. By
not drinking he was punishing himself: he felt alive and vibrant only
after a few drinks of his favorite vodka. He couldn't even stomach the
sight of his unfinished manuscript, which he’d worked on with passion
and discipline. He'd published short stories before, so he was a
“writer” and they were always favorably received, but this manuscript
was his baby, first novel. It was special. Sometimes he'd just pull it
out, stare at it, and then think if he started writing he'd not be able
to stop and he would stay up and not sleep and would drink to get to
sleep and then what? Maybe it wasn't good, maybe he really didn't have
a writer's spark of that passion and dedication.
The voicemail from Margaret hit him like a sledgehammer. She had called to tell him his Kate, his "gud gurl,"
as he used to call her until she hated it, was getting married in a few
weeks. That was okay, but what hurt a ton more was Margaret telling him
he wasn't invited to the wedding.
“Sorry, Hank, I tried
to get her to invite you but she said no, she didn't want you there.
I'm sorry, Hank, and she made me swear not to give you any of her
contact information."
Hank played the message
back again, and again, and again. Each time "she didn't want you there"
seemed to hit him harder than before.
It was snowing heavily
when he left the club. He hadn’t even realized a storm was coming. They
anticipated a huge snowfall of one to two feet. Hank knew the club
would close, they always closed the club whenever they had the
slightest opportunity, even though the members complained vehemently.
His seven and eight pm lessons cancelled. Jerry left him a voice mail,
he wasn’t sure he'd make it for his six pm lesson. Hank didn’t want to
hang around waiting to see if Jerry showed up so he left.
"She didn't want you
there." It hurt him, Margaret knew it would hurt him. "Damn," he
muttered as he braced the wind and the snow and headed down Third
Avenue. He tried to fight the feeling—it had been tugging at him all
day—that familiar giddiness when he knew he was done for the day and
that he could stop in at Manhattan Wine and Spirits and buy a liter of
Sobieski, Polish Vodka with a real kick. All he could think about….
"What the hell," he said aloud as he leaned into the wind, "what the
hell, being good, being sober hasn't done me anything, I can't fucking
even go to my daughter's wedding. I can't sleep, I'm middle-aged, soon
to be unemployed, divorced, alone, a mediocre coach and writer, fucking
wallowing in mediocrity." As he entered the liquor store, he heard the
familiar tingle of the door chimes ring beautifully in his ears, like
music.
He woke up and it was
still dark out, he was so thirsty, he could see the snow falling
heavily. He turned over to get out of bed but bumped into what was a
body that groaned next to him. He almost jumped out of his skin; he
couldn’t place this room, it wasn’t his apartment, and he had no idea
where he was. His head was still spinning, he was still drunk. The
place wasn’t even vaguely familiar and the room was dark except for the
light from the street lights. He pulled the covers back, and there
lying next to him was Yvette from the club. She was snoring a bit, her
lipstick smeared all over her mouth and her two eyes like a raccoon.
She was completely nude, and he noticed the dried drool out the side of
her mouth. He had to pee so badly ... he tried to wake her, he too was
naked and the cold floor jolted him as he stepped out of bed. He
couldn’t find his clothes. “Shit,” he looked around, he didn’t want to
turn on the light, but he could follow a trail of clothes leading into
what surely must be the bathroom. He fumbled for the light switch
and finally turned on the light to the bathroom. He stared into the
mirror while he went, trying to piece it all together. “Shit,” he said
as he thought about Yvette’s husband. He didn’t seem to care much about
the husband, who was probably away, he traveled a lot she once told
him.
He vaguely remembers
seeing her in Gristedes where he went for his limes. She invited him
for dinner, yes, her husband’s flight from Atlanta had been cancelled
because of the storm, and she didn’t want to be alone. She had paid for
his limes and that’s the last he remembered. He was still drunk, the
room was spinning, he wanted to get out of there before she woke, and
he mostly wanted to see Kate.
Will Gens is passionate about poetry, squash and family, and would one day love to see the elimination of petroleum-driven cars. __________ This is a work
of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products
of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.
