ambient Florida position, Page 2

  Laurie reached into her purse.

  “They need all that just here in the Tampa region?” I said.

  “Actually it’s for most of Florida. We are a big state,” she said. “And Obama will help us.”

  “Change we can believe in,” I said.

  A cigarette was in her hand. She lit it.

  “What about Bob Barr? I might vote for Bob Barr.” I said.

  “That’s wasting your vote.”

  “Not if I believe in Bob Barr.”

  “Wallace, come on.” Laurie said.

  “Hope,” I said kind of like a burp. “I don’t remember you applying for that job or looking for a job.”

  “It was through a friend of a friend. Networking.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yes, that.”

  “Do you support Obama?”

  “I do now,” she said.

  She put the cigarette in her mouth.

  “Are you smoking again?” I asked.

  “It's the only thing I know how to do well,” Laurie said.

  "Is the only reason you ever call me to talk politics?" I asked.

  "For the most part. And to find out what you're doing with your life."

  "Why does everyone ask me that?"

  "Because it's the only thing that makes sense to anyone," she said. “Are you looking?”

  “Why does this matter again?” I asked.

  “I need to see action. A-C-T-I-O-N.”

  “I know how to spell action," I said.

  “I know you know, but do you know how to do it?”

  “What? Spell?” I said.

  “Act?”

  “I'm going to be in a band,” I said. "I'm not going to act. I’m not good at it.”

  “Unrelenting,” Laurie said. She rolled her eyes. She drank her beer.

  “This was fun and all dissecting our individual lives, but I gotta go," I said.

  "You just got here."

  “Going to see Nathan,” I said.

  “What’re you guys doing?” she asked.

  Family dinners at mom's house, Laurie wore scoop necks and shorter skirts and touched Nathan more than she touched me. It never went anywhere, it's not like she ever called him: it was the control. The control is why she liked politics. Why she had now decided to support Obama. Hillary was of no use to Laurie. No control, obviously.

  “He’s playing softball. I’m not going to do anything.”

  “Softball?”

  “Yeah, he just decided to do it. He said kickball was too ironic.”

  "Can I go?" she asked.

  "You want to go to a softball game?”

  "I want to know about your-slash-his manly pursuits. I just talk like I don’t.”

  I grabbed the check.

  “That’s a first,” Laurie said.

  I walked to the cash register. At the cash register, my phone beeps. A text.

  “U needs sexi women 2nite?”

  VI

  Metal bleachers and the dirty ground, no grass to be found; 3-year olds with specks in their hair, grime on their nose, gross sandy toes -- not beach sand, but dirt sand, dirt on them like they have never seen dirt, never have crossed dirt, their strollers and moms are not all-terrain, but just approved shopping center sidewalk and black asphalt trained, this dirt is a foreign yet organic concept -- and their sideburned/mulletted dads, laminated numbers on their backs for the lineup card, sacrificing groins and hamstrings and tender ankles for the sake of LARGO COASTAL CONSTRUCTION and CRAZY PINS BOWLING, not sure what exchange either gets out of this except for $5 off a cabinet reinstallation and a free bowling shoe rental.

  Nathan’s shirt says LARGO COASTAL CONSTRUCTION, a place he’s never been, but will happily represent like he’s ENDORSING something, a regular LeBron James, a regular Jeff Gordon, Nathan is peddling services for the right to be seen on the field, and in this exchange of endorsements, did they factor in that Nathan might suck, that these players might suck, bringing undue shame to LARGO COASTAL CONSTRUCTION, and instead of a $5 discount on cabinets it actually becomes an increase of $5 for the harm they (NATHAN) have wrought the LARGO COASTAL CONSTRUCTION brand, for their ill-conceived  slides (MULLET_GUT)  for an extra base or their bumbling catches in mid-center-right field (NATHAN, AGAIN)  or for their lofty swings that hit nothing but air (COACH/SUPPOSED MINOR LEAGUE ALL-STAR WITH GRAY ON HIS TEMPLES), their swings not contacting, just retracting and slumping skulk back to this (pine/maybe oak/maybe I’m no arborescent professional) lonely bench, only to be filled at 9 by WRIGHT INSURANCE SERVING PINELLAS PARK SINCE 1978.

  The last out called, we walked to the Largo Coastal Construction dugout, Nathan was drinking Gatorade, someone holding a grime-dotted 3-year old, someone else putting a glove into a duffel bag, a hand fishing in a cooler with loose ice cubes, the elusive Diet Coke search.

  “Laurie, hey!” Nathan said standing, rocking on his cleats. He gave her a hug, his chest enfolding closer to her breasts, no grimace from Laurie despite the dried sweat stench from the polyester jersey.

  “Great game, bro,” acting like I meant it. “That was a crazy double play” -- Laurie’s yelp the only reason I knew about the double play.

  “Let’s go out, come one, let’s go,” Nathan said, forgetting what I said, maybe not hearing it, always automatically tuning out advice from a big brother it had extended to compliments, too.

  “No we shouldn’t I -- -”

  “Why not?” It was Laurie, “It’ll be fun with the softball guys, to be out...”

  “Yeah,” Nathan said “Why not?”

  Then the sweep of the balls and the bats, the assurances of “I’ll see you there,” the rolling eyes of moms desiring rest for the night, their own opportunity to play and view “Dancing With The Stars” is gone, but those moms went anyway, and the married men, the single men and Laurie and two other (“I’m unattached,” I heard Laurie say...) unattached women motioned  their way out of the cacophony of votes, selecting by a plurality, not a majority -- The Bronx Bar, more assurances made that not too many New Yorkers would be there, that it was good clean honest fun, with pool tables and at least (count’em!) three pinball machines and the music was of the punk rock variety, (“They cater to working-class hipsters!”) a burly third-baseman type had said to one of the unattached, who in her Ann Taylor Loft-but really Target clothes was neither assured or assuaged, but seemed okay once there and that guy taught her the words to an Against Me! song, then in the most fluid prose explained why they had sold out. Truly moving.

  The Bronx emptied during a Lucero song, at which point a woman bartender with blonde hair, cowboy boots, she had been behind the bar only for the last hour or so that we were there walked up to me.

  “You’re Wallace,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “It’s me Mattie,” she said.

  “Damn…” I said.

  “God…” she said.

  “Loves you,” I said.

  ***

  “Who was that girl?” Laurie asked. In the car now, the window rolled down, her arm out the window.

  “That girl at the end?”

  “Yeah, you know the blonde woman with long legs and cowboy boots who came up to you and said, ‘I’m Mattie’ and then you got a shy smile and gave her your phone number, yes, that girl at the end,” Laurie said.

  “That’s Mattie,” I said. “She’s from high school. I haven’t seen her in six or seven years. You know I don’t talk to anyone from high school anymore.”

  I turned left then right, then another left. Near my house, there is a church on the corner.

  "God answers Knee-mail."

  “That’s a funny sign,” Laurie said.

  ***

  "That was much better than I thought,” Laurie said.

  Laurie was on my bed.

  "That was the only time I've seen him this focused," I said from the couch. Ghostbusters 2 on the television.

  "I thought he might be better than that, you
know, being on a team and stuff.”

  "He was better at soccer, I remember that,” I said.

  "‘Was’ is the keyword,” she said.

  Laurie got up. She walked to the bathroom. She flipped on the light. She closed the door.

  The mayor in Ghostbusters 2 was on the screen. "Being miserable and treating other people like dirt is every New Yorker's God-given right," he said.

  Laurie flushed the toilet. She turned on the faucet. I could hear the water running.

  VII

  “What about it?” the man behind the counter said.

  “Hadn’t thought about it again,” Uncle Ander said.

  “Good, good opportunity. You need something to do.”

  Uncle Ander opened the door to a washing machine.

  Whites in first. He put in three quarters. He put in soap. He turned the dial.

  “It’s not the opportunity. It’s the money. The money, Luis.”

  “Nah, no worry, no worry, you’ll get it all back. Clean it up, good like new.”

  “Then why don’t you keep it? You clean it.”

  “We’re leaving. Back to the Phillipines. I already cleaned it up 20 years ago. 20 years ago when I bought it. Now, your turn, your turn.”

  “I’m old. You were young when you bought it,” Uncle Ander said.

  “True, but you got spirit,” Luis said. “You know young people. Those nephews you have. They’re young.”

  “Who’s taking this place?” Uncle Ander said. Uncle Ander slammed the washing machine door.

  “My son. My son is taking this place.”

  “Why doesn’t he take the motel?”

  “I don’t trust him with that. Too much work. If that closes, it will break my heart. With this...this was just extra. Extra money. He says he doesn’t want to go back, but give him time, give him time, his heart will change. And then he’ll sell this.”

  “But you don’t want him to sell the motel?”

  “You are my first choice for it, Ander. And my good friend.”

  “Ah, screw you Luis.”

  ***

  “This Luis, you need to meet him. I‘m working on a deal,” Uncle Ander said on the phone. “Hurry, my underwear and whites are almost done.”

  “A deal?” I said. “What kind of deal are you getting into.”

  “A good one,” he said. “I’m not going to tell you about on the phone.”

  “Can’t today. I’m going to the library.”

  The remote poised in my hand, it had sat like that for 10, 15, 20 minutes maybe -- Tron on the screen flaring 80s strobes and lights, the scene, the movie, the reaction was all mullet-hair weird, a certain audience only came, no one cared or wanted to know how cheap video games were made, the process more familiar now, it’s in our homes, in our entertainment consoles, on our fingers, in our heads, its rhythms replacing the rhythm of cassette tape stops and paper cut bleeds, calluses now from hitting reset and restart, we know not what it is to be lost in thought, only to be lost in Tron.

  “What the hell for?” Uncle Ander said.

  “Because I work there,” I said.

  “Doing what?” he asked.

  “Researching things,” I said. “Wait...are you using your cellphone?”

  “They still have a payphone here.”

  ***

  In the library reference room, a dusty man with a spindly beard. His purple polo shirt ripped. The polo shirt collar was popped up. On his head was a hat that said “Dick’s Rigs.” The man slouched in the chair. He was reading the “Women We Love” Esquire issue.

  I walked past him and to the computers. I was working away from home today. Better to check job boards at the library than on my own couch. Libraries were for work, but now are for distraction.

  I sat down at the computer. I opened Opera. I typed in “indeed.com.” In the box I typed in “writer” and “tampa.” I opened a job titled “copywriter.” The description said: “Must have the ability to juggle multiple assignments and meet aggressive deadlines. Develop and execute creative concepts across multi-channel campaigns.”

  Wondered what type of remote I needed to develop and execute creative concepts in multi-channels.

  VIII

  The condo complex in Seminole, somewhat of a suburb, but more of Pinellas County between the beach and bay, no good way to get across except to sit through stop light, then another stop light, avoid wreck and aviator-sunglassed retiree on bicycle and listen closely to the accented Quebecois on vacation for 4 months of the year. The condo was near a movie theater, and across from Kmart, where I would buy pruning shears for houseplants that would die and buy cheap candy bars to watch expensive movies. 2 bed, 1 bath, the drive into downtown St. Pete for work...no longer mattered. I came home from the library and watched Fletch on my Panasonic television. Fletch is on the beach, under the pier and Fletch tells the rich guy his name is Ted Nugent.

  My phone rings. Don’t recognize the number. 

  “Hey, it’s Mattie.”

  “Mattie?”

  “From the other night,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “What’re you up to?”

  “Watching Fletch.”

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “A movie.”

  “Oh, is it funny?” she asked.

  “For the most part. He’s going to meet this guy who’s going to give him $50,000 to kill him.”

  “Oh.”

  “Eventually, Fletch will tote around this kid with braces in a white sports car. Then they make a sequel where Fletch finds out he’s the heir to a plantation house in Louisiana. That one’s not as good.”

  “Uh-huh. When’s the last time we hung out?” she said.

  “I think it was a few nights ago,” I said.

  “Let’s do it again,” she said.

  “Okay,” I said.

  No answer. Gone.

  On the phone, I open my contacts. I find the name “UncAnder.” I press “call.”

  “Uncle Ander?”  I said.

  “What?” he said. “I’m in the middle of lunch.”

  “Is it peanut butter and jelly?” I asked.

  “Yes, it is, who cares?” he said.

  “Move in over here,” I said.

  “Into your place, you want me to move into your place?”

  “Yes, I need a roommate, you need a place with laundry.”

  “I told you, I don’t need a washing machine. I have the laundry mat,” he said. “Your place is being foreclosed, you should move over here.”

  “It’s not getting foreclosed,” I said.

  “That’s not what Nathan told me.”

  “He doesn’t know everything.”

  “He knows a lot.”

  “Anyway,” I said. “How about it?”

  “No, you come over here. You move in over here,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said.

  ***

  Tonight the Bronx Bar rides more on the young side, buffalo plaid and neon black, some girls have leggings, some don’t. I see Mattie. Her hair is in a side pony-tail, her black shirt some mess of sequins and Bedazzler. I can’t read what she wrote on her shirt. She probably did that on purpose.

  “Hey,” Mattie yells. “Want a beer?”

  “I only drink 100 percent fruit juice now.”

  “Sure a-hole that’s it. I’ll get you something.”

  Mattie’s shirt may actually be from 1989.

  She sat down. She handed me an Amstel Light.

  “What do you do now?” Mattie asked.

  “I’m in advertising, I mean I was in advertising, still want to be again, maybe. Just got laid off.”

  “That sucks,” she said.

  She took a drink.

  “What’re you up to?” I said. “Bartending here?”

  Husker Du on the jukebox.

  “Mostly, sometimes help in my friends’ vintage store. I should’ve gone away to college, like you, I guess instead of this.”

 
; “Mattie, I just went to UF. But it’s not for everyone.”

  “College?”

  “Going away.”

  The Amstel was in my mouth, I was drinking it, my eyes felt perky, I was stupid looking. We sat.

  “Remember that time you were at the track meet and we made signs?” she asked.

  “I ran hurdles.”

  “You remember what the sign said?”

  “Um....maybe....” I said.

  “You do....”

  “No, I don’t…”

  “Wallace, don’t fall us,” she said.

  “Oh yeah, that’s what they said.”

  “Was that funny?” she asked.

  “I thought it was creative.”

  “Since you’re in advertising, you must come up with funny lines all the time.”

  “Most of my time is spent hitting delete over and over and wishing upon wish that I could unsend email proposals.”

  “Huh,” she said.

  In high school, Mattie told me once between classes or at a show or maybe at Subway that she wanted to be in medical device equipment. I told her that was stupid.

  “Remember our pact?” she said.

  “I do remember it.”

  She was right, time was drawing near. Somehow I convinced her to extend it to 30, and here we were at 26. Four years away.

  A guy in overalls sat by the pool table. He wore a trucker hat. It said “I Heart NYC.” He was rubbing the pool stick between his hands. He was creating friction.

  “Do you think we should start dating?” Mattie asked.

  “Did you just break up with someone?” I asked.

  She just broke up with someone. Neither one of us remembered the pact until we broke up with someone. I almost called her when Laurie first started supporting Romney. I didn’t though.

  “Kind of not really,” she said.

  “How many years had it been?” I asked.

  “Like 3 years,” she said.

  “Was it Gabe? Is that right?” I asked.

  “Yeah, Gabe.”

  “What happened? I thought he had that drywall thing going good,” I said.

  “He did. But we....didn’t have the same interests. All he does is talk about tattoos and motorcycles.”

  “Is this what the other night was about?” I asked.

  The Rays were on the television above the bar. Evan Longoria with a hit, Carlos Pena on the bases. They were winning. Still. Young stars with promise finally making good on what everyone thought they could do, they finally believed in themselves, if they kept winning they might lose some of their charm, it was a risk all of us would have to take.