The Call Page 2

  Jeremy’s calling for our weekly drink. I haven’t told him much about Lizzy’s long disappearance. I was so ashamed that the reason she left was that she didn’t fucking love me anymore. How would I know? I sound bitter as fuck, and the truth is I am.

  “Sure, how about three drinks instead?” Jeremy laughs. I hope this is the distraction I need. Hanging out with him might wash away some of my heartbreak.

  You can’t talk to a ghost of a person.

  Jeremy and I make our plans, and I rush him off the phone. “Dude, we can talk later. See you at 7.” I hang up with no goodbye. I feel crushed, and can’t wait until 7 tonight for my first drink of the day. Alcohol has become my best friend—besides Jeremy, of course. I grab my bottle of scotch and knock back a few.

  I want to cry. I want to scream and yell and find the culprit who might have stolen my girl. But I don't know who and I don’t know where. And really? No one is involved with her disappearance, no one at all. Frustration oozes from my pores, and it’s fucking killing me. Life had been so freaking good for all those months with Lizzy. In fact, life was absolutely perfect back then.

  I am a man of my word. A promise given is something to be honored. I thought she would honor her word. And that’s why I’m so confused. I don’t know what this means. I don’t know where she went. She was just—poof—gone, leaving me to curse my heartache.

  I want to be set free, but nothing will set me free from my love for my Lizzy. My heart weeps. I don’t know how I’m ever going to move on from this tremendous loss.

  Alcohol is the answer for now.

  More alcohol. Please.

  Chapter Two

  Jack

  Jeremy and I meet up at Rocco’s downtown. It’s a small joint but is our home away from home. Rocco’s is our place, our hangout, a place to call our own. We love hanging out here. The alcohol is good, top shelf, and the beer is freaking cold. Sports plays on the large screen TV hanging over the bar. It’s a man’s hang out; the vibe is masculine, and we feel like we fit right in.

  Rocco is more than the sole proprietor. He mixes the cocktails in this friendly hometown bar. We chat with him often. He’s a nice older man in his forties who we suspect has a checkered past. He holds his story close to the vest, but I hope someday he will reveal more about himself.

  Rocco creates a great feel here at his namesake bar, and everyone wants a piece of him. I have gone to him myself for advice. He always listens with a gentle heart to everyone, no matter the time of day. I whine more to him than probably he wants to hear. Makes me chuckle when I think of it. He never makes me feel like he cares any less for my pain.

  I finally told him about Lizzy’s note, and he said, “Jack I’m so sorry.” I knew he had a heart of gold, standing behind the bar and dishing out drinks and good cheer. Then he added, “If she doesn’t come back, she wasn’t the one.” Deep down, I know he’s right.

  He’s a tough looking dude, tall and strong as fuck. His dark hair is streaked with silver and his broad smile touches the hearts of everyone. He dresses in jeans and Pendletons. The plaid stretches across his broad chest while he mixes the drinks and pours the beer. His arms are covered in tats that run up under his sleeves. I admire this man and want to be more like him.

  I grab a booth off to the side and the barmaid comes by. “What can I get you, dude?” she asks. She’s a little thing with a punk look to her. She has a mohawk three inches high with a washed-out pink dye job. The sides of her head are shaved, and her knit stockings are torn at her knees. I wonder if she fell, or maybe that’s how they’re supposed to look, a fashion statement. But she’s a tough girl, I can see that as she looks at me, tapping her pen on her pad. Tap, tap, tap. “Well?” she says with a snarl.

  That’s the thing about this place. They take their alcohol seriously.

  “I’ll have a beer and chaser. Whiskey, please.” Her dark eyes flash as she leans against the booth.

  “Gotcha, be right back.”

  I watch her ass sway gently as she walks up to the varnished wood bar and places my order. Where the fuck is Jeremy? I pull out my phone just in case he sent a text, but no—nothing from him. And nothing from Lizzy. Duh, like I’m surprised.

  I catch sight of my brother as he strolls into the bar. He has a confident air and stands tall to show off his 6’2” height. He’s a lean man, wearing black jeans that fall to his hips, and he has that swagger the ladies love. They buzz around him like bees to honey. I have teased him all our lives, but now I marvel at the ego it must take to walk into a room like that. Just. Like. That.

  “Hey Jack, wassup?” Jeremy greets me with a wide grin. He’s sort of a dork, this brother of mine.

  I get up and as we bro-hug, I pat him on the back and say, “What’s up, little bro?” That’s what my nickname for him has been all our lives. I tease him relentlessly with it now that we’re adults. I mean, he's as tall as me, and more handsome, of course.

  Lizzy is the only one who ever calls me handsome. At least, she used to.

  “So, how are you really doing?” Jeremy asks as he sits in the booth. He orders the same thing as me when our waitress comes back with my drinks. My eyes travel with her as she walks back over to the bar and then walks back to us. I notice the tattoos peeking out of her collar. She has tats travelling up her right arm, too. They’re colorful images that mold into themselves. Interesting, I think, as she places the drinks in front of Jeremy. She definitely catches my eye.

  “Life sucks, dude, what can I say?”

  Jeremy knows how much in love with Lizzy I am. I take a deep breath in.

  “Why so gloom and doom, bro?”

  I decide right then to spill the beans. Time to man up. “Lizzy’s been gone for months,” I grumble. “I don’t know where or why. She said she’d call.”

  “You’re just telling me now? What the fuck, Jack? Why the secret?” he demands, and I have to ask myself the same thing.

  “I dunno,” I shrug, “I guess I didn’t want to say it out loud.” I feel my emotions rise. “I guess I thought she’d be back before now,” I whisper. “Saying it out loud makes it real.”

  “What happened? Did you get in a fight or what?” Jeremy asks, looking me in the eyes. I feel like I’m under a microscope. Do I have to go into all of it? Can’t he leave it alone? I’ve come this far; I know I must tell him the rest. I decide to tell him the whole story. I steel myself and then spit out the entire thing.

  “That’s just whack, dude. I’m so sorry this is happening. I hope you hear from her soon,” Jeremy says.

  Relief flows through me to have finally admitted my little secret. I never keep secrets from Jeremy, and I’m so glad it’s finally out.

  Then Jeremy tries like hell to brighten up my day.

  “Hey, you know the Giants are playing tomorrow? They’re in the playoffs against the New York Mets. Why don’t we go? I can get a couple of seats through work.” He looks at me with that little boy enthusiasm, full of earnest rebellion. It reminds me of when we were kids and he was always full of that same kind of excitement. Growing up with him was the real story of my childhood. I didn’t do anything without him. Well, except that one year.

  “Sure, let’s go. I’ve got nothing else going on.” It was another Friday night. Just another night to face alone. We’re both Giants fans from way back. We’ve been baseball fans for as long as I can remember. As kids we played on a little league team. He’s still a catcher, and I’m the pitcher.

  Jeremy and I were good players back then. We played hard and fought for every run or out. There were those endless summer days when we ran the streets and played until the streetlamps came on. That's when we’d hear our mother calling down the street from our front porch, “Boys, time to come home,” and we’d ditch our gloves at the side of the house and run inside, all sweaty and filthy.

  We got our neighborhood together to play a corner game. I’d pitch and Jeremy would catch, and everyone got a turn at the bat. Those were the innocent days, all right
. We still have friendships with some of those kids—grown now—but we still play from time to time. We love these pickup games, and they keep us sharp and in shape.

  Our Clubhouse, as we called it, was behind our house in the woods. We would hold meetings, grabbing snacks to take with us as we ran out the back, eager to get to our friends. We’d meet and call everyone to order, excitement vibrating in the air. Jeremy had the attention of everyone as he hit the gavel on a crate we had dragged back there.

  “Hey all. Meeting come to order!” It makes me chuckle to think of those two toe-headed kids. Sometimes, I’d let Jeremy gavel the meeting to order and I would lead. Usually, we took care of stuff like when we were playing ball again.

  Later, in high school, we were busy dating and studying hard to get into college. Jeremy got into the University of Berkley and I worked to help pay his way. Girls were always a distraction in those days. We learned to kiss and grope our way up their blouses with clammy hands.

  The barmaid comes by again to ask, “Boys, you need anything else?” We order another round. When she comes back with our drinks, she slides a small white piece of paper into my hand with her phone number written on it. Then she says, “I’m off now, boys. Enjoy your night!” with a huge, stunning grin. I wonder about that grin. I don’t even know her name, but that smile does something to me. I’m definitely confused, though. Why would she choose me to give her number to over my handsome brother?

  My ego soars. I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth. I slip it inside my wallet. It kind of blows me away to know someone thinks I’m worthy of their attention.

  Jeremy doesn’t miss a beat and arches his brow. “What’s that about?” he asks as he takes a long pull of his beer.

  “I dunno, dude. Really, what the fuck?” I give him a small smile. I don’t have much to smile about these days. My heart freezes right inside my chest. I’m bitter as fuck, and I know it.

  Over and over inside my head, she’s gone rolls along on repeat. I hate everything right now.

  “Hey, did you see the paper today?” Jeremy asks, giving me an enthusiastic grin.

  “I did, I was going to ask you what you thought.” I know he’s talking about the Lawton murder I saw in the paper this morning.

  “It looks like another gangland murder. Who knows which side? I’m sure that dude Tom Lawton was caught up in some shit over a drug deal. The FBI has been called in.” What’s new, right? Seems like there’s always some kind of investigation into the Bay Area gangs—the Bloodlusts or the Cribs.

  “Umm dude, why you so crazy about them? Seems like someone is always investigating them. Nothing ever happens.” My brother is fascinated with the gangs. We grew up watching those territory wars. He’s followed them religiously ever since.

  “You never know. You just never know.” He chuckles to himself, and I see that twinkle in his eyes. He loves the mystery and is enchanted with their gang lifestyle. It seems to me that these boys were looking for a family, a place to find love and respect. They became gang members for the support from one another. Jeremy has family, but he always marvels at the way these kids create their own kind of security.

  My brother works in a tech company that’s developing a system of windmills. I’m proud of him and how committed he is to the ‘green life.’ He lives down in Palo Alto near the hub of all the ecommerce. He’s a high-powered man with a high-powered job, and I know Mom’s proud of him, too. But his obsession with these gangs puzzles me. My whole life, I’ve heard all the stories.

  He has a collection of news articles about the war that hit in late ‘89, led by the famous ChuckD. His son MarkD is next in line to take over as head of the Cribs. Jeremy is intrigued with ChuckD, the Original Gangster. You can hear rap songs blare out of bass speakers, driving down the streets of the city, speaking of ChuckD, the notorious OG, and how he runs the streets with his soldiers of thugs.

  I think Jeremy has a fantasy about being one of them. Kind of makes me chuckle to myself. He's the furthest thing from a gun-toting street rat, that’s for damn sure.

  Didn’t we all put away our childish fantasies when we became adults? Not Jeremy. He follows every single story that involves those crazy street gangs.

  Sometimes I wish I had his life.

  Sometimes I just wish I was him. It’s as simple as that.

  Chapter Three

  Jack

  I kick off my shoes when I get home, grab my bottle of whiskey, and drop onto the couch. I flick on the TV to cut through the silence. Anything is better than the quiet circling loudly in my space. I try to find a game to watch but finally settle for the news. I look out my window and watch the fog roll in while my thoughts consume me.

  I think back on the day Lizzy and I had coffee that first morning. I picked her up from her apartment on the first floor and we walked to a Peet’s Coffee. I got a double espresso and Lizzy got a fussy frufru drink. We took a seat by the window and looked at each other with a sigh.

  Finally, I looked into her eyes and said, “So, Lizzy, tell me your story.”

  Her beauty captivated me, but I tried to keep up. She told me about how she grew up in Ohio but moved to the Bay Area when she was eight. The truth was her slim nose, wide open sea blue eyes, arched thick eyebrows, and bow-like mouth that had a cute frown right now while she was talking, swept my mind away. I lost the plot. I wish I could say what she was frowning about, but I didn’t have a clue. She rattled off basic facts about herself like an interview date.

  “...Jack?” I heard. Oh shit, shit. She’d caught me in the act of my own roaming thoughts. I wasn’t even listening.

  “Um...errr...ahh Lizzy?” She nodded. “What did you ask me?” I felt like a total dick, but then I heard a peal of laughter burst out of Lizzy, and I knew she wasn’t mad.

  “That happens to me too, Jack, no worries. I just asked if you had always lived here in the Bay Area. Nothing earth shattering.” Her laughter reached right down into my soul.

  “Yeah, I was born here. My mother and brother Jeremy live nearby. I went to that school down the street there, played baseball as a kid on that field.” I pointed to the field across from us and hoped she understood that I was a neighborhood kid with strong attachments to the community.

  “Really? That's awesome!” That was Lizzy, enthusiastic, happy, and kind. I could tell she had a gentle heart and I wanted to know more about her. Over the next few months, I learned all her ways. I was captivated by her on the first day. I fell in love. But I fell even further under her spell the more time we spent together.

  “Argh!” I say out loud, just to get it out. To scream would have been even better. I need to fucking stop thinking of her.

  I click around on the TV while I drink straight from the bottle. I just really want to get trashed so I can sleep tonight. I’m now inching towards fucked up. I’m sloshing down the booze and I’m about ready to crash.

  I never sleep in my bed anymore. It’s where I held Lizzy on so many nights. The memories are too raw. I slide off my jeans and lie back down on the couch, pulling a blanket over my tired body. I haven’t been in my own bed in months. Sometime after the news and an old rerun, I fall fast asleep. Blissful sleep is the answer to my prayers.

  A loud racket outside my door makes me startle awake in the middle of the night.

  I run to my door, heart slamming my ribs. I throw the door open wide, only to find a drunk neighbor out in the hallway. What the fuck? When am I going to learn? She’s gone. Accept it, Jack: she isn’t coming back. The rejection stings behind my eyes.

  I stumble back into my apartment and look around. I’ve considered moving from here more than once. Maybe I should go start a new life, away from memories that haunt me every day. Memories attack me as I drive around town, and they can set my heart crashing all over again. I need to think seriously about leaving this town and leaving my memories on the side of the road.

  I crawl back onto the couch and pick up the remote with an aggravated sigh. I find a show on eleph
ants and watch it, hoping that sleep will find me again. But sleep fails me, and I finally give up and go make my coffee. It’s 4am, and I’m awake for good.

  Later that morning, Jeremy calls to tell me we’re on for the game. I’m exhausted and don’t really want to go, but I don’t want to sit here by myself, alone. He swings by at 11am to pick me up.

  Game, beer, eat, more beer.

  By the time the Giants win, we’ve had so many beers I’ve lost track, but I’ll BART home—the Bay Area Rapid Transit—so there’s no need to worry about driving. And really? I’m not in a rush to get back to an empty apartment that holds all the heart-crunching memories.

  I pull out my wallet and slip out the piece of paper. On it is written 510-888-3328 and Alex in a clean, simple script.

  Makes me wonder…who is this Alex, anyway?

  Chapter Four

  Alex

  Fuck, I’m so freaking tired. I push myself onto auto-pilot to get through my next job. After an eight-hour shift at Rocco’s, I still have miles to go. Here in this freaking smoke-filled room where cards fly, poker chips pile high, and the booze runs deep, I work my second job. I bartend at this joint, but sometimes I deal the cards. I’m known as a floater; they put me where they need me. Ugh. I hate this place. I hate the man in charge even more.

  I try to distract myself from everything happening around me. I play with the image of Jack, the hottie I met last night. My mind is jerked back here when I flinch as my enemy walks by.

  “Alex!” he screams in my face. My heart beats so hard against my ribs I think I might faint. He strolls on over and takes his throne at the bar, the same stool he sits on every night.

  I work here at TABOO, the underground poker room, three nights a week. It’s exhausting, but I’ve been forced into the position with no end in sight. I look up in time to see the boss man nod at me. He's wearing a pair of those low riding jeans and a black hoodie pulled up over his shaved head with his hands thrust into the pockets. As he looks around the room, his right eye twitches. He wears black shit-kicking boots with thick rubber soles. I’d like to shit kick him myself.