Chapter Four

Recovery Mode

My memory of events right after that are hazy, but Oscar was there, watching from his bedroom window. So was Mr. Courtney, only he had a front row seat. I guess I kind of broke the manager’s nose when I cannonballed into the party throng in the tub. One of the strippers lost a tooth. So, yeah, a few folks did get knocked around.

Vario claimed I ripped the tendon in his left knee when I landed on him. Because I landed right in his lap. Boy, was his expression priceless. I do recall that pretty clearly. That and his larger than life dick. I had my hand on it before I even knew what I was grabbing onto. Shows you what the unconscious mind can do.

The knee injury, though, that seemed like a bunch of bullshit to me. At the time, I figured it for an old work-out injury and he’d gone and filed a claim just to fuck with me.

Vario’s knee wasn’t my most pressing problem, anyway.

There was a helluva lot of fallout from that wild splash into the tub full of naked partiers. For example, future tutoring was out, because I now had an arrest record. One that precluded working with children anywhere in the county. I also received a citation from the homeowners’ association that basically invited me to sell my house in Golden Date Palms and move my sorry ass elsewhere. Plus, the medical bill for my shoulder injury—visit to the ER, X-rays, scans and doctor’s exams—ran fourteen pages and added up to thousands of dollars I didn’t have.

For a long moment, bankruptcy seemed inevitable. But I was able to hold the line. Somehow. I had to eat some big crow. Mandated penance included AA, which can be such a bore, and anger management classes, which were for shit. Addiction counseling turned out to be kind of interesting. Wow, me, a narcissist? I never would’ve guessed it, but it sure looked like I had me some issues.

The way I saw it, my old life had been torpedoed. Wham-o, gone. This freaked me out. It was like control over my own life had been blasted away, ripped from my hands. Still, I complied with the rulings in my case to placate my neighbors and because my daughter promised to come see me once I was sober for six months. I missed Jamie. I wanted her back in my life.

My addiction counselor called my running dive into the crowded hot tub a cry for help. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe fuck me. Whatever. Right after the accident—my counselor said it wasn’t an accident, but of course he’d say that—I complained about how the whole mess was caused by Vario Fumesti. If he hadn’t moved in next door, my days would have gone on being dull but unmessy. Well, to be honest, my life had been a bit of a mess. But without his hunky torso on full display, taunting me to do things I never would’ve done before, my existence could have remained a lot less messy. No matter what my counselor claimed, I knew for a fact the goddam body god was the cause of all the upheaval in my life.

For weeks after the accident, I didn’t lay eyes on Vario. He was holed up at Oscar’s, recovering from his—I thought—fake leg injury while I lounged around my place, worrying about my future. I had good reason to fret. My options were like fading taillights in a fog, growing ever dimmer. No work, no income, no nothing but new threats to my financial well-being arriving daily via certified mail. After the city’s nuisance case against me got dropped when I agreed to the classes and addiction counseling, the chaos settled down a bit. Dooley stopped by once or twice to chat with me. He felt bad about squealing on me to his mother.

One afternoon, my ex-student brought over a tight little joint and we smoked it out on the back patio. I still wouldn’t give him a beer, even though he whined about it. In my mind, a few cold ones in the privacy of my own home did not erase my long month of sobriety, but sharing Bud Lights with a minor would’ve been suicidal.

As for the dope, I knew it was wrong to partake with a teenager, but I felt so defeated, so beaten down, I just couldn’t say no to the harmless but enticing weed. Dooley was almost eighteen, right? Plus, my shoulder hurt. Medicinal marijuana could play an essential role in my new life.

After he passed the hand-rolled to me and I took a hit, my former student said, “Aiite, Ms. T! Peace out.”

Peace out my ass. I closed my eyes and slumped as low in the aluminum deck chair as I could. There was a tiny nip in the air, the kind of cool tease you get a few times each winter down here in the tropics. I shivered, released the sweet smoke, and tried to settle my frayed nerves.

Life wasn’t over. Sure, I was dead broke, painfully injured, and living next door to a monster, but I had friends. Well, one friend. As soon as I opened my eyes, my best pal gave me an approving nod, his hand outstretched. I accepted the rapidly diminishing spliff for one more solid hit.

“Ms. T? Can I ask you something?” Green smoke curled out of his wide nostrils like a wiry mustache. “I can’t talk to anybody else.”

Shit. I clenched my abdominals. A confidence was coming. I didn’t want to hear whatever it was he was about to launch into, I really didn’t. But I was smoking his bud, we were alone, there was no way out. Kicking and screaming inside my head, I was about to be admitted into the private club of a young man’s inner world. Ugh.

I smiled at my former student. Patiently, like a teacher should. Was Dooley gay? Suicidal? A wannabe serial killer, a fetishist, in love with me?

I tried not to laugh, but I must have started to smirk because he said, “This is serious, Ms. T. Dead serious.”

He frowned at me. His pale face loomed over me like a bulbous moon. Was it the herb, or did his head resemble one of Saturn’s moons? Rhea, specifically, with its vast white cratering.

I must have been gawking at him like a true stoner, because little tears of frustration edged over the rims of his eyes, fluttering down the slopes of his chipmunk cheeks. “I’m fat, Ms. T. I’m fat and I’m fucked. I’m never gonna get a girlfriend, or a good job, or have a good life. Not unless I get into shape.”

He searched my face. I’d wiped it of sarcasm and replaced it with real understanding. I thought about what he said. The kid was right. His brains weren’t going to save him, so his body would have to. My own body had transformed into an air ball and my limbs felt light and strong, like I could run ten miles in my bare feet.

I pointed to what was left of the joint. “Good shit. Where’d you get it?”

“My folks give it to me. For my ADHD.”

Figures. The parents fed him a diet of fattening foods, chronic, and party booze, yet I was off the menu? Hardly seemed fair.

The palm fronds rustled their hula skirts, making a grassy sound, and one of Oscar’s cats let out a creepy yowl. Dooley shifted in his seat, anxious for some wisdom from Teach.

Sighing, I said, “You may be right, Dool. It’s hard enough to hook up with somebody anyway, never mind if you’re an outsider.” And boy, was Dooley an outsider. He was so far outside, he was floating in pocket airspace. He wasn’t even on board the ship.

Maybe I was peaking on my high because, in the middle of watching images on my inner movie screen of greasy pizza slices doused in hot sauce, I had this wild and crazy thought.

Vario Fumesti.

Turning to scan his teenage body, I said, “You aren’t that fat, Dooley.”

Really, it wasn’t so awful. His T-shirt bagged over a jelly tummy, the jeans sagged off rounded hips in droopy drawers, but he was nowhere near obese. He just needed to trim the gut, run off the baby blubber, and tone up the muscles. He had the height, and he was still growing. He might end up over six feet. So if he carried himself right, he could make his bulk work for him.

My mind started to rev.

“Think your mom would pay to get you whipped into shape? Cuz I could do that. I mean, I know somebody who might help. Guy next door works at a gym. Maybe you could train with him. But private lessons would be expensive.” Not that he cared. His parents rocked dough. “He’s a total body god, Dool. Ripped and cut like some MMA champ. Um hmm.”

My eyes must have glazed over right then because I kind of nodded out for a minute there. Of course, I was thinking about Vario and his taut body. He sure seemed to like telling everyone how to eat to get in shape. Maybe he could help poor Dooley tighten up? I could approach him, explain how we would each make some money off the arrangement if we worked together. Then he could stop trying to sue me for his knee damage, and we might mend our fences, so to speak. We could bond over Project Dooley.

I pictured bonding with Vario. That’s when I spaced out. Wow.

Okay, so maybe I had liked Vario for more than a minute. Maybe all along I’d had the hots for him, just like Oscar hinted when I dropped by that first day with the cookies. Maybe that’s what lay underneath my hatred, bitterness, and desire for revenge—a deep lust for the sexy he-man next door.

“Sweet,” Dooley said. When I opened my eyes, my boy was grinning. No trace of the tears, either. “I’ve seen that guy, driving around in that phat Beemer. And the chicks he gets are awesome. He’s the balls. So, you think he’d set me up on a program? Really?”

I shrugged, which tweaked my shoulder. Ouch. “Can’t hurt to ask. Give me a couple days, then drop by again. I’ll tell you what Mr. Body God has to say on the matter.”

Dooley sat up as straight as he could manage as an overweight kid in a hammocking beach chair. He cocked his head and opened his mouth, all ready to ask for more. Oh, no you don’t. I already knew what he was going to say, so I stopped him right quick.

“Don’t press your luck, Dooley. Don’t even ask about the strippers. Let’s just stick to a possible personal trainer arrangement. Go from there.”

He nodded. Then we split the sparky roach in companionable silence.

The next morning, however, I woke up in a panic. I wanted to slice off my tongue. What was wrong with me? Why had I promised Dooley something I had no chance of delivering?

I rolled onto my back, safeguarding my messed up shoulder. I couldn’t afford the recommended treatments, so I would have to live with the pain.

A metaphor for my freaking life.

Using the uninjured arm, I placed a foam pillow firmly over my head, blocking out the golden dawn light. A mockingbird sang sweetly of optimism for the future and hope for love. This heightened my discomfort. But within seconds, I was drifting peacefully. Too bad Dooley didn’t need a sleep trainer. I’d become an expert in that subject.

I smiled to myself, then slept like a dead woman until noon.