Yet we still had a week, eight days until Memorial Day weekend, and so Kelly and I had the boardwalk pretty much to ourselves, except for a few locals walking their dogs or just squeezing in a peaceful stroll before the madness kicked in. Some faces seemed familiar, and I spotted a few people checking me out.
Hey, didn’t he write a play or something? Whatever happened to him? Remember that poor little girl …?
The day had been long, and I was beat, but Kelly seemed high octane in her sneakers and shorts, her pace quick enough to raise my heartbeat. Though most of the boardwalk stands remained closed for the season, a few shops had opened early, and from the avenue we could hear the music drifting from the double-doors of Bar X, where bands played nightly, and where, during the Nineties, Springsteen showed up every few months and jammed with a local band.
We walked toward the pier, watching the fishermen dangling their lines, waiting for fluke. On the morning that Sarah Carpenter disappeared, a single fisherman had manned the pier; eyes glued to the tension of his rod, he hadn’t seen a thing. He was an old guy, hard of hearing, oblivious to everything except the jerk of his line. The following summer he died, a heart attack on a charter boat while fishing for bass, which, I was told, was a fisherman’s ideal death.
“So…are we all going to sleep in the same bed?” Kelly asked. “I hope she doesn’t snore or kick, even if it is her bed.”
“I’m sure we’ll have our own room,” I told her. “It’s her grandmother’s old house. Grammy moved to a retirement village in Carolina and sold it to her cheap. It’s better than staying with my uncle, and that woman.”
“Better for whom?” Kelly said. “And all you have to do is sign her out? What kind of hospital is this? Back home it took a week before they approved me to adopt Mr. Biggles, but here I guess you can just pick out a mental patient and bring her home the next day.”
“It’s the insurance companies,” I said, though it sounded dubious to me, too.
“It reminds me of one of those late-night movies on Cinemax that ends in a threesome…and a murder.”
“There won’t be any threesomes …Amy can’t afford Cinemax.”
“Hey, maybe I’m into it,” Kelly said. “Not the murder … but if she’s half as hot as your devotion implies…” She leaned over to tie her shoelaces as a bird swooped down and snatched a peanut from between the boardwalk slats. “What’s that expression? What happens in Jersey stays in Jersey?”
She smiled, enjoying my discomfort.
“I think you mean Vegas,” I said, and suddenly I was gone.
. . . . .
Imaginary Interview: Backstage with Brody (Podcast Episode 9 - September, 20XX)
Q: And then you went to Vegas for a weekend with Amy. What was that like?
A: Unexpected and wonderful and, like everything else with Amy, confusing as hell.
. . . . .
I’m fist-deep in dough with a killer headache and the post-divorce blues when I hear “Lithium” calling from the pocket of my apron. It’s the afternoon rush and I’ve got nine pies to make in the next twenty minutes—listening to Amy bitch about her job or her mother or her latest bum boyfriend is the last thing I want, but of course I answer.
“Hey, it’s me. I won a weekend in Vegas; can you believe it? I never win anything. Two nights at the Paris, meals, airfare … I’ll have to listen to some time-share crap for ninety minutes, but that’s it. It’s all free. Jill’s with Clyde next weekend, so …you’re in, right?”
“What about …what’s his name?”
“I’m offering you a free trip. Well, my part is free. I won’t charge you for the room. We’ll have fun.”
“Amy, I can’t just leave work and fly to Vegas on a week’s notice…”
“Why not?” she says, as if she alone can grant me a permission slip, and she must be right because a week later I’m on the plane with nothing but a carry-on and my week’s split of the receipts stuffed into my pocket, sauce-stained tens and twenties screaming for some action.
The flight is quick, and the cab drops me off at the Paris, where three guys dressed like Bogart in Casablanca stand by the entrance while a busload of seniors from Kansas clog the revolving doors with their suitcases and walkers, an Asian guy with a huge camera darting around taking photos of everything. When I step inside, I feel like I’ve been dropped in the middle of a pinball machine, the bleeps and snaps of the slots like post-new wave electronica; I steady myself and take a breath. At a nearby slot, a hunched old guy in suspenders and a straw hat pumps his fist at a jackpot payout. Ten dollars, ten thousand? Does it matter? He’s a winner, and maybe it’ll be contagious. It’s been forever since I’ve been on anything but a losing streak. I pull out my phone and call Amy, who tells me she’ll be down in five minutes.
A cocktail waitress offers me a Jack and coke, smiling at me like I’m the best-looking guy
